Jd Hodge Novel

Jd Hodge Novel Follow our fanpage for exciting updates and content!

10/06/2026

MALIK WAS PINNED BY HIS BRAIDED HAIR OVER A FULL BASIN IN THE SCHOOL LIBRARY WHILE SENIORS FILMED HIS CHOKING, UNTIL ONE BLACK CADILLAC SEDAN STOPPED OUTSIDE AND EVERYTHING CHANGED.

His chin hit the cold porcelain rim first.

Bryce held a handful of thick braids tight at the crown of Malik’s scalp, twisting until the roots burned against bone.

"Look at me when I talk to you, transfer," Bryce whispered, his knee planted hard between Malik’s shoulder blades.

Malik’s knuckles were white against the edge of the maintenance wash station inside the back annex of the high school library.

Water filled the deep utility sink right to the silver overflow ring, smelling of lemon bleach and pipe rust.

Around the doorway, five other seniors blocked the narrow aisle between the tall historical reference stacks.

Two of them had their phones held flat and horizontal, red recording dots blinking.

Nobody made a sound except for the muffled slap of sneakers on carpet.

Malik tried to pull his elbows inward to push off the porcelain ledge.

Bryce drove his palm down against the back of Malik’s neck with sudden, sickening weight.

Malik’s face plunged straight through the icy surface.

---

Bubbles exploded against his eyelids, burning his nostrils as dark water flooded his mouth before he could clamp his teeth shut.

Bryce didn't just push him; he held him under, fingers knotted in Malik’s hair like rope.

Ten seconds ticked by on the library wall clock while the seniors snickered.

Then Bryce yanked him up by the hair with a wet rip.

Malik gasped, spraying foamy water across the tiled wall, coughing until his ribs ached.

"We keep our school clean," Bryce laughed, shaking water from his sleeve onto Malik’s soaked cotton shirt.

"You don't belong in this district, you don't belong at our tables, and you definitely don't talk back to me."

Across the main reading room, forty yards away, Mrs. Vance, the senior librarian, adjusted her spectacles behind the circulation desk.

She looked directly toward the utility annex.

She saw Bryce standing over the hunched boy.

She saw three varsity jackets crowding the corner.

Then she calmly slid a stack of returned memoirs into a wooden cart, turned her back, and walked into the archival storage room, clicking the latch shut.

Malik’s hand slipped in the puddle spreading beneath his sneakers.

"Please," Malik managed to choke out, his deep brown skin glistening grey under the harsh fluorescent tube.

"I just came in to study for history."

"You study when I say you study," Bryce snarled, grabbing the wet braids again and yanking his neck back.

"Now rinse that mouth out again so you learn some respect."

Bryce forced Malik’s face down a second time, plunging his forehead into the basin until water slopped over the lip and soaked Malik’s shoes.

Malik thrashed, choking on swallowed water, his fingers scraping useless grooves into the caulking.

The phones moved closer, catching the reflection of the flailing boy in the dark surface.

Bryce pulled him up once more, grinning for the camera.

"Tell them what you are, Malik."

Malik wiped burning water from his eyelashes with a trembling sleeve, his chest heaving with choked breaths.

He didn't scream.

He didn't look at the phones.

He looked past Bryce’s shoulder, right through the library’s tall double glass doors leading to the main loop.

A long, midnight-black Cadillac sedan had just glide silently to the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the afternoon glare.

Full Story is in the comments.

Share this if you believe public cruelty deserves public consequences.

10/06/2026

A SCHOLARSHIP RUNNER WAS PINNED TO THE LOCKER ROOM FLOOR WITH A FIST IN HER BRAIDS, BUT HER COACH HAD NO IDEA WHOSE FAMILY BUILT THE CAR OUTSIDE.

The metal bench rattled when my shoulders hit the cold green tile.

Coach Garrett didn't hesitate.

She dropped one heavy knee onto the middle of my back, driving the air completely out of my ribs.

