As Gabriel looked up toward the voice, his eyes locked on Harry’s. Harry rose from his seat in swift fashion and began marching down the center of the coach.

  Gabriel’s posture snapped upright, the cement that weighed down his legs suddenly disappeared. He wasn’t about to let Harry punk him. With confident steps, he met Harry head-on in the middle of the coach.

  It was like a movie scene. The team and assistant coaches waited with bated breath, caught in the gravity of the moment. Lights, camera, action—they had their popcorn ready.

  As the pair reached the center, neither would budge an inch. Harry made the first move.

  “Gabriel—Gabriel—Gabriel,” Harry echoed, more for dramatic effect than anything. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  Gabriel’s mouth opened, words perched at the top of his tongue, ready to roll into the world—when Harry sharply raised his hand. The words withered and retreated before they ever left his lips.

  “That was a rhetorical question,” Harry spat, his words deadlier than any venom known to man. “I don’t care why you’re here, Gabriel. You need to leave—now. This is a coach for players—and as you already know, you’re not one of us. So beat it, before I do something you’ll regret.”

  Gabriel’s head dipped slightly, but his grin stayed heavy as he burst into a chuckle.

  “Harry—let’s get one thing straight. I’m not like these guys behind you, grabbing your towel at the first bead of sweat, laughing at every joke, knowing damn well there’s nothing funny about them.”

  Harry’s head spun toward his teammates. Their gazes did not meet his. Eyes wandered around the coach, a silent refusal to admit Gabriel was wrong.

  Harry’s jaw tightened, his hand curling into a fist. Gabriel’s eyes dropped, noting the fist locked—loaded, ready to drop a bomb at a moment’s notice. His gaze rose again, lips curling into a cocky smile, daring Harry to throw what he had.

  Harry’s fist lifted—and Gabriel’s grin widened. His back foot slid, his stance shifting into one ready for a throwdown. Harry cocked his arm back, ready to unleash, but before the punch could land, Marcus jumped between them. His arms stretched wide, hands pressing against their chests.

  “Guys, we’re not doing this here. Come on, man—we’re better than that. Gabriel, you’re better than that.”

  Marcus’s eyes flicked to Harry. They were a window into the fiery pits of hell. His face twisted, his breath slowed, veins stretched down his forehead. Marcus’s hand could feel the racing heartbeat—Harry was out for blood.

  Gabriel, on the other hand, didn’t skip a beat. Cool. Calm. Collected. In the eye of the storm, he didn’t blink. He was stone cold. I’ve already won. He just doesn’t know it yet.

  Marcus’s gaze shifted toward Gabriel, and he felt it—that unrelenting confidence. In the heat of battle, Gabriel brought the water to douse Harry’s flames.

  With a gentle nudge on Marcus’s shoulder, Gabriel pushed him aside.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Marcus, it’s ok. Harry wants to be a clown? Let him embarrass himself in front of everyone.”

  That strength… Marcus thought. He barely touched me, and I felt it. Where did that come from?

  Marcus stood down, returning to his seat. The assistant coaches stared forward, pretending not to know what was about to go down.

  Jai-Lee tapped Gabriel on the shoulder. He turned slightly toward her.

  “Gabe, you don’t need to do this.”

  “Don’t worry, Jai. The only thing that’ll be bruised is his ego.” He guided her gently into a seat. She knows my strength, but she fears what happens if I lose control.

  Harry launched a straight right. Gabriel pulled back, dodging easily. Too slow.

  “Come on, Harry, you’ve got to do better than that!” Gabriel shouted, loud enough for all to hear.

  Jab—Gabriel parried.

  Left hook—Gabriel rolled under, slipping behind Harry. With arms extended, he shoved him down to his knees.

  Harry’s eyes widened in shock. He smelled the mix of dirt and sweat pressed into the rubber floor. His fingers curled into fists, slamming against the ground over and over before he rose to face Gabriel again.

  Gabriel steadied himself, shoulders loose, heartbeat calm. This isn’t the same fight. I’m not that kid anymore.

  Jab—Gabriel slipped.

  Uppercut—Gabriel leaned back.

  Nothing landed. Not even close.

  Harry’s breath grew ragged, his shoulders slumped, his face red and dripping sweat.

  “Harry, know when you’re defeated,” Gabriel said, his voice steady.

  Harry’s face twitched, his jaw grinding hard.

  “Over? Over?! We’re just getting started!” he shouted.

  Gabriel looked towards thr heavens, his shoulders rising as if asking the god’s to knock some sense into Harry. But Harry refused to quit.

  His tactics shifted. A straight right to the body—parried. Hooks to the ribs—blocked. Gabriel spun, slipping behind him again. With a kick, he cut Harry’s knee out from under him and shoved him into an empty seat before calmly taking one a row across.

  Harry rose from his seat like a bat out of hell, fuming.

  The team’s eyes widened in shock and horror as whispers rippled through the bus.

  How did he do that? Harry beat the living daylights out of him last time… this is the comeback of all comebacks.

  They all had something to say, astonished by what they were witnessing. Some even began to feel sorry for Harry—an emotion they never thought they’d ever associate with his name.

  Harry’s steps down the aisle were heavy. His face burned with anger, but his eyes… his eyes told the real story. They were the eyes of a broken soul, a man who had already lost. Gabriel saw it.

  “I won’t fight you anymore, Harry. It’s over,” Gabriel said, sincerity lacing every word.

  “You will fight—or you will take a beating. The choice is yours,” Harry growled, his words dragged down by heavy breaths.

  Gabriel shook his head and turned away. But Harry would not accept surrender. He charged.

  Gabriel’s super-hearing kicked in—the scrape of shoes on rubber, the rush of breath, the thundering heartbeat. He shifted aside, dodging Harry’s overhand right, and caught him, slamming him against the warm fabric of the seat and pinning him tight.

  Gabriel leaned close, whispering in his ear.

  “Come on, Harry. Give up. It’s over—I don’t want to hurt you.”

  But Gabriel’s words fell on deaf ears. Harry fought with everything he had, straining and twisting, but he couldn’t move him.

  How did he get this strong? I used to run rings around him. How can this be happening—and in front of everyone too? There’s no way I can let this slide, Harry thought.

  Under his breath he whispered back, “Alright… alright, you win. Now let me go.”

  Gabriel eased his grip, letting him rise.

  But the moment Harry stood, he lashed out. A right hook crashed into Gabriel’s jaw—bone on bone. Gabriel stumbled into the chair as blood rained through the air before splattering onto the rubber floor.

  Gabriel clutched his jaw, then wiped the blood away. His eyes flicked to Jai-Lee, who shook her head rapidly, pleading with him to stop.

  Gabriel let her pleas fall on deaf ears. His fists clenched tight. He wants war? Fine.

  He began to bounce lightly on his feet, head weaving side to side, braids flowing through the air. His eyes widened into a death stare as he marched forward.

  He cocked his arm back, ready to strike—

  —when a thick white hand clamped around his wrist.

  Gabriel froze, his arm locked in place. He turned his head and found Coach Kirk, staring him down—a diffuser of the bomb that was about to detonate.