Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
The morning air at Palisades High was usually filled with the mundane sounds of teenage lethargy—yawning, shuffling feet, the zip of backpacks opening. But today, there was a different frequency in the air. A buzz. I knew exactly what it was.
Coach Casey had posted the list.
I walked through the double doors, keeping my head up, my backpack slung over one shoulder. I didn't go to the gym to check the fallout; I knew who was on the list and who wasn't. My focus was on getting my history textbook before the first bell rang.
I reached my locker, spinning the combination dial.
Click.
I pulled the metal door open, the smell of old paper and gym clothes wafting out. I began rummaging through my school locker, shifting my calculus binder to get to the history book buried at the bottom. My mind was already drifting to the practice plan for the afternoon—how to integrate the remaining seniors with the core unit without causing a mutiny.
Slam!
The world tilted violently.
Suddenly, I was confronted by Jackson and his cronies.
A heavy hand shoved me from behind, slamming my chest into the metal shelving of my locker. My breath hitched as the edge of the shelf dug into my sternum. Before I could turn, a second shove pinned me there, trapping me between the open door and the frame.
"You think you're funny, huh? You think you're some kind of king?"
The voice was wet with rage. I knew it instantly. Jackson.
I twisted around, using my shoulder to create space. Jackson was standing inches from my face, his face a mottled red mask of fury. Behind him stood Rizzo, Meyer, and Johnson—the three other seniors I had cut. They formed a semi-circle, blocking my exit, their postures aggressive and threatening.
I was caught off guard, my heart rate spiking from the sudden impact. My hand instinctively went to a defensive guard, but I stopped myself. We were in the middle of the main hallway. Fighting here meant suspension. Suspension meant missing the season.
I took a breath. I recollected myself just as fast. I engaged the mental discipline Katz had drilled into us, pushing the adrenaline down, locking it away. I then masked my emotions, smoothing my expression into a neutral, unbothered stare.
"Can I help you, Jackson?" I asked, my voice calm, contrasting sharply with his heavy breathing.
"You cut us!" Jackson roared, slamming his hand against the locker next to my head. The sound echoed like a gunshot, drawing eyes from down the hall. "You had me kicked out of the basketball team! I'm a senior! I'm a starter! And you cut me for a bunch of sophomores and bench warmers?"
"I didn't cut you," I neutrally told Jackson and his cronies. "The Coach did."
"Don't give me that crap!" Rizzo shouted from behind him. "We know you made the list! We saw you in the office with him!"
"Since you want to discuss this publicly," I said, pitching my voice so the gathering crowd could hear. "Here are the reasons for you getting kicked out."
I looked at Johnson. "You can't run a mile under eight minutes. In a transition offense, you're a liability."
I looked at Meyer. "You have missed three mandatory practices in two weeks. Reliability is zero."
I turned my gaze back to Jackson. "And you. You set soft screens because you're afraid of contact. You refuse to box out. You think your seniority entitles you to minutes you haven't earned. We're building a championship team, Jackson. You simply... don't make the cut."
Jackson was livid. The veins in his neck bulged. He wasn't used to being analyzed; he was used to being feared.
"This is you taking revenge against me for what I did!" Jackson shouted, pointing a shaking finger in my face. "This isn't about basketball! This is about the first day of school! You're just a petty little freshman trying to get back at me because I checked you!"
I nonchalantly denied the accusation. "You give yourself too much credit. I don't care about the first day. I care about winning. If you were good enough to help us win, you'd be on the team. You aren't."
"Liar!" Jackson spat. He stepped closer, invading my personal space. "It was not enough that your Mom had me humiliated before the principal and my own parents?"
I froze. My mask slipped for a fraction of a second. "What?"
Jackson laughed, a cruel, bitter sound. "Oh, don't play dumb. It wasn't enough that she got me suspended for a week? That she came in here screaming about lawsuits and bullying? My dad grounded me for a month! I nearly lost my car!"