Her thick fingers tangled hard into the box braids at the crown of my head, yanking my chin up until my neck burned.

Three varsity captains stood over the lockers, holding their phones sideways to catch every angle.

Nobody blinked.

Nobody told her to let go.

---

"You think four county titles gives a girl from the south ward the right to steal out of my office?" Coach Garrett snarled right against my ear.

Her breath smelled like stale black coffee and wintergreen mints.

Her grip tightened, pulling another knot of my hair until my eyes watered against my will.

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you, Simone."

I couldn't turn around even if I wanted to.

My face was pressed flat against the damp grout, right beside the drain cover where the shower water always pooled.

Behind her, Cassidy Hayes laughed, tapping her acrylic nails against the row of gray metal doors.

"She probably thought she could pawn the stopwatch before finals, Coach."

"She didn't pawn anything yet," Coach Garrett said, pressing her knee down harder.

"Because she's not leaving this campus until campus security strips that bag down to the seams."

"And after that, her district waiver is gone."

"Her college letters are trash."

"And every college scout in the state will know she's a thief before dinner."

Two sophomore hurdlers leaned back against the lockers near the door, their eyes wide and completely frozen.

They wanted to look away, but nobody moved toward the hallway.

Coach Garrett owned the lineup, the scholarships, and every recommendation letter that mattered in this county.

If you crossed Coach Garrett, your season was over before the first heat.

My knuckles scraped the tile as I tried to brace myself.

My deep brown skin looked gray against the bleach-stained floor.

I didn't yell.

I didn't thrash.

I didn't give Cassidy the satisfaction of hearing a sob come out of my throat.

"I didn't touch your watch, Coach," I said, my voice barely louder than the hum of the fluorescent tubes overhead.

Garrett je**ed my braids back one more time, hard enough that I felt two roots snap at my scalp.

"You're a liar, Vance."

"You've been acting like you own this program since August."

"Let's see how much you own when your father has to carry your boxes out to the curb in front of the whole school."

She didn't know the building behind us had already gone completely dead.

She didn't hear the locker room door click open at the end of the hall.

And she had no idea whose shadow was stretching across the wet tiles toward her boots.

Full Story is in the comments.

Was the parent too harsh for making the school answer publicly, or was that exactly what the bully needed?

10/06/2026

THE TEEN STOCKBOY WAS PINNED BY A SMILING QUARTERBACK AND DRENCHED IN FIZZING SODA UNTIL A BLACK CONVOY BLOCKED THE LOADING DOCK AND EVERYTHING FROZE.

Tanner shook the warm two-liter bottle of generic cola until the plastic creaked under his fingers.

He popped the cap just enough to let a high, sharp hiss cut through the hum of the prep kitchen.

Then he aimed the nozzle straight at Dorian's glasses and squeezed with both hands.

---

The dark, sticky foam exploded across Dorian's face, plastering his natural curls to his scalp and soaking right through his neatly tucked cotton work shirt.

Two varsity linemen leaning against the stainless-steel prep table barked out laughing and held up their phones to catch the spray dripping off Dorian's chin.

Dale, the shift manager, stood by the dry-storage door holding a clipboard, looked Dorian right in the eye, and quietly turned back around to fiddle with an invoice.

Dorian was seventeen, had deep brown skin, and worked thirty hours a week stocking walk-in freezers after winning the regional robotics championship two months earlier.

He didn't have a car, he didn't have varsity gear, and he carried his spare pens in his breast pocket because he hated losing them.

Tanner Hayes didn't need a part-time job at the grill; his father owned the local concrete plant that poured every municipal foundation in the county.

Tanner came into the back room during afternoon shifts purely because the athletic booster club treated the restaurant like their private clubhouse.

He loved being bored, and he loved finding someone who couldn't hit back.

"Look at you, little man," Tanner chuckled, giving the plastic bottle another violent twist so foam spat across Dorian's nametag.

