If we are talking about the worst possible matchup ever, it would definitely be between a Jock-type bad-boy and a New Kid-type bad-boy. 

No matter what happens, it's a lose-lose. If the Jock manages to take down the New Kid, it paints the New Kid in a sympathetic light, since he now looks vulnerable, while also reinforcing the Jock as an unbelievable dickwad, and thus, the primary antagonist. 

If the New Kid wins, it would mean war against the status quo, and would paint him in a badass that can only be redeemed by a TAG/B with a heart of gold, and sugar, spice, and everything nice. The Jock also becomes an antagonist, because a loser Jock is worse than a dickwad Jock, because surely his papa is the chief of the town's biggest company and can make your life miserable. 

Nobody wins either way, besides the New Kid getting his burger spat on by an employee that surely owes their life to the Jock's dad, and now you look like an outcast and have to eat at Burger King like some kind of pariah with the weirdos and people high enough to mistake Burger King from Wendy's after their third bong rip of "Gorilla Mind-Fuck" their dealer had in surplus because it kept getting people into the emergency room.

All I'm saying is that I was about to fuck both of our lives, and I'll have to fill myself with whatever the hell an Impossible Whopper is. Again. 

As we walk in silence in the hallway, free to breathe from the for-sure assault of mysterious girls/boys with mysterious pasts — which are way worse than TAG/B in every sense of the word — I see Hayden turning every once in a while to see if I'm still following. Which begs the question, why am I still following?

The answer is, Laila and Billiam. As soon as we left detention, I could feel their eyes on my back. Curiosity got the better of them as soon as two bad boys got within slapping distance. Because let's face it: is it really a bad boy fight if a TAG/B doesn't witness it?

In any other case, the Jock would cherish having witnesses. They feed off that shit, be it on the sports field, or in the field of life. They're kinda like fairies, meaning that if people don't believe in them, they get all impotent and stuff, and they become some middle management in a local insurance company. Which is why it picked my curiosity. Why is he running away from them? 

Wait, why are we running? 

Without any prompt, as soon as we crossed the corner in front of the gym, he grabs my hand and starts running like his one-year bonus depended on it. All I'm saying is that insurance companies are full of ex-jocks that still held their high school years like the best they have.

God, I envy them. I wish I could be an insurance salesman. Those are the opposite of bad boys. Nothing sexy about flash-flood insurance. 

But back to the matter at hand, which is currently his hand on mine. He isn't the captain of the football team for nothing — he can run like the best of them. I can barely see Laila and Billiam far behind us, trying to catch up. 

As soon as we take a corner by the cafeteria, he uses his big, beefy, meaty, wagyu-quality biceps to push me inside the cafeteria. 

And that's the last thing I see before everything fades to black, thus, ending my first day of school by filling the Bad-Boy Bingo card. As for why I am still monologuing when I'm unconscious, I can't say. I guess the part of the brain that monologues isn't that important. Or maybe I'm just schizoid. Or is it schizophrenic? I'll Google it when I become conscious.

Lucky for me, it seems that I don't spend too much time in monologue bingo, as I wake up soon after, laying against the wall, with the premium Kobe beef hand of Hayden over my mouth. 

"Shhh," he says, or onomatopoeia'ses. Onomatopeiai? I'll have a lot of things to Google once this is over. "They're outside."

Sure enough, I hear a pair of annoying footsteps run behind the cafeteria door, only to fade away shortly after. I guess they went away, or the rapture happened. Either way, we are in the clear. 

"What the hell, man?" I say, dampened by his prosciutto-brided fingers. 

Hayden stands up, giving me his Sheppard-pie-style hand to stand up as well, which I take. Man, maybe I should eat something besides nicotine gum. 

"Sorry about that, buddy," says the jock, decidedly not jock-ish. "Had to shake those two away. That Billiam is like the school's Twitter."

"Toxic and full of bronies?" I say. 

Then, silence. Hayden doesn't move, nor reacts. He simply stands there, with a thousand-yard stare. I've seen it before — he was internally monologuing. 

I stood there, also monologuing, because it is rude to interrupt the internal mechanisms of a bad boy. 

After a minute or so of awkward silence, he says "Good one," followed by him grabbing me by the arm and yanking me towards one of the tables. 

That bastard, taking advantage of my monologue to get a cheap shot! This is it, time to fight. 

"Okay, before we begin," I say, trying in vain to yank away my flimsy tofu hands from his surf-and-turf beef delight hand, "don't hit the face, nor the balls, or the butt. Biceps are fine, and if I start moaning, it's just the way I scream for help and has nothing to do with any fetish I may have repressed." 

He looks at me with puzzlement in his eyes, like a semi-discarded rubik's cube that has been sitting in that weird wicker basket thing in every American family's kitchen. "What're you talking about? I'm just gonna cream you a bit and fill you up with some love."

