Darren's blog

It was supposed to be a canceled practice. After the storm, the back field behind the school was wrecked—mud everywhere, grass drowned, standing water near the fence. Most of the team had gone home once Coach called it. But Jax stayed. He stood near the middle of the field, shirt slung over his shoulder, boots already sunk an inch deep. His arms were folded, muscles flexing out of habit, eyes scanning the misty horizon like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

Reid showed up ten minutes later. No words. No warmup. He tossed his hoodie onto the bench, kicked off his sneakers, and walked barefoot through the mud like he didn’t care. Shoulders squared. Jaw clenched. They locked eyes. Nothing needed to be said. Everyone at Eastgate High knew about Jax and Reid. Same grade. Same build. Same fire. From the moment Reid transferred junior year, they'd clashed like oil and flame. Jax was the team’s enforcer—loud, explosive, untouchable on the field. Until Reid showed up and cut through the defensive line like it was made of paper.

No one had ever run through Jax. Not like that. Not until Reid. The coaches called it healthy competition. The rest of the team called it a time bomb. Shoves in the weight room. Elbowing during drills. Glaring in the locker room. But nothing had come to blows—yet.

Jax spat into the mud and cracked his neck. “Took you long enough.” Reid stepped closer. “Was hoping you’d leave.” “Not a chance.” They circled. Slow. Careful. Like two bulls testing the ground before a charge. Jax could feel his heart pounding, not from nerves, but from rage. Every damn time he saw Reid’s face, he heard the same voice in his head: “Reid’s got better footwork.” “Reid reads plays quicker.” “Maybe Jax needs to step up.” He was done hearing it.

He lunged first—low and fast. Reid met him with a shove, and they slammed into each other hard enough to knock breath from their lungs. Mud exploded around their legs as they grappled, slipping and crashing to the ground. They rolled. Fought for control. Elbows. Knees. Hands clawing for grip. Jax caught Reid in a clinch and dragged him forward, slamming a shoulder into his chest and throwing him down. Reid hit the ground with a thick splat, but twisted and kicked Jax’s knee, toppling him.

They wrestled in pure instinct—half-brawling, half-grappling. Jax got on top, mud dripping from his hair, and landed a forearm across Reid’s face. Not a punch—just enough to sting. Reid shoved him off, breathing hard. “That all you got?” Jax didn’t answer. He tackled him again, full force, grabbing around Reid’s waist and lifting him just enough to crash them both into a deeper patch. Mud filled their ears. They surfaced gasping. Reid caught Jax’s wrist, spun behind him, and locked in a choke. It wasn’t clean—just pressure and fury. Jax bent forward, powered through, and flipped him off his back.

They separated for a second, both standing now, soaked to the skin, mud streaked across their torsos. Their chests heaved. Their knuckles were raw. Neither backed down. Jax wiped his mouth. “Why’d you come here, really?” Reid narrowed his eyes. “Same reason as you.” Jax stepped in again—this time slower. Grabbing behind Reid’s knee, he tried to trip him, but Reid caught the motion, twisted, and dropped Jax into the sludge with a sharp hip throw. He landed hard. The kind of hit that rattled the ribs.

Jax blinked up at the sky for half a second. Then laughed—bitter and breathless. “Lucky throw.” Reid dropped beside him, both of them laying flat, too tired to move right away. “You hate losing, don’t you?” Reid said, not looking at him. Jax turned his head slightly. “I don’t lose.” “You just did.” They didn’t speak for a while. Just laid there in the mud, hearts pounding. Neither willing to admit what the fight had really been about. Not football. Not who was better. It was something else—something deeper. About pride. Territory. The need to be seen, to be the one who mattered most when the pads came off.

Jax sat up, wincing. A bruise was already forming near his ribs. “You done?” he asked, voice low. Reid stood slowly, jaw tight. “You?” Jax didn’t answer. Just wiped his hands on his jeans and staggered to his feet. Mud fell in thick clumps from his body. He looked at Reid—really looked—and realized he’d never hated anyone more than him. And maybe that was the problem.

Reid grabbed his hoodie off the bench and slung it over his shoulder. “Next time, we settle it on the mat.” Jax nodded once. “Bring headgear.” Reid paused, then looked back, eyes unreadable. “Won’t help you.” Then he left—barefoot, blood on his lip, mud on every inch of skin. Jax stood alone in the ruined field, the weight of the fight still heavy in his bones.