"You smell like a discount bin at a bowling alley."

"That's seventy-nine-cent vending-machine trash, Lawson."

"Drink up, because that's about your whole paycheck, isn't it?"

A hostess who had stepped in with an empty tray saw the syrup dripping onto the linoleum, opened her mouth to say something, caught Tanner's smirk, and backed out into the dining room without making a sound.

Nobody moved to grab a towel.

Nobody told Tanner to get out of the kitchen.

Tanner took two steps closer, grinning wide, and emptied the last sticky dregs right over the collar of Dorian's shirt.

Dorian didn't wipe his eyes, and he didn't raise his voice.

He just stood completely still on the wet tile and looked Tanner dead in the chest.

"You shouldn't have done that," Dorian said quietly.

Tanner threw his head back and howled with laughter, tossing the crushed plastic bottle into the clean dish bin.

"Oh yeah?" Tanner sneered, leaning in until his breath hit Dorian's cheek.

"Who's gonna care, Dorian?"

"Dale's on my dad's payroll, the principal's on my dad's board, and nobody in this town even knows your last name."

Dorian didn't blink.

He looked past Tanner's shoulder toward the alley window, where the low rumble of four heavy V8 engines suddenly vibrated through the floorboards.

Four black Suburbans with dark state government plates rolled through the loading bay gate, cutting off the alley completely.

Tanner's smile didn't vanish yet, but the room went dead silent as men in dark suits stepped out into the rain.

Full Story is in the comments.

Was the family right to expose everything publicly after what happened, or should it have been handled quietly?

10/06/2026

THE STAR QUARTERBACK FORCED A TEEN CLERK TO HIS KNEES AND BUZZED HIS HAIR ON THE STORE FLOOR, BUT THEN SIRENS AND THREE BLACK TAHOES PULLED UP OUTSIDE.

Brock Callahan kicked the stockroom ladder hard enough to rattle the steel shelves, laughing while his two varsity teammates shoved seventeen-year-old Julian Ward down against the cold gray linoleum.

Julian’s wire-rimmed glasses skidded under a rack of high-end running shoes.

His dark brown hands pressed flat against the floor as he tried to push himself up, but Brock’s heavy cleats planted directly between his shoulder blades.

Across the sales floor, three other high schoolers held up their phones, the red recording dots glowing in the bright retail lighting.

Behind the register counter, the shift manager, Dennis Groth, glanced up once, saw Brock’s signature navy varsity jacket, and quietly turned back to his inventory clipboard.

---

Julian worked thirty hours a week at the flagship athletics shop, balancing three advanced-placement science courses while keeping his store uniform crisp and tucked in.

He had earned the newly created corporate summer technical fellowship through the parent company's national STEM competition, a paid position Brock felt entitled to hand to his best friend.

Brock Callahan was the county’s prized undefeated quarterback, a five-star commit whose face already appeared on local sports drink billboards.

To Brock, a quiet kid with thick natural curls and perfect grades was just convenient game.

"You really thought you were taking that corporate spot from us?" Brock sneered, pulling a heavy cordless clipper from his gym bag.

Dennis did not say a single word from the register, even when Brock clicked the metal clippers to life with an aggressive, buzzing hum.

Tyler and Shane grabbed Julian by both shoulders, wrenching his arms back until Julian was pinned on his knees.

"Dennis, tell them to stop," an older stocker whispered near the break room door, taking one tentative step forward.

Dennis grabbed the stocker's elbow and pulled him back into the kitchen.

"Callahan's dad sits on the regional board," Dennis snapped under his breath. "Stay out of it if you want your hours."

Nobody moved to help.

Brock yanked Julian’s collar back and drove the bare metal blade straight through the center of his natural curls, cutting down to the scalp.

A thick clump of dark hair dropped onto Julian's tucked polo shirt.

"Look at that line," Brock mocked, angling a small round mirror right into Julian’s face while Tyler howled with laughter.

