Broken Hands

52. The Bully-Beating

Grayson woke up seething. The day had barely begun, and already his thoughts were consumed with a single goal—Stephen. That smug, self-satisfied punk had been riding Grayson's nerves for weeks, and today, the tables were about to turn. The plan was simple, calculated. Stephen would finally learn the hard way to back off.

The morning blurred by, the details irrelevant. Mr. Pendleton's droning voice announced the end of class, and students began to shuffle out. Grayson moved with purpose, his mind locked on his target.

Stephen King

He had watched Stephen for days, memorized his routine, his patterns, the way he strutted through the halls like he owned the place. If Stephen hadn't lived in the dorms, Grayson might have paid him a visit at home to deliver the message personally. But no, today would do just fine.

At his locker, Grayson shoved books into place with an almost mechanical efficiency, retrieving what he needed for his next class: P.E. The timing was perfect. His jaw tightened at the thought of Stephen's cocky smirk, the one he wanted to wipe clean off his face. No teachers, no interruptions—just him and Stephen, and a chance to finally put the punk in his place.

By the time he reached the locker room, Grayson's adrenaline was humming. He changed into his black shorts and white sports shirt, pulling on the white sleeves that concealed his scars. Those weren't for public viewing.

The gym buzzed with the usual energy of boys eager to prove themselves. Grayson didn't have time for their games. His focus zeroed in on Stephen, standing at the far end of the room with his dusty blond hair and that infuriating smirk. Stephen had done something that only Charlie could do—make him bleed which is why Charlie had to die before his time, but Steven? He loses nothing to wait.

"Smith!" Mr. Payne's voice cut through the air like a whip.

Grayson looked up, schooling his face into something neutral. "Sir."

"Concentrate!" Payne barked, the shrill blast of his whistle echoing through the gym.

Grayson nodded tersely, biting back the words that threatened to slip. Payne always seemed to shout, something Grayson hated. But he could tolerate Payne's overbearing demeanor for now. The reward was worth the wait.

Finally, the whistle blew again, signaling the start of a new drill. Payne strode into the center of the gym, his voice booming. "Partner up! You're wrestling today. Show me what you've got—strength, strategy, endurance. Losers will run laps. Winners... just don't gloat too much."

Stephen's gaze locked on Grayson like a target, and he sauntered over, exuding confidence. "You and me, Smith," he said, his grin widening.

Grayson didn't flinch. He kept his expression blank. Stephen didn't realize he had just walked into his grave.

"Fingers intertwined. Push your opponent to the wall. No slacking!" Payne ordered.

Grayson held out his hands, letting Stephen clasp them with an arrogance that made Grayson's blood simmer.

"Ready, scrawny Smith?" Stephen sneered, his voice low enough to stay out of Payne's earshot.

Grayson didn't reply, his eyes boring into Stephen's with unnerving calm. The plan was unfolding perfectly.

The whistle shrieked, and Stephen lunged, shoving with all his might. Grayson stumbled back, letting him take the lead, giving him the illusion of control. The gym filled with the sounds of grunts and sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

Stephen's grin grew as he forced Grayson back, his voice taunting. "Told ya, Smith. You should eat more—"

Grayson struck. He twisted his wrist at an angle, putting pressure on Stephen's hand, bending it just enough to send a jolt of pain through his opponent's arm, something he learned on the dark web. Stephen's smirk vanished, replaced by a startled gasp.