Up until the accident, Pete Ryan had been living a charmed life. His parents were loaded, and gave him anything he wanted—including a restored 1926 Harley-Davidson JD. He would spend the summer months before two-a-days interning for the London branch of his dad’s massive investment firm. At home, his wild parties were legendary, and packed his parents’ mansion with hundreds of kids—including an endless parade of girls who’d do anything for even one night with his perfectly chiseled body and flawless face.
As for his college prospects, not only was Pete renowned across the state as the Tigers’ star quarterback (before the Chronovac rewrote reality to give that position to Tyler), but he was on track to become Salutatorian with his impressive grades and extracurricular involvement. He was tutored by MIT grad students, and had leveraged his experiences in Europe into a volunteer coordinator position for the exchange program. With his effortless, boy-next-door charm and affability, he had won the race for Senior Class President by a landslide. Basically, the world was his oyster. Or, at least it had been, until this accident.
Jeff stared down at Pete’s broken body. He felt guilty that he had (literally) added insult to injury by retroactively making Pete the second string QB. It didn’t change much in Pete’s life, and was an unintended consequence of replacing him with Tyler, but still, Jeff felt the least he could do was fix Pete up. He went home to the Chronovac while Tyler stayed in the room.
The Pete Jeff remembered would not be content with being second best at anything. So football was out if the new Tyler were to stay. Jeff’s cock throbbed at the thought of Tyler’s beefy alpha ass.
“I’m definitely keeping this toy as is,” thought Jeff.
So what should Pete become? Jeff scrolled through various Chameleon Clothes options until he came across a black hoodie, with “DWAYNE’S BOXING GYM” in rusty orange letters, bleached across the front. This should do the trick.
Jeff made the hoodie and headed back to the hospital. Tyler was getting kicked out of Pete’s room by a nurse, but Jeff managed to convince her to let him in the room for five minutes. He quickly pulled off all the implements attached to Pete’s body, and slipped the hoodie on him.
Jeff watched as Pete’s long, flowing bangs shortened into a tough crew cut. His delicate, boyish features hardened into a portrait of unbridled, aggressive virility. His button nose became aquiline before it broke in two places. His jaw jutted out and his chin formed clefts. His brow ridge deepened and took on a piercing hole through the left eyebrow. Scars emerged around his eyes, nose, and forehead.
Suddenly, Pete opened his blue eyes. They still had the kindly glimmer of a boy who’d only recieved fortune’s kindness. He made a dimpled smile upon seeing his football buddy Jeff.
“Hey, what’s going on, my man? Do you have the time?” asked Pete.
“It’s almost midnight,” said Jeff.
“Fuck, really? But that means I missed the game. Shit, Coach will be so mad—”
Pete’s face blanked as the hoodie started to adjust his memories.
“—at how you almost killed yourself tonight? Prolly. You’re his best fighter,” said Jeff, as memories of Pete’s new reality seeped into his mind as well.
"Stop doing stupid shit on your piece-of-crap bike, Pete. If you don’t die, you’re bound to be the best boxer this side of the Charles River."
“Boxer?” thought Pete. “Boxing’s a low-brow, stone aged sport for thugs in the slums. You’re guaranteed concussions and brain damage. There’s no way a kid who’s getting his walnut routinely pulverized could ever get into Cornell, Stanford, or Yale. If you ask me, only fuckin’ knuckleheads ever become boxers. Fuckin’ dumbass knuckleheads like me, who ain’t gonna go to no prissy ass college after graduatin’.”
Pete looked at his surroundings. Why had he thought this was the hospital? He’d been doing an after hours workout at Dwayne’s Boxing Gym, when he passed out on the floor for a breather. Earlier that night, he’d been racing on his bike when he slid and got himself scraped up pretty badly, but at least nothing’s broken. When Pete showed up with scrapes on his arms and legs, it pissed Dwayne off so much that he told Pete to train with his hoodie on, so that Dwayne didn’t have to see the marks of Pete’s stupid mistake. Then Dwayne told him to work out until midnight and then close the place up himself.
“So how was da game?” Pete asked, his eyes settling into the expression of a hardened, working class bruiser.
“We won,” said Jeff.
Pete knew Jeff from playing football Freshman year, but since then, he'd had to work his dad’s mechanic’s shop nearly every day after school since money was tight. He’d get into fights from time to time until he’d found boxing as an outlet for his anger and aggression. Dwayne’s gym was a barebones joint—poorly lit, dirty, and dingy. But Pete could afford the rates and the training fit the odd hours he had free.
Pete went to his locker as Jeff watched. He took off the hoodie that he’d stenciled by himself in bleach. Above his shiny red and black Everlast shorts, his compact, wiry body glistened with sweat. It was covered in many tattoos: a crucifix on his right shoulder, a sword down his right tricep, Chinese characters down his neck and back, barbed wire around both forearms, and a star on his left pec. Blood trickled down from a few of the rawest scrapes and cuts. Jeff’s cock strained hard against his jeans at the sight of Pete’s flesh. Not long after Pete inserted his eyebrow piercing, Jeff tackled him from behind, pinning him to the wall.
“Bro, I remember you telling me you learned a few tricks from the dudes down in Juvie,” Jeff whispered. “You gotta show me."
Tyler burst into the room. "Jeff, what's taking you so long? I'm so bored, and craving cock right now!"