"I’m giving you a mark so everyone in this town remembers who you are."

Julian didn't shout, thrash, or beg.

He watched his hair scatter across the polished floor, his jaw tight, his dark eyes locked straight on Brock's smirking face.

"You gave me a mark," Julian said quietly, his voice perfectly steady above the buzz of the motor.

"Yeah, I did, nerd," Brock laughed, lifting the clippers for another jagged pass. "And who’s gonna see it?"

"The man who pays for your jersey," Julian said.

Brock laughed again, ready to carve another chunk away, but the laughter died instantly as the front glass entrance shook.

Outside the double glass doors, three unmarked black Tahoes and a police cruiser blocked the entire private drive, their red and blue strobe lights painting the storefront walls.

Full Story is in the comments.

Should the powerful family have shown mercy after the public humiliation, or let the consequences fall - YES or NO?

10/05/2026

A SENIOR CAPTAIN SLAMMED A NEWCOMER’S FATHER’S WORN DUFFEL BAG ONTO THE LOCKER ROOM TILES AND PINNED HIM, BUT HE HAD NO IDEA WHO REALLY STOOD BEHIND IT.

Garrett Vance drove his left forearm straight across Zion’s throat, driving the boy’s spine hard into the dented green steel of locker forty-four.

The metal banged like a gunshot through the damp, steam-thick air of the varsity fieldhouse.

Zion’s faded canvas duffel bag, stitched with heavy black thread along the handles, lay torn open on the wet concrete floor.

Two three-sport seniors leaned against the row of rusted benches, holding up their phones with steady, practiced smirks.

Another boy kicked Zion’s clean practice jersey across a puddle of soapy shower water.

Coach Griggs stuck his head through the office doorway at the far end of the tunnel, saw Garrett’s forearm buried in the newcomer’s collarbone, and quietly pulled the door shut until the latch clicked.

---

Zion didn’t throw a punch.

He had deep brown skin, close-cropped natural hair, and an athletic scholarship that had put his name on Garrett’s locker row without Garrett’s permission.

He had only been in the district for four days, living out of three cardboard boxes while his family’s shipment cleared transit.

His wrists stayed loose at his sides because he knew exactly what happened to boys like him who swung first in an echo chamber of rich kids.

Garrett leaned in until his breath smelled like peppermint gum against Zion’s cheek.

"You think taking the corner locker makes you varsity, little man?"

Garrett’s grip tightened in the cotton of Zion’s gray shirt, bunching the fabric until Zion’s heels hovered half an inch off the wet tile.

"Nobody told you this side of the bench has a tax on it?"

Trent, standing by the equipment rack, tossed Garrett a permanent red marker from the training table.

Garrett took the cap off with his teeth and drew a thick, jagged cross straight across the canvas strap of the duffel bag.

That strap had his father’s initials stamped into the brass buckle.

"You clean the tape off the floor tonight, or tomorrow your bag ends up in the dumpster behind the boiler room."

Nobody in the row of twenty lockers looked away, and nobody stepped forward.

Two junior varsity sophomores near the stalls dropped their eyes and stared at their own cleats.

Zion swallowed against the steel behind his neck, his dark eyes never blinking.

"You really shouldn't have put your hands on that bag."

Garrett let out a sharp bark of a laugh that bounced off the cinder blocks.

"Or what?"

"Who’s coming down here to help you, fresh meat?"

Zion didn't answer.

He just shifted his gaze past Garrett’s shoulder toward the double fire doors that led out to the stadium loading dock.

The heavy iron bar on the right door rattled once, and then the whole locker room went dead silent.

Full Story is in the comments.

Team Justice or Team Let the School Handle It?

10/05/2026

A BILLIONAIRE HEIRESS DRENCHED A SCHOLARSHIP GIRL IN SYRUP BEFORE THE PACKED CAFETERIA TO HUMILIATE HER, THEN BLACK SUVS BLOCKED THE GATES AND SIRENS RANG.

