After school, I head to the locker room. The floors must have been cleaned—the smell of strong bleach hits my nostrils, but it’s still not enough to cover up the stench of teen body odor.

Just walk away. Quit! You don’t need this!

Boys in a sea of singlets line up against lockers, and a cacophony of giggles and chatter bounces off the walls. They go out of their way to avoid me, making exaggerated movements to step around me.

Everyone except Logan, that is. He walks right up to me, wearing an icy smile I’d like to smack off his stupid face. He glares at me through narrow, green eyes. 

His mouth hangs open like a dog. “So. You got yourself a bitch, eh? Whaduya call it? Fag hag?”

My face burns. “Don’t call her that!” 

“Ooh. The truth gets under your skin, huh, homo?” Logan cackles and spit flies out of his mouth. 

I step closer toward him. He’s bigger than me, but who isn’t? I’m not going to let him talk about Camila like that. “You call me whatever you want. But leave my girlfriend alone.”

“Or what, big boy?” He licks his lips.

“I’ll start by telling her all about you. You know she’s best friends with Tisha.” That wipes the smirk off his face. He pulls at one strap of the singlet, and it snaps back hard against his chest.

“You say anything about me, and I’ll kick your ass.” He steps closer, and I feel his breath. It stinks of peanut butter. 

“Hey, Logan!” Mat shouts. “Dude, if you wanna make out with another guy, that’s your choice. But do it after practice. C’mon. We’re late.” Thank God someone here can give Logan a taste of his own terrible medicine. 

Logan’s face turns as red as his hair.

“Screw you, man,” Logan says. But his voice is soft. Mateo’s our captain and the superior wrestler. How much will Logan challenge him?

“What did you say?” Mateo quickly gets in Logan’s face. Mateo puts his hands on his hips, and his biceps twitch. He’s not only the authority—he’s much bigger than the little jerk, too. 

Logan looks down and kicks his foot at the concrete locker room floor. “Nothin’. Sorry. Be right there.”

“Uh-huh,” Mat says. “Get going, then.” Logan marches out of the locker room. The other wrestlers quickly turn away and follow him out. Mat turns to me, his brown eyes warm and empathetic. “You, okay?”

No, I’m not okay. I’m forcing myself to be here to prove a point—that I’m not a quitter, and that a bunch of jerks won’t get under my skin. But they have. I don’t say any of this. I just shrug.

“Logan’s an ass. Let me teach him a lesson today.” Mateo rubs the little stubble growing on his chin. “You’ll like it.” 

“Okay.” I can’t help but return the smile. Mateo’s so cute, and he’s the only one of us that looks good in a singlet. I just have to make sure I don’t show any visible form of excitement. 

“Let’s go.” I follow Mateo out. We make our way through bright white halls, move past a gymnasium, and head toward the corner of the school where we have our own special facility. Coach Krake stands at the entrance to the wrestling room with a whistle around his neck. He wears his red Hornets polo, and I wonder if he ever does laundry or has any other clothes. 

“You boys are late,” he says through gritted teeth. “Let’s all start with one-hundred burpees as a reminder that we begin promptly at 2:45. Not a minute after.”

Everyone groans and glares at me. Not Mateo. Me. Naturally, this is my fault. I can’t seem to start on the right foot.

By the time we finish the burpees, I can’t feel my arms. But it’s time to practice basic throws again, Coach instructs. “Mateo. Show them again how it’s done.”

“Logan,” Mateo says. “C’mere.”

Logan approaches hesitantly, his green eyes trying to read our Captain.

“The secret is all in hip placement and balance,” Mateo tells us. “Watch.” He grips Logan by the back of the neck, and then he spins one-hundred and eighty degrees. When he turns around, Mateo slams his hip right into Logan’s groin. Logan’s face explodes, and I cover my face so no one can see my grin. Then Mateo snaps him over his shoulder. Logan crashes on the mat, and Mat moves right into a pin.

“If you do it like that, you knock the wind out of them. Then you slam right on top for a pin, and they’ll have no stamina to kick out,” Mateo says. He looks at me, flashes a smile, and his right eye twitches—not quite a wink, but enough of one that I know that was just for me. My stomach flips, and my chest feels warm. Every second I’m around Mateo, I like him even more. 

After a pause, Mateo adds, “Coach taught me that one.” 

Why does he have to compliment that jerk? 

Krake grins. “Nice form. That’s right. Knock the air out of them on every throw. Then they can’t breathe. If they can’t breathe, you’ll get the pin. Now line up by weight. I want fifty throws from each of you.”

I get paired up with another small kid like me. “I’m Marcus,” he says. I brace for a look of disgust or judgment. But I don’t see anything like that from Marcus. He offers his hand. 

I shake it. “Aiden.”

I grip him, practice the form of the throw slowly, and toss him down. Then I offer my hand and pull him back up.

“Not bad. But if Krake is watching, you better throw harder than that,” Marcus says. He smiles at me, and I instantly like him. He’s got bright white teeth that shine against his dark skin. His hair is buzzed short, and he has thick lips that reach to the corners of his face when he smiles. 

“Thanks,” I say.

“Everyone will forget about yesterday, you know. It will just take time,” he says, as I prep for another throw.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Um, do you remember Pledge Penis?” he asks.

“Oh yeah.” I laugh. “In seventh grade, some kid wouldn’t stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. His teacher made him, and it turned out he had a boner and was hiding it. I can’t believe I forgot. That was so funny.”

“Yeah, to you. Not to me. I’m Pledge Penis,” Marcus says, but he giggles a little.

“No shit?” I ask.

“No shit.”

“When did people forget?” I ask.

“I dunno. One day something embarrassing happened to someone else, and then they talked about that instead. Trust me. I know it feels like the end of the world. But it will pass.”

I give him a warm smile. 

Krake walks over and watches us, his dark eyes moving up and down. Marcus nods at me. I swing my hip in and throw him with as much might as my body allows. 

It’s not very good, but Marcus helps by selling the throw. When he lands, he releases a loud groan and holds his stomach like he’s been hurt. 

“Not bad, kid,” Krake says. “Keep it up.” He walks to the next pair. No jokes. No insults. 

I help him up, but that catches Krake’s attention. “He can get up on his own. Don’t you help anyone up once you knock them down. You got that, new kid?” Krake asks.

“Yes, sir,” I say. Marcus hops up. Krake nods and moves on to the next pair.

“Why is he so mean?” I ask Marcus.

“I dunno,” he says.

“Thanks for, uh, faking a little extra pain,” I say.

He chuckles. “You do the same for me, all right?” 

“Absolutely. I got your back.” 

We each finish fifty throws, and Coach Krake blows his whistle. “Time for one-on-one.” He looks around the room, his eyes settling on each one of us for a brief moment.

Then his lips curl into a nasty grin, and he raises his eyebrows as if delighted at whatever he’s thinking.

“Aiden. Logan,” he announces. “You two are up first. Let’s go!”

Shit.