He leaned in, his breath hot on my face. "But now you're pulling shit like this? Taking away my spot on the team? You're hiding behind your mommy and your coach because you're too scared to handle me yourself."
My mind raced. Mom?
I thought back to the incident. I hadn't told her the details. I had handled it. Or so I thought. She promised. She said she would let me handle my own battles. But if Jackson was telling the truth... she had gone nuclear behind my back. That explained why Jackson and his crew had been so quiet for the last two weeks. It wasn't fear of me; it was fear of expulsion.
Due to their arguments, a crowd had started to gather. Students were stopping, phones were coming out. The tension in the hallway was thick enough to choke on.
"Hey! Break it up!"
From the end of the hall, a guard began to move in, his radio crackling.
Jackson, seeing this, knew his window was closing. He needed one last act of dominance. He stepped forward and pushed me once more into the locker. He put his full weight into it, expecting me to stumble, to cower, to look weak in front of the school.
But I wasn't the same kid he tried to bully on day one.
I didn't step back. I engaged my core. I dropped my center of gravity, rooting my feet to the linoleum. I didn't strike back; I just hardened my stance.
Jackson's shove hit my chest and... stopped. It was like shoving a statue. I didn't budge an inch. The force of his own push rebounded back into him, making him stumble slightly.
I looked at him, my eyes cold. "Worthless," I whispered.
Jackson's eyes widened. He realized in that moment that physically, he couldn't move me anymore.
"Hey! Get the hell away from him!"
I looked past Jackson. Leo, David, and Patrick came running down the hall, pushing through the crowd. David looked ready to tear someone in half.
Jackson saw them. He looked at the guard closing in, then at my team, and finally at me. He sneered, trying to salvage his pride.
"This is not over, Naird," he hissed. "Watch your back."
He left, signaling his cronies to follow. They melted into the crowd just as the security guard arrived.
"Everything okay here?" the guard asked, looking between me and the retreating seniors.
"Fine," I said, straightening my shirt. "Just a disagreement about roster spots."
The guard bought it, or didn't care enough to file a report, and moved on to disperse the onlookers. The crowd dispersed, the show over for now.
I leaned back against my locker, the adrenaline fading, replaced by a gnawing confusion. She promised. She said she trusted me. Why did she intervene? And why go so far—principal, parents, suspension? It was scorched earth. It protected me, yes, but it also undermined me. It made me look like I needed saving.
"Brad!"
David reached me first, grabbing my shoulder. "What happened?" he asked, scanning the hall for threats. "We heard shouting. Was that Jackson?"
I looked at my guys. Leo looked worried, Patrick was calculating, and David was furious.
I told them, keeping my voice low. "He cornered me about the cut. But... he said something else. He said my mom got him suspended. That she went to the principal."
"Wait," Leo said, frowning. "You didn't know?"
"No," I said. "I thought I handled it."
"Well, we thought you knew" Leo muttered. "Getting a senior suspended is a declaration of war."
Patrick, ever the strategist, adjusted his glasses. "If he feels like he's lost everything—his spot on the team, his reputation—he's dangerous. He has nothing to lose."
Patrick suggested, "Jackson might try something at lunch. The cafeteria is chaos. He could try to jump you when there aren't teachers around. We should stick together."
"I agree," I said. I wasn't too proud to admit that four sets of eyes were better than one. "We move as one today. No one walks alone."
The bell rang, shrill and demanding.
"We have practice later," I reminded them. "Focus on school. Let me worry about Jackson. If he makes a move you guys just need to back me up"
"Always" David said patting my back.
All of us departed for classes at this point.
I watched them go, then turned back to my locker. I grabbed my history book, but my mind wasn't on the Reformation. It was on Maggie Naird. I needed to have a conversation with my mother. Faith had been broken, and I needed to know why.
The rest of the school day went swimmingly, almost suspiciously so. The hallways were quiet, and the whispers that usually trailed me seemed to have evaporated into the white noise of locker slams and bell rings. But the tension remained, a tight coil in my gut that I couldn't quite relax.
