Chapter 80 Aslan
Aslan
The wrestling tournament was nerve-wracking from the start.
Every match had been harder than the one before. It wasn’t just our team competing for grades anymore; several other schools from the area had come to compete with and against us, fighting for that title and for those few spots to join the pros.
For me, it wasn’t just about the grade.
Yes, this counted toward my evaluation, and yes, failing was not in the cards if I wanted to keep my place at Crownwell. But the real prize was everything else that came with winning. Sponsorships mostly, which meant money. And money meant helping my mom out of her struggles from a thousand miles away.
She had been waiting for news from me all week.
In a lot of ways, I was doing this for her more than I was doing it for myself.
I had worked for it too. Mr. Halt had been helping me train whenever he could, running drills with me after class and pushing me to think about strategy instead of brute force. I had watched hours of wrestling footage, studying the way experienced fighters moved, anticipating their opponents instead of trying to overpower them.
I wasn’t the strongest guy on the mat. But I was quick.
And if I could read a movement half a second before it happened, sometimes that was enough.
Balancing everything had been brutal. Classes, rehearsals, studying, training, trying to keep every grade high enough not to lose the scholarship—it felt like every hour of the day had already been claimed by something.
Training had been the hardest part. Mostly because Garrett was always there.
For someone who usually looked like he couldn’t care less about anything, he had been putting in serious work lately. Every time I showed up at the gym early in the morning, he was already there. When I tried the training field in the afternoon, he was there too. More than once I had ended up moving my own practice somewhere else entirely just to avoid running into him.
Which meant most of my real preparation happened with Mr. Halt.
Still, the day had finally arrived.
By the time the matches began, the pressure was already sitting in my chest like a weight. My muscles ached from the earlier rounds, my breathing still uneven as I stepped back onto the mat again and again. Each opponent pushed harder than the last, each match demanding more focus, more strength, more endurance.
And between rounds, I couldn’t stop noticing Garrett.
He was fighting in the other bracket, dominating his opponents with a kind of brutal intensity that made the crowd louder every time he stepped onto the mat. But what caught my attention wasn’t just the way he fought.
It was the man sitting in the front row.
Tall. Severe. Watching every movement Garrett made like it was an inspection.
More than once I heard his voice cutting through the noise of the gym, sharp and commanding.
“Stay aggressive, Garrett.”
“Don’t hesitate.”
“Finish it.”
At first, I thought he was just a former trainer taking the competition too seriously.
Then someone nearby mentioned his last name.
William.
And suddenly everything made a lot more sense.
That was Garrett’s father.
I had been focused on my own matches, trying to stay calm, trying to keep my head clear, but after that realization it became harder to ignore the tension in Garrett’s movements. The way he pushed himself harder every round, the way his father never stopped watching him.
It wasn’t encouragement. It was pressure.
By the time the last matches were announced, the entire gym had grown quieter with anticipation.
We were down to two.
When the finalists were announced, the air seemed to leave my lungs all at once.
Just as Mr. Halt had predicted...
Garrett William was already standing across from me.
For a second, the noise of the gym seemed to fade, the crowd dissolving into a distant roar while the only thing that remained sharp and real was the man in front of me.
After avoiding each other for weeks, now there was no distance left between us.
The referee stepped closer and motioned for us to take positions.
Garrett moved in at the same time I did.
Our foreheads nearly touched as we crouched into stance, shoulders low, hands ready. His breath brushed against my cheek, warm and steady, his blue eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made something electric twist low in my stomach.
“You should quit now, lion,” he murmured under his breath. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
I didn’t break eye contact.
“That boat sailed a long time ago,” I replied quietly. “Now we’re just gonna get even.”
A slow smile spread across his mouth.
Then the whistle blew.
Garrett came at me first, fast despite the exhaustion I could already see in the tightness of his shoulders. His hands shot forward, trying to lock around my waist and drive me backward with sheer power.
I pivoted away before he could secure the hold, slipping to the side and catching his arm instead, twisting just enough to break his balance.
The crowd reacted immediately.
Garrett recovered fast, turning into the movement and shoving forward again, his strength forcing me back a step this time before I dropped my center of gravity and slid out from under him.
He was powerful, but he was predictable.
Every move carried weight behind it, every attack built on brute force. I could feel the strain already building in his muscles, the tiny hesitations that appeared when exhaustion started creeping in.
Still, when he grabbed me again, the impact sent a shock through my whole body.
We crashed together chest to chest, hands fighting for position, arms locked as we struggled for control.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
His breath was heavier now.
“You been practicing avoiding me?” he muttered quietly.
“Maybe.”
His grip tightened.
“You can't avoid me, cub.”
Then he tried to drive me down again.
I twisted at the last second, hooking my leg behind his and using his own momentum to shift him sideways instead. The move didn’t throw him completely, but it forced him to stumble and break his hold.
The whistle shrieked. First period over.
We separated slowly, breathing harder now as we moved back toward our corners.
Garrett didn’t even make it halfway before his father’s voice cut through the noise of the gym.
“Stay focused!”
The command snapped like a whip.
Then, his mother stepped forward, her eyes on me as she talked to him. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I caught the last sentence loud and clear: “...Prove it, then, Garrett. Destroy him.”
Garrett didn’t answer, but I saw the way his jaw tightened.
Mr. Halt leaned toward me as I crouched down.
“Good control,” he said quietly, clearly rooting for me. “Don’t let him trap you. He’s burning energy.”
Across the mat Garrett’s father was leaning forward in his seat, speaking sharply while Garrett wiped sweat from his face.
“You’re hesitating,” the man said. “Finish the fight.”
The whistle blew again. Second period.
This time Garrett attacked harder.
He lunged forward, grabbing my arm and spinning behind me before I could fully react, his weight crashing into my back as he tried to force me down to the mat.
“I love riding you like this, lion,” he whispered.
For a second, his strength nearly succeeded.
“I don’t believe you.” Then I twisted again, slipping one arm free and rolling sideways, dragging him with me instead of letting him lock the position. “You like when I take the lead.”
We hit the mat together, and the crowd erupted.
For several seconds it was nothing but pressure and movement, our bodies shifting as each of us tried to gain control.
“What if I wanted the control this time?” Garrett’s breath was rough now but intoxicating, his strength still brutal but less precise.
“You lost your chance.” I hissed an inch from his face. “I would resist you.”
“You can't resist forever,” he muttered in my ear.
“You’re tired, wolf.”
“Not enough.”
He shoved again, forcing us apart.
The referee’s whistle blew again. Final period.
Everything came down to this.
Garrett stepped forward once more, sweat running down his temples, chest rising and falling hard with every breath. But his eyes were still locked on mine with that same fierce determination.
Behind him, his father stood now.
Watching.
Waiting.
Garrett rolled his neck once and lifted his hands again.
“Ready, lion?” he said quietly.
I met his gaze.
“Always.”
The whistle blew, and we launched at each other—feral and final.
Because by the time the next minute was over, one of us was going to lose a lot more than the match.