It was surprisingly effortless. I saw him coming, he telegraphed his movement with a slight rock backward before he punched. So I focused on his temple and threw out my fist. Hard.
Now James Grossman lies in a puddle of his own drool on the courtyard floor. My girlfriend is yelling at me. I can’t hear what because my pulse is beating loud in my ears.
A crowd is gathering. Word has spread like summertime wild fire, “Simon Mustowe just knocked out James Grossman.” Hell, I’m hearing it for the first time too.
It sounds impossible. The body slumped at my feet proves otherwise.
I look up and people are looking at me, not past me as usual. They are looking at me as if I am some sort of hero, a mythic underdog who has slain a giant. I allow myself a slight smile at the thought of this victory.
Suddenly I’m grabbed by the shirt scruff, lifted to my toes dragged from the scene. I hear the voice of my captor Principle Tull, “He had it coming. Surprised it was you that dropped him. I never thought you had the balls. Still, that’s two weeks expulsion Mustowe, effective immediately”