Cassidy Montgomery tilted the glass bottle upside down right over Simone's braided crown.

The thick, amber breakfast syrup did not splash; it oozed heavy and cold across Simone's scalp.

It dripped over Simone's forehead, sealed her eyelashes shut, and glued the collar of her thrift-store oxford shirt to her collarbone.

The whole lunch hall went dead silent before the laughter broke out.

Phones went up in a jagged wall of black glass along the varsity tables.

Nobody pulled a napkin.

Nobody told Cassidy to stop.

---

"You really thought winning the Founders' Legal Prize made you equal to us, Simone?" Cassidy asked, giving the glass bottom two hard taps.

Another glob of golden liquid slid down the bridge of Simone's nose, pooling on her lips.

Simone didn't blink.

She didn't reach up to wipe her eyes.

She just sat on the edge of the molded plastic chair, her worn canvas bag pressed between her ankles.

She was a full-aid senior who had worked three shifts a week at the community archive just to pay for her bus pass.

Cassidy was the girl whose family name was engraved in gold leaf above the school auditorium doors.

Her father sat on the town board, funded the regional judicial foundation, and had never been told no by a headmaster in forty years.

"Look at her," Cassidy laughed, pivoting to the cheer captain with a bright, performative grin.

"She looks like a leftover waffle from the diner dumpster."

A junior at the third table leaned forward, his hand halfway to a paper towel dispenser, but his friend yanked his elbow back down.

"Don't touch it, man," the friend whispered loud enough for four tables to hear.

"Her dad signs the university recommendations."

The junior dropped the paper towels and looked at his tray.

Mr. Halloway, the lunch monitor who usually blew his whistle if someone dropped a fork, suddenly turned his back and started inspecting a soda machine.

Cassidy leaned down until her diamond studs almost brushed Simone's sticky ear.

"Don't worry about sitting with anyone this afternoon," Cassidy murmured with sweet, venomous delight.

"The ants will find you by fourth period."

The squad howled, two boys slapping the laminate tabletop until the milk cartons shook.

Simone slowly looked up through the smear of amber sugar across her vision.

Her deep brown skin was glossy with the sticky mess, but her jaw was set like iron.

"You should have checked the deed on that auditorium before you opened that bottle, Cassidy," Simone said quietly.

Cassidy snorted, tossing the empty bottle into Simone's lap.

"What deed, you charity case?"

Then the heavy double glass doors of the front foyer rattled with a low, rumbling vibration.

Through the tall arched windows that overlooked the circular drive, three pitch-black Suburbans jumped the security curb and cut straight across the manicured lawn.

Behind them, a state marshal cruiser slid sideways across the stone gates, its blue strobe lights pulsing against the cafeteria glass.

Full Story is in the comments.

Should the bully's family have been given mercy, or did they deserve every consequence?

10/05/2026

A PRIVILEGED SENIOR DUMPED STICKY FRUIT JUICE ON THE NEW KID WHO BEGGED HIM TO STOP, BUT THAT BECAME THE BIGGEST MISTAKE OF HIS LIFE AND KARMA HIT FAST.

The cold, crimson liquid splashed over Micah Rowe’s forehead before he could even zip his secondhand backpack.

It soaked through his dark curls, dripped off his eyelashes, and ran in heavy red streaks down his deep brown skin.

Chase Sterling did not just tip the oversized plastic cup.

He squeezed the rim slowly, letting the sweet punch stream down the collar of Micah’s faded gray hoodie.

---

Three dozen seniors leaned against the hoods of their trucks along the senior lot and roared with laughter.

Phones instantly went up in the air, screens catching the afternoon glare.

Micah stood frozen by the chain-link fence, his hands trembling as the sticky syrup glued his shirt to his chest.

"Please, man," Micah whispered, holding his hands out flat. "Just let me get to my locker."

