The Gym Class Observation
Mikey was kinetic energy packed into a frame that barely seemed large enough to contain it. We shared a homeroom and gym class, and even though I was the "grandmaster" of the chess club and generally more into music, I’d been quietly watching him since the seventh grade.
I was 5’10”, lanky and shy. Mikey was a few inches smaller and significantly lighter; when we changed for gym, I noticed his ribs sort of showed, yet he was surprisingly athletic. He had a lively spirit and a smile that seemed to take up his whole face. He’d recently joined the wrestling team, which seemed odd given his size, until I saw what he could do.
One day in gym, he was messing around on the mats with Phil, a guy who was much fatter and heavier. I watched from the sidelines, expecting Mikey to get squashed. Instead, Mikey moved like a ferret, slipping around Phil’s bulk until he caught him in a headscissors.
"Okay, okay, Mike! I give, I give!" Phil was laughing, tapping the floor, his face bright red.
I looked away quickly, feeling a sudden, strange heat in my cheeks. It was shocking to see big Phil tapped out so definitively by smaller Mikey. It was embarrassing for Phil, but I found myself replaying the image in my head later. I was impressed. I secretly wondered what it would be like to be caught like that.
The Chess Match
Our worlds collided in the Chess Club, which met once a week at 4:00 p.m. I was at the top of the ladder, and Mikey was near the bottom, but he was scrappy.
One afternoon, the teacher, Mr. Henderson, stepped out to run an errand, leaving us alone in the quiet, carpeted classroom. I decided to play nice. I liked Mikey and wanted to make it a fun game, so I intentionally left my rook exposed.
He took it, his eyes lighting up. "Gotcha."
Seeing him get so confident sparked something in me—a weird, mischievous urge to provoke him, get him riled. I moved my bishop to take his knight, but in the process, I slid the piece from a black square to a white square. It was a blatant cheat.
Mikey paused, his brow furrowing. He looked at the board, then at me.
"Hey," he said, pointing. "That bishop was on black."
"No, it wasn't," I said, trying to keep a straight face. "It’s always been there."
"You're full of it," he laughed, though he looked annoyed. "You skipped a colour. That’s illegal. Put it back."
"I’m not putting it back. It’s a legit move. Maybe you just missed it."
He looked at me with a mix of defiance and disbelief. "You're trying to cheat me because you think I'm dumb. Play it out then, but I know what you did."
We finished the game, and I won. The tension in the room was palpable but playful. As we started packing the pieces into the box, Mikey stood up and blocked my path to the door.
"You have to tell Mr. Henderson," he said, crossing his arms. "Tell him you cheated and forfeit the game so I jump you in the standings."
"Not happening," I grinned, swinging my backpack over one shoulder. "I won fair and square."
"You're a liar," he said, stepping closer. "And you're not leaving until you admit it."
The Scramble on the Carpet
"Move, Mikey," I said, stepping forward.
"Make me," he challenged.
I tried to push past him, but he ducked my arm and grabbed me around the waist. It happened fast. We stumbled backward away from the desks and onto the open carpeted area at the back of the room. I wasn't totally helpless—I’d done the wrestling unit in gym class just like him—but Mikey felt different. He was dense and strong.
We hit the floor, grappling. It wasn't a fight, really; it was that roughhousing zone boys get into, half-laughing, half-serious.
"Admit it!" he grunted, trying to flatten me out.
"Never!" I laughed, struggling to roll him over. I was bigger, so I muscled out of his first hold, but he was so much quicker. Every time I thought I had him, he slipped away.
I managed to get to my knees, trying to stand up, but Mikey spun behind me. He hooked a leg, and we went down again, rolling around on the grey industrial carpet. I was breathing hard, my shirt riding up, feeling the friction of the rug.
"You're terrible at this," he teased, pinning my arm for a second.
"Shut up," I gasped, bucking my hips to throw him off.
I turned into him, trying to tackle him, but I lowered my head right into his trap.
The Headscissors
"And... there!" Mikey shouted triumphantly.
In the scramble, he had spun his legs up and caught my head perfectly between his thighs. He crossed his ankles, locking me in a headscissors.
"No, Mikey!" I yelled, my voice muffled against his leg.
He squeezed his knees together, not painfully hard, but firm enough that I was completely stuck. He leaned back on his hands, looking down at me with a massive, victorious grin.
"Where you going, Grandmaster?" he taunted.
I flailed my arms, trying to pry his legs apart, but he was surprisingly strong for a skinny guy. "Let me up!"
"Nope," he said comfortably. "I could trap you here all day. This is actually pretty comfy."
