Classic Passion: Origin
Copyright© 2026 by RedRambler
Chapter 16: 7th Period: Phys Ed (Coach Rayan)
Gymnasium (Coach Rayan)
The gymnasium doors swung open to reveal organized chaos. Students ran laps around the perimeter while others performed jumping jacks near the bleachers. The space smelled of floor wax and teenage sweat, with afternoon light streaming through high windows.
A sharp whistle cut through the noise. A man in navy shorts and a Lake Sebring Athletics t-shirt waved me over. “You there, new student. Name?”
I jogged across the polished floor, stopping just out of arm’s reach. Old habits. “Tom Hardy, sir. I’m supposed to be in this period.”
He consulted his clipboard, running a finger down the roster. “Rayan. Jerry Rayan.” He looked up, assessing me with the practiced eye of someone who’d sized up thousands of teenagers. “You’re late, Hardy. Get warmed up with two laps, then join the calisthenics group.” He jerked his thumb toward the jumping jack brigade.
I started toward the track painted around the gym’s edge, but something in my gut wouldn’t let me run. Not yet. Father Logue’s face kept flashing through my mind; that predatory smile, the way he’d cornered Brian. I’d seen what happened when adults dismissed teenage concerns, when “wait and see” became “too late.”
After one lap, I veered back toward Coach Rayan.
“Hardy!” He frowned as I approached. “That’s one lap, not two.”
“Coach Rayan, I need to use your phone. It’s about a teacher, Father Logue. There’s a situation that requires Chief Simmons’ attention.”
Something in my tone must have cut through his irritation. Coach Rayan studied me for a long moment, taking in whatever was written on my face. Teachers developed instincts about which students to take seriously. Apparently, I passed his test.
“Make it quick.” He nodded toward a door marked COACH’S OFFICE. “You still owe me those laps.”
The office smelled of leather and liniment, with trophies crowding every surface. I grabbed the black rotary phone and dialed the police station number from memory, one of the first things I’d memorized after moving here.
“Lake Sebring Police Department,” the dispatcher answered on the second ring.
“This is Tom Hardy. I need to speak with Chief Simmons about a teacher at the high school.”
Papers rustled on the other end. “One moment, please.”
The line clicked, then: “Tom? What’s going on?”
I kept my voice steady, professional. No dramatics, just facts. “Chief, I’m calling from Coach Rayan’s office. Father Logue is teaching Latin under false pretenses. He’s not a priest, despite using the title, and his behavior toward students is concerning.”
“Go on.”
I laid it out systematically: The seminary in Baltimore story that didn’t add up. The way he’d frozen when I questioned his credentials in Latin. How he’d singled out Brian Martini for “private lessons.” The casual touches that lasted too long. The isolation tactics I’d seen before at St. Beatrice’s.
Chief Simmons didn’t interrupt, didn’t tell me I was overreacting or seeing things that weren’t there. When I finished, his response was immediate.
“I need to speak with Coach Rayan. Put him on.”
I stepped into the doorway. Coach Rayan was demonstrating proper push-up form to a struggling student, but he glanced up when I appeared.
“Chief Simmons wants to talk to you.”
His eyebrows rose, but he handed the demonstration over to another student and followed me into the office. I passed him the receiver and started to leave, but he held up a hand.
“Coach Rayan here.” He listened, his jaw tightening with each passing second. “Yes, sir. I understand. No, he seems...” A pause. “Right away. Yes, sir.”
He hung up and looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Concern mixed with something else. Respect, maybe.
“Chief wants us at the station immediately. You’re coming with me.”
The other students had stopped their exercises to watch us cross the gym. Coach Rayan ignored them, his stride purposeful. At the door, he turned back.
“Henderson! You’re in charge. Run them through the usual drills. Anyone slacks off, they run extra laps tomorrow.”
Outside, the Florida heat hit like a wall after the gym’s relative coolness. Coach Rayan’s Ford sat in the faculty lot, its blue paint faded from years of sun exposure. He unlocked the passenger door first, a small courtesy that surprised me.
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of Room S-117 through the classroom windows. Father Logue stood at the board, gesturing animatedly to his next class. Another group of potential victims. Another performance of authority.
“You did the right thing,” Coach Rayan said quietly as we turned onto Main Street. “Most kids wouldn’t have said anything.”
I thought about Brian’s nervous eyes, about all the boys at St. Beatrice’s who’d learned to walk certain hallways quickly, to never be alone with certain adults. About how silence became a survival strategy that only enabled more harm.
“Someone should have,” I said.
Coach Rayan glanced at me sideways. “At St. Augustine’s?”
