I shot him a glare right back. He couldn’t be older than 24, maybe 23. His dark hair was swept to the side as he studied me.
Likely figuring out the best strategy to take me down. I already had my plan. I just needed to be patient and wait for the perfect moment.
After what felt like forever, but was really only a minute, the guy lunged at me, aiming for my face.
Reacting quickly, I ducked and grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back—like a cop making an arrest.
The man fought against my grip, and when I decided he’d had enough, I released him and gave him a forceful shove to the ground.
His cries of pain only made my hidden smile grow. I was dressed in a purple sports bra, knee-length black leggings, and a purple hoodie. The hood was pulled over my head so no one could see my face.
The man got back up and lunged at me again, but I sidestepped before he could hit me. Instead, he crashed into one of the poles of the small ring we were in.
That was enough to knock the poor guy out.
“Winner.... White Wolf!” the announcer bellowed into the megaphone for the sixth time tonight.
Everyone cheered my name, and I grinned again. But it was now 11pm and I had school tomorrow. So, I needed to leave. It was a Sunday night, and all my homework was done, so that was a plus.
I nodded to the cheering crowd and headed to my things. I unscrewed my water bottle and took a big, refreshing gulp, letting my heartbeat slow down and catch my breath.
I didn’t even need to turn around to know that Blake’s gaze was burning into my back, as usual. He always stood in the back and watched each of my fights. But he never fought himself—at least not that I knew of.
“White Wolf....” Nancy began, but I cut her off with a shake of my head, silently telling her with my eyes that I needed to go home.
She nodded and walked over to the announcer.
I turned and put my bottle in my gym bag. That’s when I felt the heavy breathing from behind me.
I froze and surveyed my surroundings in front of me first, so as not to let the person behind me know that I knew they were there.
I heard the soft footsteps getting closer, and just when they were close enough, I spun around and grabbed the person’s arms, twisting them behind their back, raising their arms higher and higher to increase the pain.
“Don’t sneak up on me,” I whispered harshly, my lips curling into a hidden sneer.
I could tell who it was just by the hair and body language. Blake had stormy, grey eyes and soft, jet-black hair. Broad shoulders and a muscular chest.
“Wow... you’ve got quite the grip.” Blake mumbled breathlessly, wincing in pain.
I rolled my eyes. He was already getting weak. “So... you come out and watch all my fights, but never fight in the ring yourself. Why is that?” I asked, applying a bit more pressure to his arms.
Pain flashed across his face as he closed his eyes tightly and bit his lip. “I’d answer if you let go and not break my arm. Thank you very much,” he gasped out.
I chuckled and let go. He staggered forward a bit, but caught his balance. He turned around while rubbing his arms.
His grey eyes lit up as he looked at me—well, everything but my face. I jerked my head down, causing my hood to cover more of my face now that he was closer.
“Why is it that you hide under a hood all the time? What are you hiding?” he asked, curiosity sparkling in his eyes.
I shrugged. “Why is it that you care?” I answered his question with another question.
He laughed and I could tell that he’d fully recovered now from the way he was bending his arm and rubbing it to soothe the ache.
“I was just curious,” he defended.
“Yup, and so was I,” I shot back.
“White Wolf. Let’s go!” Nancy called.
“One of these days... we’re all going to find out who you are, White Wolf. One way or another,” I heard Blake warn from behind me.
Shaking my head quickly, I tightened my grip on my bag and hurried to Nancy’s car. Blake couldn’t, and wouldn’t, discover my true identity. If he did, I’d be dead for sure.
I watched as White Wolf walked away to her manager’s car. There was something... off and familiar about her. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
I rubbed my arm again, feeling the lingering pain from when she twisted my arm back—almost breaking it.
I came to watch her fight every two days. Watching and studying her techniques. It seemed like no matter who she was up against, she always had a plan or strategy to take them down.
The way her body moved swiftly from side to side as she dodged, ducked, and threw each punch. Like she knew what their next move would be before it even happened.
They were mesmerizing and captivating. But also full of hatred, anger, vengeance, and pain. Everyone has a story behind their actions.
I’m certain there’s a history, a motive, a reason behind her actions.
I watch as the next pair of contenders step into the makeshift ring, circling each other like predators sizing up their prey.
Leaving the alleyway where the street fights take place, I head to my black 2012 Ford Fusion. I slide into the driver’s seat, reverse out, and start the journey home.
My thoughts drift to Claire. Ever since our unexpected encounter two nights ago, I’ve been intrigued by her. She’s a mystery, shrouded in secrecy.
She claimed she was holding a gym bag for a friend, then disappeared. But why did she emerge from the gym five hours later, clutching the same bag?
Why would she have her friend’s gym bag in the first place?
I’ve seen Claire around school, but we’ve never spoken. Most people at school think she’s mute.
She’s the “good girl” at school. When people tease her, she either smirks knowingly or rolls her eyes if she’s not in the mood.
Ashley is Claire’s main tormentor. Our school is a cliché, filled with the usual cliques: popular cheerleaders, goths, emos, nerds, bad boys, jocks, and so on.
Claire has many labels: Freak, mute, good girl, teacher’s pet, lame… the list goes on.
Ashley and Claire have been at odds since before eighth grade. No one knows why. Not even me. I suppose I’m what you’d call a bad boy, though I don’t see myself that way.
Sure, I’ve broken a few laws—vandalism, destruction of school property, the occasional fight.
After my first fight, girls started fawning over me and guys developed a deep-seated resentment.
I often skip school to hang out with my friends. No one knows about my soft spot for Claire, or that I watch White Wolf every two nights.
Not that they need to know—I’d be the butt of every joke.
I tell myself that I just feel sorry for Claire, but each time I see her being teased, I catch a glimpse of raw emotion in her eyes.
I see flashes of rage, anger, regret, sadness, desperation, remorse. She’s good at concealing her feelings, though. Most of the time, no one can decipher what she’s thinking or feeling.
As I pull into my driveway, my phone buzzes. The caller ID reads: Nick. Nick is one of my closest friends. We’ve been tight since I first moved into the neighborhood.
“Yeah?” I answer, keeping my tone neutral.
“Blake, hey… guess what?” Nick asks, his voice tinged with excitement.
“What?” I ask, curiosity piqued by his unusual tone.
“I just got into a fight,” he says, a smug confidence in his voice that doesn’t quite mask the underlying tension.
“With who?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“White Wolf,” he replies, his voice now noticeably strained.
Well, this just got a whole lot more interesting—for White Wolf, at least.
