Battle of the Captains

4

Noah

Rivalry Week kicks off with a banner across the quad big enough to see from the highway, and by seven in the morning half the school's already out there in Wolves blue or Hawks red, painted faces, foam fingers, somebody's got a drum. It's the best week of the year and I've loved it every single year I've been here, mostly because I've never lost it.

This year feels different before it even starts. Everybody's talking about the parking lot thing, the towing, the shouting match, and by the time I get to the opening ceremony there's already a rumor going around that security's been told to keep an eye on me and Ethan Carter specifically, like we're a couple of problem children who need a hall monitor.

Maybe we do. I'm not exactly denying it.

Every sport at this school earns points toward one big trophy at the end of the week, chess club included, though nobody cares about chess club until it's tiebreaker time. The morning's opening event is a relay, six athletes from each department racing a course through the quad, obstacles included, tires and balance beams and a rope climb that's more comedy than competition. Hockey and football go head to head first, because of course they do, because the athletic department knows exactly what kind of theater sells tickets.

We lose.

Not by much. A relay handoff gets fumbled on our third leg and by the time our anchor's running his stretch, the hockey team's already crossing the line, Ethan front and center, not even out of breath, looking exactly as smug as I expect.

"Nice race," I say, walking over before I can stop myself.

"Wasn't much of one." He's got a towel around his neck, hair damp, and he's got the nerve to look almost friendly for half a second before the words catch up with the tone. "You guys should stick to what you're good at. Standing around."

"You had six guys jump the gun on that first exchange. Ref should've called it."

"Ref didn't call it because it didn't happen. You're just mad you lost."

"I'm not mad. I'm saying it wasn't clean."

"Sore loser," he says, and turns to walk off like the conversation's over, which just about guarantees it isn't.

"Says the guy who had my truck towed over a parking spot."

He doesn't even turn around for that one. Just lifts a hand, gives me a wave without looking, like I'm not even worth a comeback anymore, and something about that gets under my skin worse than any insult could've.

The obstacle race is scheduled for the afternoon, mixed departments, captains required to compete, no exceptions, some tradition going back longer than either of us has been alive. I line up two lanes over from Ethan, both of us stretching, both of us pointedly not looking at each other, which somehow feels louder than actually talking.

The course cuts through the quad, over hay bales, under a cargo net, across a mud pit that half the school's been talking about all week because apparently last year somebody lost a shoe in it and it's never been found. I get a good start, better than good, and by the halfway point I can see Ethan just off my shoulder, matching me stride for stride like he refuses to let me pull away even an inch.

We hit the cargo net at the same time.

I don't plan what happens next. I want to be clear about that, at least to myself, because in the moment it feels like an accident, a shoulder catching a shoulder as we both duck under the same low section of net, but even as it's happening some part of me knows exactly what I'm doing, knows I could've given him another six inches of room and didn't.

He goes down into the mud pit hard.

"Are you kidding me," he says, coming up soaked, mud in his hair, in his ear, dripping off his jaw, and for a second, one stupid, dangerous second, I almost laugh at how ridiculous he looks, before I remember I'm supposed to be racing.

"My bad," I say, not even trying to sound like I mean it.

He's up and moving before I finish the sentence, and this time when his shoulder catches mine it's not an accident either, it's a full check, enough to send me stumbling sideways into the hay bales, enough that the crowd around the course actually gasps.

After that it's chaos. I don't even remember deciding to shove back, just remember doing it, remember his hand fisting in my shirt and mine doing the same to his, remember Deshawn and two of his linemen materializing out of nowhere the same second three of the hockey guys do, everybody yelling, somebody's foam finger getting trampled in the mud, security jogging over from three different directions at once like they'd been staged there just waiting for this exact moment.

It takes four security guards and both head coaches to get us fully apart, and by the time we're standing at a safe distance, both of us breathing hard, both of us covered in mud and grass stains, I catch Ethan's eye across the gap and neither of us looks away first.

The dean's office by four o'clock. Both of us. Both coaches. A very long lecture about representing the university, about liability, about the optics of two team captains brawling in front of half the student body and God knows how many phones.

"One more incident," the dean says, looking at each of us in turn like she's trying to decide which of us is more likely to make her regret this speech, "and I will suspend both programs from the remainder of Rivalry Week. Both of you understand that means every teammate you have loses this because of you two. Am I clear?"

"Crystal," I say.

Ethan doesn't say anything at all, just nods once, jaw tight, mud still drying in his hair, and honestly, walking out of that office, I don't feel warned. I feel like something's just getting started, and some reckless, stupid part of me can't wait to find out what.