JiminQueens2's blog

The buzzer sounded—the sweetest sound I’d ever heard in my life.

I immediately let go of Anderson and rolled away, then climbed to my feet. I bent over and unwrapped the red velcroed band from around my ankle, handed it to the ref, then extended my hand to shake hands with Anderson.

He took it, but the look on his face said it all. He would rather have been ripping out my liver than shaking my hand. But this was our last wrestling match for our respective high schools before we graduated, and it was my arm the referee was raising, not his.

I threw a self-satisfied smirk at him; in the six years we’d tangled, we’d hit the mat fifteen times—and I’d won eight of them. Neither one of us was likely to go far in the county tournaments at the end of the season; we were ranked too low. So Anderson would never have a chance to even the score.

He glared at me and stalked off the mat, ignoring everyone, even his coach, before he threw himself on the bench, visibly seething. I smirked again and—yeah, with a little strut, what’s it to you?—went back to rejoin my team.

“Nice job, Tom,” Coach said as I stepped off the mat. “You realize he’s still looking daggers at you, right?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Anderson’s body was rigid with anger, and he was glaring at me with enough heat to melt the paint off the walls, pausing only to visually skewer those few of his teammates brave or foolish enough to try to console him.

I shrugged. “Let him. He’s a fucking asshole, anyway, so it’s not like we’re ever going to be friends. He can keep the memory of me kicking his ass for the rest of his life.”

Coach just smiled.

There were three more matches to go—my school ended up losing by a couple of points. I showered and changed quickly, then met my dad outside the arena (Coach doesn’t let parents at matside—no exceptions). “Good job out there, son,” he congratulated me.

“Thanks,” I said, grinning. “I bet Anderson is still steaming over it.”

“I bet you’re going to be jerking yourself off over this for a month,” came a voice behind me.

I turned around. Sure enough, there was Anderson, showered, changed, and carrying a duffle bag over his shoulder. Standing next to him was a fortyish man that I assumed was his father.

Anderson was still glaring at me; I wondered if he’d changed expression at all in the last forty-five minutes. “Nah,” I said. I could feel myself sneering, but I couldn’t help it—not that I really wanted to. “Even if I swung that way, you’re too ugly for jerkoff material. Have a nice weekend, loser.” I turned away from him, ready to follow Dad to his car—and then Anderson hit me. Not much of a hit, really; closer to a shove, right in my back. I staggered forward and only just managed to keep from falling on my face.

I whirled angrily, ready to launch myself at Anderson and beat his face in, but Dad and Anderson’s father got between us before I could. Dad was almost as angry as I was, and snapped, “Your son’s not only a loser, he’s a fucking pussy! Where’d he learn to shove someone from behind—you?”

Mr. Anderson’s look was cold enough to freeze the air around us. “Where’d YOUR son learn comebacks like that—from his mother?”

Mom died when I was four. Dad would have taken a swing at Mr. Anderson right then and there, only one of the school’s security guards chose that particular time to join us. “Is there a problem here?” he asked pointedly.

“No,” Dad said slowly, glaring at Mr. Anderson the whole time, “no problem. Come on, son.” He put his hand on my shoulder and steered me toward the car, but his eyes never left Mr. Anderson’s.

We drove home in silence. Dad was clearly furious, and I was just as mad. More than anything else I wanted to beat Anderson’s face to a bloody pulp, and maybe watch while Dad did the same to his asshole father.

Later that night, I found out that Anderson had similar ideas.

I was bullshitting on Facebook, answering a message from a girl I wanted to get to know a lot better, and just for shits and grins, I checked my Other folder—and my jaw dropped open when I saw a message, sent today, from…Chris Anderson.

“You got fucking lucky today—TWICE,” the message read, “first at the meet, and then when your fat ass father got in the way before I could beat the shit out of you. You’re a shit wrestler and a total pussy, and I could beat the crap out of you without breaking a fucking sweat.”

I sat there in disbelief for a long time.

When I finally was able to think coherently, I tapped out a response. “Says the guy who got his ass whipped this afternoon, and would have gotten it whipped again if you’d been stupid enough to come at me without a referee in the way. You want to continue this in person, you know how to find me.”

I sent it. I waited.

I wasn’t waiting long.