We start, like any good story does, with balls on my face.

Big ones, sweaty, brown, flying all over, being roughly handed by buff dudes with pent-up anger letting off steam with other buff dudes by smashing into each other and yelling, sweating, and pounding fists at every turn. One on one, two on one, tag-teaming, je-ne-se-trois, all at the same time all over. Honestly, I don't know what people see in American Football.

One of the things both Hill Valley Mountain Woods and Cliff Basin Sierra Plateau have in common is that both pour a metric ass-load of moolah into their football team. After all, why invest in an affordable and nutritious cafeteria menu when Lit. Col. Fuches needs a new jockstrap to hold the boner he has for my boyfriend? But sure, we can go on another few months playing hunger games for the few expired milk cartons that had yet to turn into cottage cheese. Hell, that might be even healthier than whatever alternative for cheese they use on taco Tuesday. Cheese is supposed to melt, dammit! That shit stays whole like frosted tips on a douchebag.

Speaking of douchebags, you might be wondering why am I even witnessing a game when I clearly hate everything about it and what it represents, and to that I say: I'm not. At least I'm not supposed to. Since we don't have a club anymore, we had to get creative when choosing meeting venues. We tried meeting at Brayden's house, but after the wheelbarrow incident—on which I refuse to elaborate for fears of provoking mass vomiting and general discomfort, no matter how Jungkook says he's sorry—we don't go there, lest we revive some painful memories.

Besides, without the excuse of a club, Hayden can't wiggle out of Fuche's nasty little mittens, and is forced to play again and justify his scholarship. Thus, the bleachers have become our new clubroom. And we ain't the only one.

Thanks to an absolute idiot burning down the other school, the collective I.Q of everyone in Hill Valley Mountain Woods High plummeted to the ground, as twice as many idiots are now mingling about, forming tribes, with an us-vs-them mentality going about. This place looks like a warzone.

Just look at what happened the other day. The HVMW Embroidery Club was invaded by the CBSP Book Club. An unstoppable force meets an unmovable object. The might of the prickly needle against the mighty papercut. We lost Henry that day. Good boy, he was. Didn't mess with anybody. He was two days away from finishing a crochet scarf for his beloved Martha. War is hell.

Not to mention the cold war between the MVMW Modern dance club and the CBSP Street dance club. They're entrenched in the library, each day sending their best dancer into no man's land to krump dance to no music until somebody surrenders. We briefly had a moment of respite when a member of the MVMW Clown Society fell in love with a member of the CBSP Mime production company. Briefly. Remember Game of Throne's Red Wedding? Imagine that, but with cream pies and invisible mallets.

But all those are skirmishes compared to the main event that unfolds every day at the football field. Since both teams need to practice, and need all the practice they can get, they decided to compromise and practice at the same time on different sides of the field. The operative word here being "Practice," because this only works in theory.

The reality is that this hallowed ground for homoerotic schisms has become the prime battleground for big dick supremacy. And, sadly, it has become the only time I can spend with my boo after school, as Fuches is hell-bent on breaking his team's back to prove they have the biggest dicks instead of letting Hayden's dick break my back.

Yeah, we haven't consummated the relationship. Sue me. We don't have the time or energy to tie the hog. Eat the sausage. Stuff the pheasant. You know. Fuck.

Not that I need it, mind you. But... you know, it's there. It's mine. For all it's worth, I just can't stop thinking about that big, meaty, delicious-

"dingus," says Brayden, sitting one row above me in the bleachers, sparsely populated by a few straddlers waiting to see today's battle.

A sallow man in nerd glasses and balding, which many could easily identify as Cliff Basin Sierra Plateau Polytechnic's own principal Dickwad, dressed in a French maid outfit, and not a cute one at that, scurries towards Brayden in all fours. His ass looks incredible in high heels, I must admit. Detracts from the cat ears stapled to his head.

"Yes, Mr. Messi- I mean, Mr. Daddy, sir," says Principal Dickweed.

"fetch me a glass of water. but not any water, but aquafina. in a cup with akwafina's face. god, i hate that bitch," says Brayden, shooing him with a dismissive hand motion without looking at him. "and what did i tell you to say after every sentence, dog?

"Sir. I mean, Mr. Daddy, woofy me timbers," says Principal Dillhole. "Don't you think your dog has paid enough for his transgressions, woofy me timbers? Maybe, if Mr. Daddy finds it in his heart to delete all that silly evidence of me growing and selling all those silly illegal substances? Pretty please? Woofy me timbers."

