Joe had stepped into the cage, and right away it was clear that a number of the Clapton students recognized him from his recent visit. Their stares were heavy, their fists pounding into open palms like war drums, itching for a chance to take him down.
"I told you," Rick sneered from the sidelines, "that Bloodline group of theirs didn't just send some nobody. They sent one of their top guns."
"It's a good thing we've got some heavy hitters ourselves," he added confidently, eyes narrowed at the ring.
Joe could hear Rick and the others loud and clear, their voices carrying above the buzz of the crowd. It made him rub the back of his neck out of habit, an old nervous tick. Despite all the noise, all the attention, he didn't feel like a "top gun." Being called one of the best fighters at his school? That felt wrong. Like a label someone had accidentally slapped on him and forgot to take off.