"Okay, look, I got nothing against gay people, I'm bi myself, but you're coming a bit too strong with the erotism in this beat down you're about to give me," I say. "At least buy me some dinner first, fuck."

He tosses me again, this time against a table. Well, he doesn't toss me as much as gently sits me on a chair, but in front of a table. He sets one plate in front of me with the richest, most decadent fudge hazelnut brownie I've ever seen in my life. He also puts a bowl on top of the table with a weird, unidentified white substance which he whips with a whisk for a few minutes until stiff, placing a dollop of it on top of the brownies. 

"Done," he says, pushing the plate towards me. "Nothing like freshly whipped crème fraîche to top a fresh brownie. Eat up."

I'm officially not knowing what the sweet clogs of Asian Santa Claus is happening. 

"Wait, weren't we gonna have a fight?" I say, not grammaring properly. Such is the power of me being a dumbass. 

"What?" he says, putting a spoon and a napkin in front of me. "Hell no. You wouldn't stand a minute against me." 

"Wanna bet?" I say. And I just fell into a trap, didn't I? Now I'm the one looking for a fight.

Hayden takes a few seconds to monologue before settling in a seat next to mine, grabbing me by the shoulder. "Look, I dunno if you've looked yourself in the mirror today, but you look anemic as hell."

"No, I'm not," I say. 

"You look as paisley and frail as one of those porcelain cherubs grandmas keep in a shoebox that you only find once you clean their closet after they die."

"That's oddly specific," I retort. 

"When was the last time you ate?" he asks. 

My weak-ass stomach betrays me by voicing a complaint to upper management, using the mass-email option of growling like a grumpy pug wanting to be fed.

Then, it dawns on me. Whipping me, creaming me, filling me up. He wasn't looking for a fight, or even a sexy fight. He wanted to whip me some crème fraîche and fill me with brownies. 

The Jock wants to feed me!

"I thought so," he says. "Now, eat up. The sugar's gonna give you some color back."

I take a spoonful of brownie, with extra cream on top. No word in the English language, borrowed or owned, can explain the spectacularly wet and moist food orgasm that the square of heavenly semi-melted fudge sent down my pituitary gland like a hyperactive child playing whack-a-mole with my brain. So I won't even try. 

The only question I have in my mind — besides asking for the recipe — is "why? I thought you were gonna fist my head in."

"Look," he says, squeezing my shoulder. "I know what you're thinking-" 

"If you knew what I'm thinking," I say, interrupting him, "you wouldn't be touching my shoulder."

But he isn't deterred. "-you think I'm some kind of dumb Jock bad-boy that wants to cave your face in. But no. I'm like you, someone who got labeled as a bad boy just because I look a certain way, and have washboard abs, and I'm good at handling balls."

Before I can ask him what he means by handling balls, because, again, very erotic wording, he grabs a napkin, makes it into a ball, and tosses it behind him. The ball makes a perfect arc and lands flawlessly into a waste bin. 

"Well, that's impressive. Lots of skills there," I say. 

He grabs more napkins, making them into balls as well. "No, you're not getting it. Watch." 

He proceeds to toss the balls in every conceivable direction. One hits the ceiling, rolling down a hanging light. Another hit a poster of him, smiling awkwardly on the wall. Another hits a cup, which begins to roll down a table. All three get into the waste bin. 

"No matter what I do," he says, "I always score. No matter what sport it is. I am cursed to be a jock. I don't even like football! But that's the only way I can afford this school. I just wanna graduate and go to culinary school, man. They got no football team or nothing. I can finally be myself and pursue my true passion: cooking!"

"Wait," I say, taking another heavenly bite of brownie, the cogs of my brain slowly turning. "You made this brownie, didn't you?"

He flashes me a smirk that betrayed his bad boy nature, but with a warm pride behind it. "Hell yeah, I did. You like it?"

No wonder we bumped in the hallway, being the first ones out of the room. He had the same idea as me. 

"You're a bad boy who doesn't want to be a bad boy!" I yell.

"Nice to meet you, brother," he says. "My name's Hayden Wilson. I'm a Jock bad boy who doesn't wanna be a bad boy."

"My God," I say, tears welling in my eyes, which are luckily obscured by the dark glasses. "I'm Ayden Gomez. I thought I was alone."

He laughs, and what a beautiful laugh it is. A laugh of freedom. A laugh of kinship. "You're not alone, my friend. There are others like us."

"There are?" I ask, hope filling my voice. 

"There are," he says, reassuringly. "And we were waiting for someone like you."

"Why?"

"Because," he says, leaning towards me. "We need at least three people to form a school club."

I don't know what he's talking about, but I can say that this looks like the start of a beautiful friendship. And a delicious one, at that. 

For the first time in forever, I'm not alone. Which means that I stumbled into some weird plot. Fuck.