To punctuate how pathetic he is, he grabs Brayden's leg to plead. He also humps it gently, which, you know, ew.

Brayden takes his eyes out of the split practice field to stare at the man. And stare he does. And continues to do. And a little more. Most people would find this uncomfortable, but I know in my heart of hearts that the two neurons in Brayden's head were firing at all cylinders to formulate a response. He's like a chihuahua, not meant to think, but to respond on instinct. And Brayden's instinct, just like a chihuahua's, is usually to choose violence.

Brayden raises his hand and... pats him on the bald part of his head lovingly while giving him a gentle smile? "sure, you've been a good doggy, haven't you? yes, you have!" says Brayden, punctuating each word with a slap on the baldness.

"Potty trained and all, bro," says Jungkook, holding a tiny parasol over Brayden.

"Doesn't even have fur to shed," adds Harry, holding a slightly bigger parasol over Okayden, sitting next to Brayden while reading a book. Something about scissors.

"you deserve an award," says Brayden. He takes out his phone and goes to a folder called "dingus, drugs" erasing it with a few taps. "there, is my little dingus happy?"

Principal Dickwad's face went from defeated, to hopeful, to outright beaming, with a hint of defiance. One would imagine that would be the face of the Count of Monte Cristo as he swam free from that prison island, ready to kill Guy Pierce, as anybody who is about to kill that smug bastard usually is. And yet, the defiance is washed away with horror as the next few words came out of Brayden's spewing sphincter.

"but tell me, dingus, does the number 112.124.84.154 sound familiar?" says Brayden.

"What?" says Principal Dingleberry. "What is that... wait."

"112.124.84.154," repeated Brayden. "ring any bells?"

"Is that... is that my I.P address?" asks Principal Dimples.

"you're free to go, dingus. but, just saying, it would be a shame if somebody were to reveal a certain principal goes about his day while searching 'two cups, one dolphin,' and-"

"Aquafina on Awkwafina, got it, woofy me timbers!" yells the principal with a new fear in his eyes. Fresh fear.

A single tear of terror streaks down his cheeks, one that Brayden capitalizes by straight up licking it off him. Brayden slaps his baldness a couple more times, making his hand imprint on him. "good boye. scooby, want something?"

"Water on the rocks," whispers Okayden,

"But please, do hold the water,

Just the rocks, thank you."

"So... just ice?" says Bingus McDingus.

"Good for teeth," adds Okayden.

"ayden? friend, friendo, my man, my bro, my soul sister? want something?"

"I'm fine, thanks," I say, raising a thermos full of cocoa Hayden gave me before practice. I must say, having a chef boyfriend is fulfilling in more ways than one. I'm getting chubbier, but it all goes to my ass. I told Hayden to knock it off, but all he does is slap my ass and say: "Damn, boy, is that jelly? Cause jam don't jiggle like that."

I love that sucker. Honestly, I wouldn't be here in this sweltering heat to support him if it weren't for that. Then again, I think I would cook alive if I go into sus mode and sleep in the vent. That's about all the changes to the status quo. The school is a warzone, Lee and the administration have said jack shit about how they're gonna fix the school club issues, and I haven't gotten that sweet dick yet. Have I missed anything?

I feel a hand grab my foot from beneath the bleachers, followed by more hands trying to pull me down. I shriek, feeling nails dig into my supple cinnamon legs as I use my other free leg to stomp on the hands. I hear a voice saying "Yes, daddy, step on me!" after a few seconds.

"What in the funky fresh fuck is happening?!" I yell. Two of the hands make quick work of my leather boot, slipping it out of my feet. I swear something licked me as I jump free from this torture.

"I got his booth!" says a distinct voice, with a New York accent, of which I could literally taste the fact that it came from a TAB/G, followed by a cacophony of giggles.

A gaggle of TAB/Gs come from under the bleachers, practically skipping, while this small Asian girl with a bowl cut holds my shoe, putting it in a brown bag, and fucking sniffing that shit like glue. What the shit.

"Li-yang strikes again," whispers Okayden, determined to have more dialogue than me, the prissy bitch,

"These Broopies are out of wack,

As the kids say now."

"how old are you, dude? ain't nobody using wack," says Brayden.

Ah, yes, the Broopies. See, a high school is a delicate ecosystem carefully created by some fuckwit with too much time in his hands to make sure every class, every section, every year, has a perfect amount of jocks, nerds, emo, bad boys, TAB/Gs, and so on. Like the Serengeti, with the wildebeest and kangaroos and tigers and shit, it works on a circle. The Jock eats the bad boy, the bad boy eats the TAB/G, the TAB/G eats the emo, the emo eats the nerd, and the nerd eats shit lmao. But it is a delicate circle perfectly crafted not to destroy one another.