It went on for what felt like ten minutes. I’d struggle and thrash for a bit, moaning in frustration, and he’d just squeeze a little tighter until I stopped. There was a strange mix of feelings washing over me—embarrassment that the "grandmaster" was getting owned by a C-student, but also a rush of excitement. I was helpless, completely dominated by him, and honestly, I was enjoying it. It felt good to just give up control.
"Okay, okay!" I panted, my face flushed red. "I give!"
"Not yet," he said, adjusting his grip. "You gotta promise. You tell Henderson you cheated. You tell him I beat you."
"I promise!" I said, tapping his thigh. "I'll tell him! You win!"
"Say 'Mikey is the Chess Champion.'"
I laughed, despite being squashed. "Mikey is the Chess Champion! Now let me go!"
He held me for a few more seconds, just to prove he could, and then uncrossed his ankles.
I sat up, shaking my hair out, rubbing my neck. My face was burning, but I was smiling. Mikey was sitting opposite me on the carpet, catching his breath, looking proud of himself.
"Man," I said, looking at him with genuine admiration. "You really are an awesome wrestler."
"Thanks," he beamed. "You're not bad either. For a cheater."
We both laughed. The air was cleared, and the tension was gone, replaced by something warmer.
"Hey," I said, standing up and offering him a hand. "Since I'm forfeiting the game... if you ever need help with homework or anything, let me know. I'm pretty good at math."
He took my hand, and I pulled him up. "Yeah? I might take you up on that. I'm barely passing algebra."
"Deal," I said.
The Unresolved Victory
Two days after our wrestling session in the classroom, I saw Mikey across the gymnasium during warm-ups. We were both doing jumping jacks, but my eyes were scanning for his. I felt a mix of anxiety and excitement whenever I thought about him. He was a few inches shorter, a blur of energy in his white t-shirt.
When the whistle blew, signaling the end of the drill, Mikey headed straight for me. His usual wide grin was replaced by a look of focused annoyance.
"Hey, Cheater," he said, keeping his voice low, but his eyes were sharp.
"Hey, Mikey," I replied, trying to sound casual, but my voice was a little shaky.
"I checked the board," he said, motioning vaguely toward the bulletin board near the coach’s office where the Chess Club rankings were posted. "It hasn't been updated. The ‘grandmaster’ is still listed as undefeated."
I swallowed hard. "Oh. Yeah. Mr. Henderson must be busy."
"Don't play dumb with me," he hissed, crossing his arms. "Did you tell him about the illegal move? Did you forfeit the game, like you promised?"
I stared at the scuffed gym floor, avoiding his gaze. "Look, I’ve been meaning to, but..." I hesitated, feeling the heat rise in my face. "I'm just too embarrassed, Mikey. It's stupid, but I don't want the whole club seeing that I cheated you, especially since I'm supposed to be the best player."
"So you lied to me?" he asked, his voice rising a notch. "You’re breaking your word?"
"No! I didn't mean to lie. How about this: I'll let you beat me at the next meeting. I'll play badly, you win, and we can update the board then. No embarrassing confession needed."
Mikey shook his head slowly. "No way. I beat you fair and square—or I would have, if you hadn't cheated. I earned that win. I'm not waiting a week and I'm not letting you throw a game for me."
He glanced quickly around the gym. The coach was talking to a small group of basketball players near centre court. We were close to a corner where the heavy wrestling mats were stacked. Without another word, Mikey grabbed my arm firmly and steered me over to the corner, pressing me against the wall near the stacks.
"What are you doing?" I whispered, looking around nervously.
"You need to learn that a promise is a promise," he growled. He dropped low and scooped my legs out from under me.
I hit the floor with a grunt, the thick mats cushioning the blow slightly. I tried to push him off, but he was already moving, locking his arms around my waist and driving his forehead into my sternum, grinding me down into the mat. It was aggressive, efficient, and totally public.
"You're going to tell the teacher," he said, his breath hot against my shirt. "Say it now."
"Get off me, Mikey!" I protested, struggling and trying to roll.
He shifted, manoeuvering his wiry body up and over mine, securing a dominant position. Then, without mercy, he spun his legs and snapped my head into a tight, brutal headscissors. My vision narrowed.
"Is that a headscissors?" I heard a voice call out.
Mikey drove his knees together. "Are you going to tell him?"
"I can't breathe!" I managed to wheeze.
Three guys from the basketball team— Mark, Shane, and Chris—had stopped their conversation and were walking toward us, pointing.
"Holy, man," Shane said, his voice laced with shock and amusement. "I never thought I'd see the day. Look at that! Ryan is trapped, totally done!"
Mark started laughing. "That skinny kid is tapping him out! Good God, look at his face!"
Mikey didn't budge. He just maintained the squeeze, his face inches from mine, his eyes boring into me. For five agonizing minutes, I thrashed, humiliated by the audience but completely unable to break his hold.