Chase only laughed louder, his varsity letterman jacket open to show off the silver state-championship ring on his finger.

"You smell like discount groceries, transfer," Chase said, tossing the crushed cup onto Micah’s worn sneakers.

Nobody stepped in.

Vice Principal Greg Halloway walked past the edge of the asphalt with a clipboard under his arm.

He looked straight at Chase’s custom lifted truck, looked straight at Micah dripping red juice onto the pavement, and turned his back.

"Wrap it up before the buses roll, boys," Halloway called out without stopping.

That was how it worked at Oakridge High.

The Sterling family had donated the brand-new stadium lights, so Chase owned the pavement, the hallways, and every person standing on them.

Micah was three days into his transfer, motherless since spring, wearing his older cousin's sneakers, and entirely on his own.

Or at least, that was what Chase assumed.

Chase’s best friend pulled a fresh two-liter jug of fruit punch from the bed of the truck and cracked the seal.

"Round two for the charity case," Chase announced, stepping into Micah’s space until their chests nearly brushed.

Micah didn't wipe his eyes.

He didn't run.

He simply reached into his pocket, pulled out his cracked phone, and hit a single contact.

"Go ahead and call whoever you want," Chase sneered, lifting the heavy jug. "Nobody in this county is coming to save you."

Micah looked Chase straight in the eye.

"I’m not calling someone to save me," Micah said quietly. "I’m calling someone to handle you."

Chase threw his head back and dumped the entire jug over Micah’s shoulders, soaking his books, his jacket, and the gravel beneath his feet.

The crowd hooted, recording every single drop.

Then the heavy air over the school shifted.

A deep, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through the asphalt, rattling the windshields of fifty parked cars.

Students stopped laughing and looked toward the eastern tree line as the tree branches whipped violently against the sky.

A twin-engine medical helicopter painted in gleaming matte blue banked sharply over the bleachers, dropping straight toward the center of the football field.

Full Story is in the comments.

Should the bully's family have been given mercy, or did they deserve every consequence?

10/05/2026

A GOLDEN BOY STAMPED A CRACKED LAPTOP INTO THE STAIRCASE CONCRETE TO TAKE HIS RIVAL'S SPOT — BUT HE HAD NO IDEA WHOSE TECH EMPIRE ACTUALLY POWERED HIS ENTIRE LIFE.

Chase Holloway’s heavy leather boot came down directly onto the keyboard, snapping the plastic casing with a sharp, sickening crunch that echoed across the three-story atrium.

Kaden Ross was already down on both hands, his deep brown skin scraped raw against the rough concrete landing and dark blood welling through the torn knee of his faded jeans.

"Pick it up, transfer," Chase said, grinding his heel into the center of the motherboard until sparks sputtered against the dust.

More than sixty kids were packed tight against the brass railings of the second and third floors, looking down from under the midday skylight.

Nobody dropped their bags to help.

At least a dozen phones were already tilted over the edge, their camera lenses catching the glare of the noon sun while small, nervous laughs rippled through the hallway.

---

Kaden had only arrived at Crestview Academy eleven days ago on a partial transfer grant, carrying his lunch in a brown paper sack and keeping his natural curls cropped tight so nobody would look twice at him.

Chase had worn the varsity letterman jacket since freshman year, backed by a father whose logistics fleet held every supply contract in the county.

Tomorrow morning was the final submission deadline for the regional tech incubator fellowship—a six-figure university grant that Chase’s family had already bragged about in the local paper.

Kaden had taken the top qualifying score during fifth period, knocking Chase to second place on the state ranking board for the first time in three years.

"You really thought you could walk in off the municipal bus and take my platform?" Chase asked, stepping forward until his toe touched Kaden’s bleeding palm.

Kaden didn't flinch, even as Chase kicked his cracked hard drive down three steps, sending loose keys bouncing into the crowded lower foyer.