I found Alex by her locker before third period. She looked up as I approached, her eyes immediately scanning me for damage.
"I heard," she said, her voice low. "The whole school heard. Jackson pushed you?"
"He tried," I corrected, leaning against the lockers. "I told you, I handled it."
I recounted the confrontation—the ambush, the shoving match, and how Jackson had bounced off my guard like a toddler running into a wall. I expected her to be relieved that I wasn't hurt. Instead, a frown creased her forehead.
"That is exactly what I am worried about," Alex said, closing her locker with a snap. "You're not just defending yourself anymore, Brad. You're challenging them."
"If something happens, I won't be the losing party this time," I told her, my voice hard. "I'm not the same kid who got pushed around on the first day."
"I know," Alex said, stepping closer, lowering her voice further. "But I'm worried for you, Brad. Don't take things too far. Just because you can win a fight doesn't mean you should start a war. That could come back to bite you."
"They had it coming," I argued, frustration bubbling up. "Jackson thinks he owns this school. He thinks he can assault people because he has a senior tag. I can't always live cowering in fear of what others might do to me. I did that for too long. Not anymore."
Alex sighed, adjusting the strap of her bag. She looked at me with those piercing, intelligent eyes that always seemed to see five moves ahead.
"It's not about living in fear," Alex stated. "It's about strategy. You're smart, Brad. You know that escalating this could lead you into greater trouble. If you hurt him, really hurt him, you lose the moral high ground. You lose the team. You might even lose your spot at this school."
I looked away, grinding my teeth. She was right, logically. But emotionally? I wanted to finish what Jackson started.
"I know how to handle this," I stated, forcing my tone to soften. "I won't start it, Lexi. But I will finish it."
Alex relented, seeing that she wouldn't change my mind right now. She reached out and squeezed my hand briefly. "Just... don't get hurt."
"I won't," I promised.
Finally, lunch arrived.
The cafeteria was a chaotic sea of noise and movement. I spotted my team at our usual table near the windows. Patrick, David, and Leo were already there, their heads close together, talking in hushed tones. They looked up as I approached, their expressions grim.
"Sit," David rumbled, sliding over to make room. "Eyes on the doors."
We ate quickly, the food tasting like cardboard ash in my mouth. We stuck to the plan: moving as a unit, watching the exits.
Ten minutes into the period, the noise in the cafeteria seemed to dip.
"Here we go," Leo muttered.
I looked up. Jackson and his cronies—Rizzo, Meyer, and Johnson—were walking through the tables. They weren't posturing for the crowd this time. They moved with a direct, singular purpose. They stopped right in front of our table.
Jackson didn't shout. He looked down at me, his eyes cold and devoid of the earlier hysteria.
"We need to talk," Jackson said. "Away from the cameras."
"I'm listening," I said, not standing up.
"School supply dock. Now."
It was the classic blind spot. No cameras, no teachers, just a concrete loading bay behind the kitchens. It was where fights happened when people didn't want to get suspended. I looked at Jackson. I could refuse. I could stay here in the safety of the crowd. But if I did, he would dog me for the rest of the season. He would think I was afraid.
"Fine," I agreed, standing up. I picked up my tray and dumped it in the trash can next to the table.
"We're coming too," David said, standing up. He towered over Rizzo, casting a long shadow over the table.
Jackson sneered. "This is between me and the freshman."
"He's the Captain," Patrick said, standing up on my left. "You want to talk to the Captain, you talk to the team."
Leo stood up on my right, crossing his arms. "Lead the way, Jackson."
Jackson looked at the four of us—a united front, unblinking and ready. He realized he wasn't going to get me alone. He spat on the floor.
"Whatever," Jackson muttered. "Let's go."
He turned and walked toward the side exit. I adjusted my backpack straps, checked my surroundings, and followed him. I saw Alex walking over with her tray towards Haley so I typed a text telling her where I'll be. Pat, David, and Leo joined in, falling into step beside me. We walked out of the noise of the cafeteria and into the quiet, tense hallway leading to the back of the school.
I was ready.