Mike pedaled his bike through the crisp morning air, the school looming ahead—Westfield High buzzing with Thursday energy, the day before tomorrow’s Fall Fest Showdown. His newly 16-year-old linebacker body thrummed—smooth pecs flexing under a snug letterman jacket (#52 stitched bold), lean thighs pumping in cargos, Jeff’s slim, twitchy cock a live spark tucked beneath. The swap had stripped his 38-year-old bulk, leaving him a prodigy reborn, and he savored it—light, agile, a kid stepping into a world he’d once outgrown.
The campus pulsed with prep—banners unfurling across the quad, cheer squad painting signs, the scent of turf wafting from the field. Mike locked his bike, smooth hands brushing shaggy hair from his eyes, and strode in, hazel gaze sharp. English class kicked off the day, Mrs. Hargrove droning about Macbeth. He slouched in his seat, wiry frame dwarfed by the desk, doodling plays instead of notes. His mind wandered—yesterday he’d been thick, older, a man; now he was sleek, fresh, coasting on charm. “Nice sketch,” Ellie whispered from beside him, her grin teasing. “Better than your essay.” He flashed a cocky smirk. “Priorities, El.”
Break brought Carlos—stocky, broad, a bulldozer of a wrestler—clapping Mike’s shoulder as they crossed the hall. “You ready for tomorrow, man? Gonna smash Ryan’s crew.” Mike sized him up—Carlos’s barrel chest strained his tee, arms thick with power, legs like stumps. Mike’s own build was leaner, smoother, built for speed over brute force, his slim shaft a contrast to Carlos’s heftier vibe.
“Hell yeah,” Mike said, voice cracking with youth. “They won’t see me coming.”
History followed, Jake sliding in late—wiry, quick, a cornerback with a mop of black curls. “Coach is hyped,” he said, tossing a pencil Mike’s way. “Says you’re our hammer.” Mike caught it, smooth fingers twirling it, eyeing Jake’s lanky frame—narrow shoulders, sinewy legs, a sprinter’s edge. Mike’s torso was tighter, abs sharper, than Jake’s likely leaner cut. “Hammer’s right,” Mike quipped. “Gonna nail ‘em.”
Lunch roared in the cafeteria—tables draped with Fest flyers, chatter about bets and plays. Mike, Carlos, and Jake grabbed trays, digging into burgers as Ellie joined, her ponytail swinging. “You’re all obsessed,” she laughed. “It’s just a game.” Carlos flexed a meaty arm. “It’s war, El.” Mike grinned, smooth chest puffing under his jacket—less bulk than Carlos, less whip than Jake, but a perfect blend, his body a coiled spring craving the clash.
PE doubled as practice, the field alive with drills. Coach Baxter barked orders, whistle shrill, as Mike lined up—smooth skin gleaming with sweat, shaggy hair plastered to his forehead. Ryan, the QB, strutted across—taller, broader, a teen titan with blond hair and a cocky sneer. “Ready to eat dirt, Parker?” he taunted, clapping his padded chest. Mike squared up, lean frame taut—Ryan’s biceps bulged thicker, thighs sturdier, his presence heavier. Mike’s edge was agility, youth’s quick twitch, Jeff’s slender cock buzzing with every lunge. “Bring it,” Mike shot back, hazel eyes blazing.
They collided in a blitz—Mike darting low, Ryan pushing high, a dance of power and speed ending in a stalemate. “Not bad,” Ryan grunted, a grudging nod as they parted. Mike’s smooth legs burned, lighter than Ryan’s muscled trunks, his slim length tingling with the hit—body humming with once forgotten youthful energy and ready to go .
The day wound down with Spanish, Ryan slumping nearby, their rivalry cooling into banter. “Your dad’s coming tomorrow, right?” Ryan asked, scratching his neck. “Big architect guy?” Mike nodded, smooth jaw tightening. “Yeah, Dad’s all in—watching me crush you.” Ryan smirked. “We’ll see, man.” Mike’s mind flicked to Jeff—hairy, hung, 38—then back to his own sleek form, a prodigy poised to shine.