Wait. I knew who they would listen to. The captain of the football team. I looked around for Axel, but I still couldn’t find him. So I shot him a text: “Axel, you need to stop this. I don’t know what you guys were thinking, but this is a terrible idea.”

His text came back almost immediately. “I told you to go home.”

Gah. Was he serious right now? “This is dangerous.”

“Then don’t watch.”

“Jacob could get hurt.”

Axel didn’t respond.

“Axel?”

No response.

“Axel, do something!”

No response.

“He’s your best friend! Stop this!”

The crowd cheered.

I looked up just in time to see Jacob make the first contact, his glove hitting O’Reilly’s stomach hard.

O’Reilly bent over gasping for air.

I grabbed Sophie’s leg. I just wanted it to be over.

Jacob said something to O’Reilly, but I couldn’t hear what. Maybe he was asking O’Reilly if he wanted to stop? Jacob took another step toward him. It looked like he wanted to check on him.

But O’Reilly stood up at the last second and landed a hard punch across Jacob’s cheek.

“Cheap shot,” Sophie said. “Boo!” she yelled at the top of her lungs before turning to me. “Scar, you’re cutting off my circulation.”

I looked down at my hand on her thigh. I was holding on to her so tightly that my knuckles were turning white. I moved my hands to cover my mouth when O’Reilly landed another blow.

Jacob.

Sophie’s “boo” had made the crowd erupt with chants of Miller and O’Reilly. It seemed pretty even with people yelling who they thought would win. Or maybe just who they favored to win.

Jacob got two swift jabs at O’Reilly’s stomach again.

“Go Miller!” I yelled at the top of my lungs and jumped to my feet.

Jacob turned to look at the stands. For just a second, our eyes locked. Right before O’Reilly slugged him hard across the jaw.

Jacob pushed O’Reilly away from him. But all I could see was the line of blood on Jacob’s jawline. Was that Jacob’s blood? Or O’Reilly’s?

Jacob wiped his face with the back of his glove, smearing the blood down his neck. It was definitely his. There was a gash on his skin.

God, that was all my fault. I’d distracted him when I’d yelled his name. I felt tears pooling in my eyes as I watched the blood from his jaw drop to his chest.

Why wasn’t someone calling the match? Who the hell was in charge here? And why did O’Reilly keep taking such dirty shots?