Michael

Present Day

I ducked as Ray Simmons’ massive fist grazed my hair.

Adrenaline surged through me. I rolled away trying to regain my footing. He barreled after me with his right fist cocked, ready to deliver the first and final blow, but I stopped him with a solid kick to his stomach. Ray grunted in pain.

Around us, a crowd of teenagers groaned in unison like a trained choir. About twenty students surrounded the fight in the outdoor courtyard and more filtered around us every second. It was as if they were trying to block off any escape routes from the fight.

“C’mon Ray, knock his teeth in!” shouted Doug.

“Get up, Michael!” my cousin, Zack said. “Put up your fists! Show him who’s boss!”

“Leave him alone, Ray!” begged Sarah, my 14-year-old little sister. “Stop being such a jerk!”

Ray glared at me with a renewed fury as he regained his composure. I put up my fists as Zack instructed, mostly in defense. “I don’t want to fight you, Ray!”

Ray huffed. “Then walk away.”

I paused, lowering my fists. He’s giving me an out?

This all started because I told Ray and his friends to stop picking on my little sister. There was no way I’d let him get away with that.

“Nevermind,” I said. “I do want to fight you.”

Ray smirked, and then he charged, dropping his shoulder. I wasn’t quick enough. The 195-pound middle-linebacker slammed his shoulder into my gut, lifted my feet off the ground, and then drilled my back into the grass. Pain shot through my spine and head. I couldn’t breathe! Ray got up and stood over me, watching me cringe.

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“Ohhhh,” shouted Doug as if his teammate just sacked the quarterback. “He’s gonna feel that in the morning!” He gave Ray a fist bump.

Ray chuckled under his breath, “They don’t teach you that in soccer practice, do they, Stoner?”

I finally caught my breath and climbed back to my feet, clenching my fists and my teeth. The desire to defend myself faded. Now I really wanted to hurt him.

“Now we’re talking,” Ray said as he lifted his fists to his face and bounced on his toes.

We circled each other, trying to seize an opening. The crowd cheered—I don’t know who for—probably just for a good show. We were in the school plaza, right in the middle of campus. Where, of course, all the students had to pass through to get to their next classes. Our fight was pushed on the grass, just off of the main walkway.

Ray had more mass than I did, but he was only an inch taller. Other than that, we were physically opposite in every way; with my dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. Ray Simmons had black, spikey hair, brown skin, a muscular build, and an ego that could fill up a blimp. He was captain of the football team, and I was the captain of the soccer team. Obviously, we were destined to be mortal enemies.

I moved in and struck Ray in the shin with a quick kick. He didn’t even flinch, instead he seized the opportunity while I was close to grab my left arm, pull me in, and deliver a massive blow to my left eye.

Just before Ray charged again, Sarah pushed him from behind, catching him off guard. I knew how feisty she could get when bullied. Ray turned his attention on her and pushed her to the ground.

I felt an unusual burning in my gut. Nobody messes with my little sister, except me! I bolted toward Ray as he turned around, and I did what came naturally. I slid to the ground on my left side with my left leg behind, and my right leg extended. It was the hardest, soccer-style slide tackle I’d ever done. Ray’s legs buckled, and his back and head made a loud thud on the grass.

I got up and stood over him. “They don’t teach you that in football practice, do they, Ray?”

Before I had the chance to see Ray’s reaction, someone slammed into me from behind, grinding my face into the ground. I saw a few stars and could taste grass and blood in my mouth. Doug had tackled me, Ray’s best friend. He jumped up and pulled Ray to his feet.

Ray spat. “Stay down, Stoner!” He kicked me in the stomach just as I was about to get up. The pain was miserable, causing me to curl up in a ball, unable to breathe.

“Break it up!” A loud voice approached. I could hear students scattering, escaping from being selected as witnesses. “Simmons! What do you think you’re doing?” The voice belonged to Coach Jones, the high school P.E. teacher and head coach of the football team.

I still remained on the ground in fetal position. My whole body throbbed in pain. I glanced up to see Coach Jones standing between me and Ray.

Ray sniffed and said, “What’s up, Coach? ‘Bout time you got here.”