The crowd didn't leave the field right away. They never did after Roosevelt vs. Kingsdale. Wins and losses didn't end with the whistle—they bled into the hallways, the buses, the streets.
And this time, blood wasn't just a figure of speech.
As soon as the final goal hit, Tyler Briggs stormed across the field, shoving Derrick in the chest. Words flew—loud, ugly, dripping with venom. Before anyone could blink, fists followed. Derrick's knuckles cracked against Tyler's jaw with a sound that silenced the whole stadium.
Gasps. Screams. Chaos.
Players rushed in, teachers tried to pull them apart, but Derrick wasn't just fighting Tyler. He was fighting everything—anger, pride, maybe even himself. It took three staff members to drag him off the field, veins bulging, eyes still locked on Tyler like he hadn't finished.
The rumors started before the dust even settled.
"Derrick's suspended."
"No, he broke Tyler's jaw."
"I heard Kingsdale's out for revenge."
By Monday morning, the school was electric. Hallways buzzed with whispers. Some students worshipped him, calling him a legend. Others avoided him like he carried a curse. But either way, Derrick Kane was no longer just the bad boy. He was the story.
And I couldn't escape it.
First period, English. The classroom felt smaller than usual, tension pressing down like a storm about to crack. Derrick sat two rows behind me, hood up again, tapping his pencil like the ticking of a time bomb.
Tyler wasn't in school. The rumor mill said hospital. Broken jaw, maybe concussion. Nobody knew for sure. But everyone knew Derrick had done it.
The teacher tried to continue the lesson, but nobody was listening. Eyes kept drifting back to him. Even mine. And that's when I noticed something no one else seemed to catch—Derrick wasn't proud. He wasn't smirking or flexing his fame. He looked restless, caged. Like he knew this fight had followed him out of the field and into the rest of his life.
When the bell rang, I expected the usual rush of footsteps. Instead, the classroom froze as Derrick stood, slowly, like a predator stretching its limbs. He glanced at me again, just for a moment, then walked out.
And in that silence, I realized something chilling.
The game hadn't ended on the field.
It had just begun—in here, in the classrooms, in the shadows of Roosevelt High.
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