Tuesdays always felt like a quiet marker in the week, holding a kind of subtle anticipation, especially since Physical Education was scheduled for third period.
The class wasn't just a chance to move around, to stretch limbs after the stillness of the morning lessons—it was a test, a tangible reminder of where we stood physically, how our bodies stacked up against one another.
Each session was a quiet examination of our strength, endurance, and skills. Today, however, felt different. There was a palpable shift in the atmosphere, an undercurrent of unspoken competition that would only intensify as the game went on.
We had chosen football for the day. I didn't mind, football was one of the better options, even though I didn't exactly have the finesse for it.
Watching professional games on TV was one thing, but actually being on the field was a different beast entirely.
Despite my lack of experience, I figured I'd be able to catch on quickly enough. After all, how hard could it be to kick a ball and pass it to a teammate?
The teacher called us to split into two teams of ten, a 10-vs-10 match. My first thought upon hearing this was simple: We're going to get crushed.
The other team was stacked with the more athletic players, all the ones who seemed to glide effortlessly through every sport.
Meanwhile, our team? It was mostly made up of girls, and I didn't think any of them were particularly comfortable with football. Sure, there were a few who were competent, but not nearly enough to make up for the sheer athleticism of the opposing side. Still, I wasn't bothered. I was just here to appreciate the skill of the female players, and maybe—just maybe—learn a little about the game.
The match began with the loud slap of the ball hitting the turf. The other team wasted no time. Carson and Hans, both natural athletes, were immediately in their element. I watched as they moved with a kind of fluid precision, effortlessly controlling the ball, weaving between defenders as if the game was a simple dance.
Carson took a free kick from about seven meters away, and I couldn't help but be mesmerized by the way his body moved, his stance and foot positioning a near-perfect mirror of every football tutorial I'd ever seen.
His right foot swung back, and with a single, controlled motion, he struck the lower-right side of the ball. It curved through the air in a beautiful arc, landing right where he intended, past the goalkeeper. I could almost feel the air ripple with the force of the strike.
Hans did the same, his technique a near-carbon copy of Carson's, but there was something more in the way he moved—an effortless grace, a sense of control that made him seem almost untouchable. I realized right then that this was what I was doing wrong.
The technique was simpler than I thought, just a few key moves to create the curve, to generate that power. I mimicked their posture—my left leg behind, my right leg in front, my body turned slightly to the side—and took a shot. It wasn't perfect, the ball flying too high at first, but it curved. And that was a start.
I kept practicing through the match, trying to master the free kick. But as the minutes ticked by, the game became a blur of exhaustion and frustration.
I was positioned as a defender, but I felt like I was doing nothing but chasing after the ball, my movements slow and clumsy compared to the fluidity of Carson and Hans. Each time I missed a pass or let the ball slip past me, I could feel the weight of failure in my chest. I'm letting them down, I thought. We're going to lose so badly.
The match finally ended with a humiliating scoreline of 3-12. Carson and Hans were untouchable, scoring goal after goal, each strike like a dagger to the heart of our team's morale. On our side, Eric Blane was barely awake, half-heartedly attempting to play while clearly not interested.
And then there were the girls—while some had the enthusiasm, none had the confidence to stand their ground when the ball came to them. They hesitated, flinching at every pass, and it was more than a little frustrating to watch.
As much as I wanted to blame my mistakes on the team's lack of coordination, I knew it wasn't just them. I had made several careless errors as a defender, and I could feel the sting of it in my gut. The realization was clear: I needed to switch positions. I wasn't cut out to be a defender. Maybe, just maybe, I'd have better luck as a winger, running the sidelines, being more involved in the offense.
But despite the loss, despite the feeling of disappointment that hung in the air like a storm cloud, there was a spark of something else—a desire to get better, to master the skills I hadn't quite grasped yet. I'll get there, I thought. I'll figure it out.
