Those fists, like atom smashers, trade blows as addictive as nicotine.
Henry likes watching.
He’s watching when a mouth guard flies and red spittle coats the screen, before it fades to black. They’re just like him, big hands on wire frames, lips parted until the spring of blurred hands in sudden exchange. It’s a beautiful confusion.
The crowd screams, but not for him, when he goes one round with an upperclassmen. He makes a better show in the lunchroom, better venue; three rounds and they scream his name too.
Two week suspensions are the worst; his hook was just getting good.