This has changed a lot. With this merge of schools, every major group grew exponentially, except the bad boys. Before the merge, there were at least 3 TAB/G per bad boy. Now, they have us 6 to 1. The prey has become the hunter, and boy are we being hunted. The TAB/Gs, seeing how they outnumber us, have ditched their usual lonely approach and have turned to pack formations, making skirmishes, taking us down one by one. There is an imbalance in the force.

The leader of the biggest broopie, as in Bad Boy groupies, is Li-Yang, a CBSP Debate club member turned TAB/G who has been harassing me for weeks now. Very much villain material, if you ask me. This is the third booth I lost this month. Always the right ones, for some reason. I'm all left now.

"That bitch took my boots!" I yell. "Again!"

And they're not even sorry! The broopie is a few feet away, taunting me, passing the bag as they're smelling my stinky "Invictus" feet sweat, knowing damn well I can't do shit.

Suddenly, a ball comes flying at them like a crossfire hurricane, smashing against the chain-link fence behind them. It's fast enough and loud enough to make the hyenas run and scream for their lives, dropping the brown bag behind them. A player fully decked in protective gear, which for some reason has spiked and razors all over, jogs towards the bag, grabs it, and makes his way up the bleachers. He takes his helmet to reveal a pair of sweet honey-green eyes that shimmer in the sun. My love. My only. Hayden.

"I believe this is yours," says Hayden with a smirk. I don't hold it against him, it's just the way a bad boy smiles, is all.

I take the bag from his hand, giving him a small nod. "My knight in shining armor."

"hurk," says Brayden, shoving half a hand down his throat. You know, he has little gag reflex for a straight man. Just saying. "get a room already. when are you gonna burst that chocolate starfish?"

"Brayden!" Hayden and I say in unison, followed by an awkward, blushing look between each other. "I'm not gonna make the goal of this season to pork with my man, okay?" I say.

"Yeah, brother," says Hayden. "It will happen when it happens, okay? I mean, if you want, babe. Not pressuring you at all. I mean, but if you want to."

I don't know what to say. I really don't want to derail this story. In fact, the sooner it ends, the better. This chapter is already too long, after all.

A sound like thunder comes out of the blue, and directly into my facehole. Next thing I know, there is a hand in front of my face holding a still-spinning football. Hayden caught it at the last second, sparing my face from a world of hurt. And I'm not wearing my anti-balls shades today.

Every head in the field, us included, slowly turned around to the source of the ball bullet. It came straight from the other side of the field, the one being used by the Cliff Basin Sierra Plateau team. Specifically, from a brute of a player with square shoulders, parted teeth, and a cro-magnon unibrow laughing deeply as a queen b cheerleader wrapped her hands around his neck.

"Whoops, you missed the bitch, Hai-boo," said the Queen B, one Leighlay McKenzie.

"But Haiden hit other bitch," says Haiden, the bizarro-world Hayden from the Cliff Basin Sierra Plateau Trojans.

The bleachers from each side break the silence by slowly chanting "Fight, fight, fight," first in hushed tones, then, in a thunderous crescendo.

Hayden looks at me, his eyes shining like diamonds. "A kiss for good luck?"

I grab him by the collar, giving him a quick peck on the lips. "Give 'em hell, babe."

He stands up, and the field goes quiet. You could hear a pin drop in the distance, meaning that the embroidery club is probably under attack. Hayden puts on the helmet, slowly moving down towards the field. Both teams line themselves up, one headed by Hayden, other by Haiden. And in the middle, only death awaits. Or concussions, most likely. It's just a matter of time. Breaths are held, heat is up. And with only one word, one simple word, all hell would break loose.

"Timberwolves!" yells Hayden, snapping his visor on, "attack!"

Yes, things have changed, but at least we are together. As long as nothing changes, I think we can manage. We are healthy, and we are... Why aren't they beating the shit out of each other?

A boy comes running into the field, just in time to avoid both teams from colliding. He whispers something to both Hayden and Haiden, and the tension seems to dissipate. I can't hear anything from here, and the mad whispering amongst the attendees doesn't help either.

Both teams straight up left the field and towards the school, leaving us mortals hanging. The boy goes towards the bleachers, his vice sweet and crumbly, like strawberry shortcake made by a one-eyed dog.

"Please, if you can all go to the gym, the Principal has an announcement to make regarding the school club situation."

Well, shit. I had to open my mouth, didn't I?