"Tell me," Mikey insisted, his voice unwavering. "Will you update the board? Will you tell the truth?"
I fought, twisting my body, but it only made the pressure worse. I couldn't escape the tightness around my skull, and the onlookers made it ten times worse. I hated that they were watching me being utterly dominated by the smaller guy, yet the feeling of his power over me was undeniable, almost addictive.
Finally, I ran out of air and fight.
"Yes! Yes, I will!" I gasped, tapping his thigh frantically. "I promise! I'll tell Mr. Henderson tomorrow! I forfeit! You beat me!"
Mikey waited until I repeated the promise, word for word, three more times, his eyes never leaving mine. Then, slowly, deliberately, he released his legs.
I scrambled up, gasping, my face bright red, smoothing down my shirt while the other boys chuckled and shook their heads in disbelief.
Mikey just smiled, that lively, victorious smile fully back now. He gave me a knowing look—a look that said, Now we're clear.
"See you tomorrow, Cheater," he said lightly, turning to join the rest of the class.
I knew he would hold me to it, and I knew that if I didn't comply, he'd be ready to do it again. The embarrassment was intense, but so was the thrill of the confrontation.
The Aftermath and The Audience
Mikey jogged away and smoothly rejoined the rest of the class, leaving me winded and adjusting my clothing near the stacked mats. My head was throbbing slightly from the headscissors, but the embarrassment was even sharper.
As soon as Mikey was gone, the three guys who had been watching—Shane, Mark, and Chris—strolled over, their faces a mix of curiosity and amusement.
"Hey, man," Shane said, his arms crossed, a wide grin splitting his face. "What was that all about? I mean, Coach would kill you guys if he saw that."
I shrugged, trying to project a cool I didn't feel. "Nothing. Just messing around."
Mark snorted, nudging Chris. "Messing around? Dude, he had you locked up tighter than a drum. I swear, he had you in that thing for a solid five minutes. You were totally tapped out."
Chris, who was always quieter, just looked impressed. "He's small, but he's fast. I didn't even see him get you in that. You couldn't move, man. What was that hold?"
"A headscissors," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. "He’s on the wrestling team."
"Yeah, but you’re like almost six feet tall," Leo pressed. "And you guys were serious. It looked like he was trying to choke you for real. Did you steal his lunch money?"
Just then, Mikey walked back past us, grabbing a water bottle from the edge of the mat.
Shane called out to him. "Hey, Mike! You were a beast, man! What’d Ryan do to piss you off?"
Mikey stopped, uncapping his bottle, and took a long drink. He looked at me, a calculated glint in his eye, before addressing the others.
"He owes me," Mikey said simply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Owes you what? Money?" Mark asked.
"Nah," Mikey replied. "He's the 'grandmaster' in the chess club. He tried to cheat me in a game two days ago, and I caught him. He promised to admit it and forfeit, but then he chickened out."
He looked directly at me. "So, I decided to teach him a lesson about keeping his word."
The basketball players exchanged wide-eyed looks. The 'grandmaster' of the Chess Club being taken down on the gym floor over a broken promise about a bishop move—it was the perfect mix of high school drama and absurdity.
"Wait, you guys were wrestling over a chess game?" Shane burst out laughing.
"Yep," Mikey confirmed, his shoulders squared. "Some people need a little incentive to tell the truth. Right, Cheater?"
I managed a tight smile, trying to play along. "He's intense, man. You don't mess with his chess pride."
Chris just shook his head, still marveling. "Seriously impressive, Mike. You got some serious moves."
Mikey smiled, soaking in the praise. "Thanks. Now, if you guys will excuse me, I’m waiting for him to keep his word. Maybe next time he won't try to cheat the little guy."
He shot me one final, challenging look and walked off to join the next drill.
The boys looked back at me, all the casual mockery gone, replaced by a new curiosity. I was still the smart kid, the grandmaster, but now I was also the guy who had been thoroughly dominated by Mikey, the wrestler.
"So, you going to tell the coach?" Mark asked.
"Yeah," I said, sighing dramatically, knowing that the story would be all over homeroom tomorrow. "I'm telling him."
I knew my reputation as the quiet, brainy grandmaster had just taken a very public, very physical hit. But as I watched Mikey move across the gym floor, a lightness returned. I had kept my word—not to Mr. Henderson, but to Mikey. And more importantly, I knew that the next time he wanted to "mess around," I wouldn't run.
The Confession and the Twist
The next afternoon, right after the final bell rang, I found Mr. Henderson in the classroom that hosted the Chess Club. He was stacking books on his desk, and the Chess Club ranking board was still untouched, showing me firmly at the number one spot.
I walked up to his desk, my hands clammy. I knew this was going to be humiliating, but the memory of Mikey’s headscissors—and the public spectacle in the gym—made me determined to follow through.
