Sampson paces back and forth, his breath puffing out like a bull about to charge, while Carrson looks on, his expression indifferent. His hands hang loose by his sides. His shoulders are relaxed, unbothered. He could be waiting in line for coffee instead of getting ready to fight someone who clearly outweighs him by fifty pounds.
I press closer to the window, a strange kind of concern overtaking me. If I didn’t know Carrson was a good fighter, I would put a bet down on Sampson to win. No contest. Based purely on physical characteristics, he’s the clear victor, but Carrson has been training me for over a month now. I know how he can explode from stillness to savagery within seconds.
Still, unease curls in my stomach, so subtle I barely notice it.
“Carrson’s going to get wrecked,” says one of the younger girls, like she read my mind. “Look how big that other guy is.”
“No, he won’t,” replies another. “Carrson never loses.”
“I don’t know,” says a third. “I heard Sampson’s been spoiling for this fight. Training for it in secret. He wants Carrson’s spot.”
On the field, Sampson says something to Carrson. I don’t have to hear to know it’s shit talking, boasting. His grin is nasty and full of heat.
Carrson just heaves a sigh and rolls his eyes, like he’s bored with the whole thing.
That’s all it takes to enrage Sampson, to tip him over the edge. He explodes. Charges Carrson, who dodges, ducking under his fist. Carrson sticks out a casual foot, and Sampson trips, falling into the grass with a puff of dirt.
The other brothers go wild, hollering, stomping, yelling with their fists in the air.
Carrson takes a step back with no change in his expression.
Sampson lumbers to his feet. Even from the window, I can see how he snarls at Carrson, his face red, eyes narrowed, rage written all over his features.
The next movement is a blur. Carrson strikes first this time. He darts left, crouches, and slams his shoulder into Sampson’s side. The bigger boy grunts and stumbles, but he recovers quickly and throws a wild hook that Carrson ducks by a hair.
As Carrson rises, Sampson spins, surprisingly fast given his size. He grabs Carrson, lifts him clean off the ground, and slams him down on his back.Hard.
A collective gasp goes up from the girls around me.
“Shit,” someone mutters.
Carrson doesn’t get up right away.
He rolls onto his stomach, coughs, and spits blood into the grass.
A flicker of something tugs at my chest.
Worry.
I don’t want to care, but watching him struggle to rise to his knees, seeing the way Sampson grins like he’s already won—
My nails dig into the windowsill.
Sampson’s pumped. He storms around the circle of brothers, fists clenched, chest heaving, roaring into their faces like a gladiator feeding off the crowd. He throws his head back and howls at the sky, pure testosterone and triumph, before grabbing the hem of his shirt.
With a savage rip, he tears it down the middle. Fabric shreds like tissue paper under his fists. He flings the remains to the ground, his bare chest gleaming with sweat.
Behind him, Carrson slowly rises to his feet. He’s limping, hunched, favoring his left side. Blood trickles from the corner of his eye.
He turns, eyes tracking the now-shirtless Sampson.
Carrson lifts a single shoulder in a lazy shrug, as if to say,So this is what we’re doing now.With a fluid motion, he grabs the back of his shirt, crosses his arms, and pulls it over his head. The bloodied fabric slips from his hands and flutters to the ground.
The response from the sisters is immediate.
“Damn,” one breathes out next to me, low and reverent.
Farther down the row anothermoans, actually moans, like she can’t help herself.
