Evan grabs for me, but his hands slide off my shoulder. “Stone, no—” I punch Brad as hard as I can. In the nose. Pain radiates down my arm, familiar and new—not quite as masked by game-day adrenaline as during hockey fights. But it’s worth it, because the slimeball folds like an accordion. There’s blood coming out of his nose, and he otherwise doesn’t move. Evan stops beside me, belatedly gripping my arm. And I didn’t even get to warn him to not call Wren anymore. We stare down at him, and the soccer teammates start yelling from across the field. I glance at Evan and shrug. “Too late.” Ah,
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