Two of Chase’s defensive linemen flanked the banister, blocking the only clear exit down toward the administration hallway.

Mr. Vance, the senior biology instructor, stopped at the base of the stairs with a stack of lab folders under his arm, took one long look at Chase’s father's name engraved on the brass donor plaque beside the landing, and quickly turned back down the west corridor.

Chase crouched down, his breath smelling of expensive mints and smug certainty, and shoved Kaden’s shoulder hard enough to knock him flat against the brick riser.

"People like you don't build systems in this town," Chase whispered loud enough for the railings to hear.

"People like you just mop the floors around them."

Kaden pulled himself back up onto one knee, wiped the smear of blood from his palms onto his denim, and looked Chase straight in the eye.

"You should check whose network you're running your family's trucks on before you break that," Kaden said quietly.

Chase burst out laughing, waving his hands to summon louder cheers from the mezzanine above.

"Who are you gonna call, kid?" Chase mocked, tossing his locker keys into the air and catching them. "The city bus depot?"

Then the heavy double glass doors at the front entrance slid open with a sudden hiss, three black executive Suburbans pulled straight onto the pedestrian plaza, and the main lobby security alarms dropped into dead, frozen silence.

Full Story is in the comments.

Share this if you believe public cruelty deserves public consequences.

10/04/2026

THE CHEER SQUAD THOUGHT THE THRIFT-STORE GIRL IN THE ARENA TUNNEL WAS AN EASY TARGET WITH NOBODY IN HER CORNER — UNTIL A CHOPPER TOUCHED DOWN OUTSIDE AND EVERYTHING CHANGED.

Peyton grabbed the collar of my jacket and shoved me back against the cold concrete of the VIP tunnel.

The metal doors behind us rattled.

Two of her squad members stepped in close, laughing, their phones already angled up at my face.

"Look at this thrift-store relic," Peyton scoffed, smoothing down the pleated skirt of her varsity uniform.

Her voice bounced off the polished arena floor.

"You saved three months of dishwashing wages just to sit near the court?"

She yanked the front pocket of my faded denim jacket.

Inside it was the ticket envelope I had earned hour by hour after school at the diner.

Beside her, Chloe hit record on her phone and tilted the lens toward my eyes.

"Cry for the followers, Danica," Chloe laughed.

"The video performs way better when you look pathetic."

Around us, security guards in yellow jackets glanced down the concourse, saw Peyton's father's name on her VIP lanyard, and stepped back into the shadows.

Nobody moved to stop them.

---

Coach Garrett walked past with a clip-board under her arm.

She didn't tell Peyton to let go.

Instead, Coach Garrett shook her head at me.

"Danica, you don't belong in the lower corridor before tip-off,"

"Stop causing drama with the girls."

Peyton grinned at the coach's back as the woman walked away.

"Hear that?"

Peyton's grip tightened, twisting the denim until the thread tore.

"Even Garrett knows you're trash in our hallway."

She pulled a fat, industrial black paint marker from her warm-up pouch.

She uncapped it with her teeth.

"Hold her still," Peyton ordered.

Two varsity flyers seized my wrists and pinned my arms against the arena wall.

My deep brown skin pressed against the gray cinderblocks.

I didn't struggle.

I didn't give them a single tear.

Peyton leaned in close enough for me to smell her strawberry lip gloss.

She dragged the chisel tip of the marker hard across my left cheek, pressing until the chemical fumes stung my nose.

She drew a bold, dripping zero right over my cheekbone.

Then she drew a dollar sign straight through it.

"A marked zero," Peyton sneered, turning my chin so Chloe's camera got the wet sheen of the ink.

"Now everyone in this arena knows your exact net worth."

The entire circle erupted in shrill laughter.

Peyton held up a pocket mirror to my face.

"Take a good look at what you are."

I looked at my reflection in the glass.

I felt the ink tighten on my skin as it dried.

I kept my voice completely level.

