The first thing everyone heard that morning wasn't the school bell, or even the laughter of students spilling into the courtyard—it was the echo of a football slamming against the metal goalpost. CLANG! Heads turned. Some smirked, some flinched, and others, like me, just waited. Because we all knew who kicked it.
Derrick Kane.
Every school has that one boy. The name that travels faster than the principal's announcements, the boy teachers whisper about in the staff room, the boy girls swear they don't like—but can't stop glancing at. At Roosevelt High, that boy was Derrick. The bad boy.
He wasn't bad in the way rumors made villains out of kids; he was bad in the way the universe designed storms: reckless, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. His dark hoodie wasn't part of the uniform, but he wore it like it was stitched to his soul. He had that swagger, the kind that wasn't taught but born into a person—half athlete, half outlaw.
That morning, while most students shuffled nervously to their classes, Derrick was already on the football field, boots tearing through grass like he owned the ground. He played alone, yet it felt like the entire school was his audience. His kicks were powerful, sharp, angry. Like he wasn't just practicing—he was fighting ghosts only he could see.
I watched him from the bleachers, notebook clutched in my hand. Writing was safer than living. Observing meant I didn't have to choose sides. And in a place like Roosevelt, where hierarchy was built on fists and scores, sides were everything.
Derrick had enemies—lots of them. Teachers despised him for skipping class, parents warned their kids to stay away, and rival players from neighboring schools wanted him benched permanently. But on the field? He was untouchable. The kind of player who could dribble three defenders without breaking a sweat. A beast, a shadow, a story waiting to happen.
"Oi, Kane!" someone from the sidelines shouted. It was Marcus, the team captain. "You're late again!"
Derrick didn't even look at him. He bent down, tied his laces with deliberate calm, then shot the ball so hard it nearly ripped through the net. The whole field went quiet.
Late? Sure. Dangerous? Definitely. But that was Derrick's language—actions louder than apologies.
What people didn't know, though, was that Derrick wasn't just fighting for a place on the field. He was fighting for survival. Because behind his smirk, behind the rumors and the cocky posture, was a darkness none of us fully understood.
And me? I was about to get pulled straight into it.
The bell finally rang. Students poured inside. But my eyes stayed locked on the boy in the hoodie, sweat dripping, fists clenched, staring at the goalpost like it was his last chance at redemption.
That was the day I realized something.
Derrick Kane wasn't just the bad boy.
He was the beginning of the story.
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