After the game, everyone filtered back to the locker room, and I took a moment to pause and observe the school grounds as I made my way back inside. The air was thick with the smell of grass and the faint trace of sweat, a lingering reminder of the match we'd just played.
But my thoughts drifted far from the field. The Special Exam was still on my mind. I couldn't shake the feeling that it was just around the corner, its presence like a shadow, always just out of reach but close enough to make me uncomfortable. What would it involve? What kind of challenges would we face? I couldn't piece it all together. Each thought seemed to lead to another question, another uncertainty, until my mind felt like it was swirling in a haze of confusion.
That's when I heard a familiar voice, bright and easy. "Hey, Ivory, good game!"
I turned, seeing Gwen walking toward me, her usual playful grin in place. "Good game, Gwen," I replied, trying to keep my tone casual, though a part of me was still preoccupied by the match.
"If I'd been on your team," she continued with a wink, "I could've carried you all to victory."
I chuckled at that. "Maybe. By the way, what did the teacher say at the end? I didn't catch it—I was too busy trying not to die on the field."
"She said you and I need to collect all the balls, load them into the cart, and put them back in the storeroom," Gwen explained, her voice still light. "I'll gather this side of the gym. You take the other side."
"Got it," I replied, and for a moment, the awkwardness of the situation slipped away. Here was Gwen, just being herself—relaxed, unaffected by the chaos of the game. I tried to match her energy, keep my cool, even though this was probably the first real conversation I'd had with a girl here at school.
We worked in comfortable silence, gathering the balls from both ends of the gym and loading them into the cart. The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable, but it did feel new. A part of me wanted to say something, but I couldn't think of anything that wouldn't come out sounding awkward.
Once the cart was full, we pushed it together toward the storeroom. Gwen broke the silence first, her voice playful but with an undercurrent of something deeper, something more thoughtful. "Alright, let's leave the cart here. I'll head back to class after I change out of my gym clothes. I'm way too sweaty to sit through class like this."
"Yeah, I get it," I agreed, wiping my brow. "I'll see you there."
After we separated, I headed back toward my classroom, my thoughts still lingering on the Special Exam. As I walked down the hall, my mind drifted again, but that's when I noticed something.
Two groups of guys were gathered near the corner, their bodies tense, their eyes locked on each other like they were preparing for a fight. It was a subtle energy, the kind that made the air feel heavier, thick with an unspoken challenge.
I crept closer, staying hidden just out of their view, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening. The two groups were from different classes—Class B and Class C. Each group had their leader at the forefront, standing like they were waiting for the other to make the first move. The tension between them was palpable, like a storm on the verge of breaking.
The leader of Class B, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, suddenly shifted his posture, throwing off the balance between the two. His movements were swift, practiced. With a quick motion, he delivered a low, powerful punch aimed at the Class C leader's abdomen, catching him off guard. But the Class C leader recovered instantly, countering with a strike that caught B square on the chin.
The two leaders seemed to be sizing each other up, the blows they exchanged a brutal dance of power and precision. Blood spattered across the floor as they took turns landing hits, each strike more punishing than the last. It wasn't just the leaders fighting anymore. Two of their followers jumped in, and the battle escalated, turning into a chaotic brawl.
I watched from my spot, my heart pounding, unable to look away. The entire scene had a raw, dangerous energy to it, and I realized that I was witnessing something more than just a fight. This was a struggle for dominance, for control—something bigger than any individual involved.
It wasn't long before a teacher from Class A, strolling through the hall, interrupted the fight. With a sharp, commanding voice, the teacher stepped between the brawling students, putting an immediate end to the violence. The groups slowly dispersed, grumbling but defeated, leaving me standing there in stunned silence.
I shook my head, trying to clear the images from my mind. I was running late now, the fourth period already well under way. Without wasting any more time, I hurried toward my classroom, my heart still racing from the confrontation I had just witnessed. The noise and tension from the hallway seemed distant, fading as I focused on the task ahead. Just get to class, I told myself. Don't let anyone know you were gone.