The Clutch

[Outfoxd]

Ray hated overtime periods.

He'd only been in a handful his whole wrestling career. Usually he ended his matches long before that, whether by pinfall or technical fall. As someone who'd been wrestling since he was five, Ray was good enough to never tie with anyone.

Almost good enough.

This kid, Albert Maynard, had matched him takedown for takedown, reversal for reversal. For a minute in the 3rd period it even looked like he was going to eke out the win after hitting a blast double on Ray out of nowhere, but before the clock ran down Ray had managed to stand up and reverse fortunes with an inside trip right before the buzzer.

It was the clutch. It was a place Ray didn't like being, especially not with this kid. This kid was a prick. The whole match, every time they'd lock up, he'd say something. He'd open his weaselly fucking mouth and talk, and Ray would be off his game. He had tried to say something to the ref, but the ref didn't seem to care too much.

Even as the ref told them to get into neutral, Ray looked over to his side, his cheering section. Just his mom, and Alicia. They were beaming, proud no matter what he did. It was small support, but he'd found through the years it was all he needed. Plenty of other people were watching. They might have been seeing future All-Americans here, wrestling prodigies working their craft.

Ray centered up, got into his stance while Albert did the same, smiling his little rat-smile. Ray was looking forward to wiping that it off his face with the next takedown.

The ref blew the whistle.

Off the bat Maynard flicked his hand up and shot, lightning-fast. Had Ray been anyone else on the mat that day, he'd be down. Instead he snuck in his underhooks, scooted his hips back, and shrugged Maynard off.

The two squared up again. Maynard made a grab for Ray's wrist, to arm-drag him, but Ray pushed the hand away, grabbing for the collar tie. He secured the back of Maynard's neck. The other boy did the same, and soon the two were mirror images, each trying to get domination of the inside of the clinch.

Then the words came.

"You're not hot shit, Dawson. You're a faggot who thinks he's good. Another nigger trying to get by on his physicality."

Maynard punctuated that by pushing Ray's head back, trying to get a reaction. Ray didn't comply.

"What you waiting for, kid? Worried if you move I'll take it?"

Ray didn't listen, tried to drop one hand down and drive for a knee tap with control of Maynard's head. The other boy stepped his leg back, nullifying the takedown attempt.

"Saw that coming. I see everything you do coming. I let you take it this far."

Ray could see Maynard grinning, even from the clinch.

"That your sister over there? Think I'm gonna ask her out after I kick your ass. Always wanted to fuck a cripple."

Ray's grip slackened for only a half second before he turned his head, hard, and popped Maynard's arm up and over his own head. In a fraction of a second the duck-under had taken him behind Maynard, with a deathgrip tight bodylock.

You can wrestle, but can you fucking fly?

Ray elevated Maynard.
- - -

Ray had been disqualified for an illegal move, giving Maynard the win. Not that he was conscious to enjoy it. The suplex had landed him on his head, and he was out cold for the rest of the day. Ray had been reprimanded, suspended from wrestling the rest of that school year. The Dawsons had moved to Bayview a few months after that.