“Before that. First school I went to.” I watched the storefronts blur past. “You learn to spot them after a while.”
“That why you ended up at St. Augustine’s? Speaking up?”
“No.” I shifted in the cracked vinyl seat. “That was my grandmother’s idea of fixing me.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Coach Rayan kept checking his rearview mirror, as if expecting Father Logue to materialize behind us. Or maybe he was processing what I’d implied about my past, about the kind of education that taught twelve-year-olds to recognize predators.
The police station came into view, its low brick building a promise of action rather than more waiting. But I knew how these things went. Adults would talk. Forms would be filed. Investigations would proceed at their own pace while Father Logue continued teaching, continued hunting.
“What happens now?” I asked as Coach Rayan parked.
“Now?” He killed the engine but didn’t move to get out yet. “Now we tell Chief Simmons everything. Every detail, every instinct, every red flag. And then we hope the system works faster than...”
He didn’t finish, but he didn’t need to. Faster than Father Logue could isolate his next victim. Faster than trust could be exploited. Faster than innocence could be destroyed.
We sat there for another moment, teacher and student, united by the weight of what we were about to set in motion. Then Coach Rayan opened his door.
“Come on, Hardy. Time to make some noise.”
Lake Sebring PD
The Ford’s door slammed shut behind me, the sound sharp in the afternoon heat. Coach Rayan led the way across the parking lot and through the police station’s glass doors, his athletic stride forcing me to quicken my pace. The blast of air conditioning raised goosebumps on my sweat-dampened skin.
“Afternoon, Martha.” Coach Rayan nodded to the dispatcher. “Chief’s expecting us.”
She waved us through without looking up from her paperwork. We passed the bullpen where a couple officers hunched over reports, then down a short hallway to a door marked CHIEF WILLIAM SIMMONS.
Coach knocked once and pushed it open. Chief Simmons sat behind his desk, phone already back in its cradle. But instead of taking the chair the Chief indicated, Coach Rayan crossed his arms and planted his feet.
“Bill, I need to know something first. Who exactly is this kid that you drop everything for a phone call? First day of school, and we’re racing over here like the building’s on fire?”
Chief Simmons pointed to the chairs. “Sit down, Jerry. Both of you.”
Coach Rayan held his ground for another heartbeat before settling into the worn leather chair. I took the one beside him, keeping my hands visible on my knees. Another old habit.
“What I’m about to tell you stays in this room,” Chief Simmons began, his gaze moving between us. “Tom here was instrumental in exposing what was happening at St. Augustine’s Academy. Without him, that place would still be operating.”
Coach Rayan’s eyes widened slightly. Everyone in town knew about the scandal at the military school, though the details remained murky.
“The boy’s got survival instincts most adults never develop,” Chief continued. “When he says there’s a problem with a teacher, I listen. His observations aren’t teenage dramatics. They’re intelligence reports.”
Coach Rayan turned to study me with new interest. Not the suspicious assessment from earlier, but something closer to professional respect. Like recognizing another soldier who’d seen combat.
“All right.” Coach settled back in his chair. “Tell me about this Logue character.”
I kept my report clinical, starting with the moment I’d entered Room S-117. “He claimed to be a priest, said he’d studied at a seminary in Baltimore. But when I challenged him on pronunciation, he panicked. Real priests don’t panic over Latin conjugation.”
Chief Simmons pulled out a notepad, pen moving steadily across the page.
“The way he moved around the classroom was wrong. Too much unnecessary contact. Hand on shoulders that lingered. Leaning too close when checking work.” I paused, searching for the right words. “At St. Beatrice’s, we called it shopping. Testing boundaries to see who wouldn’t pull away.”
“And Brian Martini?” Chief prompted.
“Classic isolation attempt. Singled him out for struggling with pronunciation, then immediately offered private tutoring. When Brian tried to decline, Logue pushed harder. Made it sound like Brian’s academic future depended on these one-on-one sessions.”
Coach Rayan shifted in his chair. “That’s why you used my Bob’s name? To get the kid out?”
“Worked at St. Beatrice’s. Sports coaches outranked academic teachers in the pecking order. Figured it might be the same here.”
Chief Simmons set down his pen and reached for the phone. “Excuse me a moment.”
He dialed from memory, waiting through several rings. “Dennis? Bill Simmons. I need a quiet background check on a William Logue, currently teaching Latin at Lake Sebring High.” A pause. “Claims to be a priest, graduated from seminary in Baltimore.” Another pause. “That’s right. Full work history, any complaints, transfers, the works. And Dennis? Check for any connection to Unity Covenant.”
My spine straightened at the mention of my grandmother’s extremist group.
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