The Brawl

“Yes, Myles, what’s the answer?”

I blinked, yanked out of my trance by the teacher’s voice. The whole class turned toward me, eyes wide, some barely stifling laughter. I stood up, trying to shake the fog from my mind.

“Sir… could you repeat the question?”

“Repeat the question?” He raised an eyebrow. “Caught you smiling. Figured you knew the answer.”

If only class made me smile that much. But no, my smile was all because of the little chat I had with Coach Daniel earlier.

"I had a nap and realized I wasn’t fair to you. There’s a way to get you back on the team, but it’ll cost you your dignity."

That “dignity” translated into being the water boy during training, just so I could hold on to a sliver of a chance of rejoining the team. It was humiliating, but at least it was something.

“Sir, I have no idea.”

“The answer is ‘cell,’” a soft voice offered from behind. “The smallest unit of life.”

Natalie. My brows furrowed as I turned to see her offering a small, sympathetic smile. I nodded in thanks.

The teacher’s eyes narrowed. “Get your biology textbook out and focus, Astor.”

“Yes, sir.”

"Oh my god..."

"What is that? How did he get that amount?"

The scattered dollar notes dropping out of my bag laid on the table. My heart pounded in my chest as I mentally calculated how many wads that could be arranged in.

How did it get in my bag?

I swallowed, raising my head to meet Jade's own widened eyes.

I had at least ten thousand in my bag and had no clue how it got there. Holy shit, my heart thumped.

"Myles." The teacher glared down at the notes. "Follow me to my office, now."

I began to shove the notes in.

***

"He took the bag from me, said he was going to inquire if that amount was missing from anyone in the school," I say to Jade, the cooler of water hanging from my shoulders, watching the players in the rink. "Then he might go to the police."

It was making rounds in the school, everyone with their own tale of how a scholarship student had ten thousand in his bag.

Christ, I could have checked before I left. But I was already running late; it never crossed my mind.

"I can't say I believe you not knowing how the money got in your bag," Jade said, arranging the strap of the cooler. "I'm just saying, what will you do with the money if it's given back to you?"

I stayed quiet.

She continued, "So there's this little weed business..."

"Christ, Jade..."

"What?" she demanded. "I don't care if the money isn't from a good source. Just make sure you multiply that dough."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Thanks for being here. You and Leo, I don't know what I'd do without you guys."

As if on cue, from the far end of the rink, Leo waved while handing a player a bottle of water.

"Pssh, shove it back in. I'll do anything to have a share of that bill. Just kidding, just kidding." Her pressed lips told me she was absolutely not kidding.

"Hey," one of the players called, "Water!"

And she ran off, and immediately after, *he* entered. The rink burst into a round of applause as he caught the stick thrown at him.

My little laughter died, the money temporarily forgotten as rage took over.

It wasn’t my jersey he wore—it was a new one, tailored to perfection. Of course, he wouldn’t wear something as “common” as a team jersey. I’d bet his father bought him his spot on the team.

Yes, he was good in the last match, which was the first Blizzard Breakers had won against the Whales. It could just be luck—no one rich could be *that* good. Not when they knew they could just buy their way in.

Twenty minutes into training, I scratched my prior thoughts. Okay, he was good.

*More than good,* you mean, my brain taunted.

Still, it wasn't fair. And I was going to give a thousand water bottles just to get my position back.

*Fucker.*

And just then, Coach blew the whistle for halftime. Which meant...

"Get the water flowing."

From the corner of my eyes, I could see Jade and Leo walking toward the thirsty teams. Sighing, I made my way toward them, trying to dodge George, but of course, it was futile.

"Hey, water boy." He waved his hand, and when I turned, he raised a brow. "What part of 'we are thirsty' don't you understand?"

My gaze dropped to the unopened bottle of water beside him, and back to his face, and his smirk widened.

Taking another deep breath and hoping whatever Coach had in mind worked, I made my way to him, grabbing a bottle of water.

I handed him the water, saying nothing.

"Woah," he chuckled, looking around him as if hoping people were watching. Of course, they were. "Why so mad?"

I stayed quiet.

"Answer the question, Myles. Why so mad?"

"I'm not mad." It came out as a snap. I blinked back my anger. "I'm not mad. Just take your water."

He pouted, staring down at the water. "Not mad? Then beg me to take it."

There were chuckles, and also, "Dude, what's your problem? Let him be."

Leo stepped between us, handing George a bottled water. "Here, please take it."

George seemed amused. "I don't want the plea from this bitch." He looked at me again. "I want it from *this* bitch."

Well, then, fuck this. I dropped the flask on the rink and began to walk away. I was fucked anyway; nothing I'd do would matter.

Murmurs of surprise filled the air, which soon turned to roars. I hadn't taken more than five steps when I was yanked back by my hair and held, unable to move.

George appeared before me, laughing and shaking his head in disbelief as he unscrewed a bottle. "Too big to beg? Wow, such fucking audacity, huh?"

"I just wanna leave."

"Well, you'll leave, alright." The water came down on my head, drenching my hair and streaming across my face. "When I say beg," he flung the empty bottle back, "you fucking beg."

The water blurred my sight, but instead of the rage that led to tears back in junior high, I just felt empty.

"Alright then," I muttered, trying to wriggle myself free from his crew's hold. "If you'll just let me go now."

Once again, his gaze darkened, and soon a folded fist came down hard on my stomach, sending pain and the rage I thought was nonexistent into me.

Hearing them laugh made it boil.

So without thinking of the repercussions, I punched back—hard—hitting the side of his neck. Seeing him double over in pain sent a thrill running through me.

Holy shit, I did that! I just fucking did that!

Now to get the fuck out of this place before I was handled like a bitch.

I turned around in a flash, only to knock into another frame, and he grabbed my hand. But adrenaline still rushing, I punched hard again, my fist landing on a chin made of iron.

Pain shot into my knuckles, and I clutched my throbbing wrist, raising my face up to stare into Angry. Grey. Eyes.

I froze.

It wasn’t George. It wasn’t one of his lackeys.

Oh shit.

It was him.

Tristan Medici.

My chest tightened. I’d just punched Tristan Medici.

Fuck...