"You should have checked who bought the arena," I whispered.

Peyton burst out laughing, shoving the mirror into my chest.

"As if someone like you even has a dad!"

Then the heavy blast of twin rotor blades rattled the stadium roof.

Full Story is in the comments.

Be honest: should the victim have stayed silent and let the law handle it, or fought back right there?

10/04/2026

CAMERON WAS PINNED BY HIS LOCKER WHILE THE COACH POURED CHERRY SLUSH ACROSS HIS CLEAN DIPLOMA FOLDER, UNTIL ONE BLACK CADILLAC PULLED TO THE GYM CURB AND EVERYTHING CHANGED.

Coach Greg Sterling did not even set his clipboard down before he ripped the plastic lid off the forty-four-ounce convenience store cup.

He tilted his wrist right over Cameron's head.

The frozen red slush hit Cameron's close-cut natural hair with a heavy, sickening plop.

Thick crimson syrup ran straight down his forehead, streaking across his deep brown skin and soaking into his white track jersey.

Nobody moved to stop it.

---

Six varsity sprinters lined the metal benches, their phones already raised and recording the red drip hitting the concrete floor.

Two of them laughed so hard they had to lean against the steel lockers for balance.

"That is what happens to thieves who think an academic waiver lets them touch varsity equipment," Sterling barked into the echoing room.

Cameron did not flinch, even as the freezing slush dripped into his left eye.

He had worked three summers sweeping the training facility just to afford his running spikes.

His grade point average was sitting at a flawless four-point-zero, and his regional qualifying times were the best the county had seen in a decade.

Yet Sterling had pulled him into the varsity locker room during fifth period, claiming a missing equipment bag had to be in Cameron's locker.

When Sterling found nothing inside except Cameron's state honor society folder and clean practice clothes, he grabbed the slushie off the bench instead.

"Look at you," Sterling sneered, tossing the empty crushed plastic cup against Cameron's chest.

"You think you're going to represent my program looking like a neighborhood charity case?"

One of the senior throwers stepped forward, grinning as he held out a second cup of frozen blue raspberry slush.

"Finish the rinse, Coach," the senior urged, holding his phone sideways to catch the angle.

Sterling took the blue cup without looking away from Cameron's eyes.

Mr. Halloway, the junior varsity assistant, cracked the locker room door open from the hallway.

He looked directly at the sticky red syrup pooling around Cameron's sneakers.

He saw Sterling holding the second cup aloft.

Then Halloway pulled the door shut, turned around, and walked swiftly toward the administrative wing without uttering a single word.

Sterling dumped the second cup directly over the collar of Cameron's shirt.

The shock of ice-cold syrup made Cameron's shoulders tense, but his jaw stayed locked shut.

"Clean this floor with your track towel before sixth period," Sterling said, wiping his own sticky fingers on Cameron's clean gray locker.

"Or your recommendation to the state track committee goes into the furnace by three o'clock."

Cameron wiped the freezing red syrup from his eyebrow with the back of his bare hand.

He looked straight into Sterling's smug face.

"My uncle told me that men who shout in locker rooms usually end up begging in front of cameras," Cameron said softly.

Sterling burst out laughing, and the rest of the room echoed him instantly.

"Your uncle is probably running a car wash on the south side, kid,"

Sterling laughed, shaking his head at the bench.

That was the exact moment the heavy metal exit doors clanged open from the bus loop.

Outside, a long black Cadillac sedan had idled directly in the fire lane.

A tall driver in a dark uniform stood by the open rear door as an immaculate man in a bespoke charcoal suit stepped onto the curb.

Full Story is in the comments.

Team Justice or Team Let the School Handle It?

Address

Ellis Johnston
New York, NY
72901

Telephone

+14343730249

Website

Alerts

Be the first to know and let us send you an email when Jd Hodge Novel posts news and promotions. Your email address will not be used for any other purpose, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

Shortcuts

Share

Category