“F*ck!” Trae curses under his breath, his forehead creased and his overall expression equal parts tormented and infuriated. His powerful grip clamps her wrist, effectively thwarting her escape. She looks at him with desperation. Her feeble attempt to mask the alarm on her face only results in more panic when the small pack of girls turns into a full-blown stampede. The band has stopped playing, that’s why. A girl should know. As soon as the opportunity arises, the first order of business is none other than the restroom. It’s always the restroom.
It starts with a staccato of heels on polished cement punctuated with still intelligible banter, if you only put your singular focus on it. Here, a male presence is a rarity as the men’s restroom is on the opposite side of the gym. The loud chatte