"Mr. Henderson? Can I talk to you about the chess rankings?" I started, avoiding his eyes.
He smiled kindly. "Of course. Did you want to challenge someone? You’ve been looking untouchable lately."
I took a deep breath. "No, sir. It’s about the game I played against Mikey two days ago."
"Ah, Mikey. Good spirit, that boy. He’s improving," Mr. Henderson said, making a note on a textbook.
"Well, I... I need to confess something," I stammered, feeling my face grow hot. "I made an illegal move during that game. When I took his knight, I moved my bishop to a square it couldn't reach. I cheated."
Mr. Henderson stopped writing. He slowly put his pen down and looked at me, his expression serious but not angry. "You cheated, Ryan? Why?"
"I don't really know, sir. I think I just got arrogant, and maybe I was trying to provoke him," I admitted, feeling awful. "Mikey called me out on it immediately. So, according to club rules, I should forfeit that game. Mikey wins, and he should move up above me in the standings."
Mr. Henderson tapped his fingers on the desk for a moment. "That's an honourable thing to admit, Ryan. Especially since you won the game and nobody else saw it. That took guts." He reached for the ranking chart. "I'll update this immediately. Mikey will be thrilled."
Just as he was about to mark the change, the classroom door swung open, and Mikey walked in, carrying his jacket and his own backpack. He stopped when he saw us.
"Mr. Henderson, I was just checking if you'd—" Mikey started, then noticed the chess chart in the teacher's hand and my red face. "What's going on?"
Mr. Henderson smiled broadly. "Mikey, this young man just showed real integrity. He admitted to making an illegal move in your game and insisted on forfeiting the victory to you. Congratulations, Mikey. You just moved up to the top spot."
Mikey's eyes went wide. He looked at the chart, then at me. His usual swagger melted away, replaced by genuine shock.
"He... he actually did it?" Mikey whispered, looking at Mr. Henderson.
"He did," the teacher confirmed. "I'm very proud of both of you. Mikey, you were right to call him out, and Ryan, you were right to make it right. Now, I have to go speak to the principal before I lose my parking spot. Why don't you two shake hands?" Mr. Henderson gathered his papers and hurried out, leaving the updated chart on the desk.
Mikey walked slowly toward me. I braced myself for a mocking comment, or maybe even a sincere thank you.
He stopped right in front of me, staring at the chart where his name was now above mine.
"You really did it," he repeated, a strange look in his eyes—a mix of pride and something else I couldn't place. He dropped his backpack onto the carpet with a thud.
"Yeah. I told you I would," I said, trying to sound firm. "A deal's a deal. Now we're square."
"Square?" Mikey stepped closer. "No, we're not. You did it because I forced you to. That doesn't count."
Before I could object, Mikey lunged forward. I tried to step back, but he was too fast. He grabbed my shirt and pulled me off balance, and we tumbled onto the carpeted floor again, right next to the empty chess tables.
"Wait, Mikey! We're square! Henderson knows!"
"Yeah, now he knows," Mikey grunted, rolling me onto my back. He was moving with startling intensity. "But I know you still have to learn respect."
He pinned my arms down quickly and climbed up onto my chest, settling his weight on me.
"And I still owe you one," he said with a wicked grin, and then the twist came.
He didn't go for the pin. Instead, he smoothly flipped his legs up and around my head. I didn't even have a second to react before the familiar, suffocating pressure returned.
He had me in the headscissors again, right on the classroom carpet, surrounded by silent chess pieces.
"What are you doing? I kept my promise!" I struggled, but he was already locked in.
"This is for the next time you think about lying to me," he said, tightening his legs until my ears rang. "And this is for the last time you think you can be a better chess player than me! Say it. Say I'm the real grandmaster."
"Mikey! I'll tell Henderson!"
"He's gone," Mikey laughed, totally in control. "Say it! Say I'm the champ!"
The pressure was immense, a dull ache spreading across my temples.
"Okay! Okay! You're the champ! You're the real grandmaster!" I cried out, tapping his leg weakly. "I submit!"
He held the lock for a satisfying minute, just to seal the victory. Then he let go, standing up and dusting his knees, the picture of casual victory.
"Good," Mikey said, looking down at me, still gasping on the floor. "See you in homeroom tomorrow, Champ."
He winked, grabbed his backpack, and walked out, leaving me breathless and defeated—but already looking forward to our next "session."
Homeroom: The Morning After
The next morning, the bell hadn't rung yet, and Homeroom 212—which doubled as our gym locker room—was buzzing with the usual noise of teenagers settling in. I sat at my desk, trying to focus on my history notes, but my attention was scattered. My neck still felt a little stiff, and I was acutely aware of the glances being thrown my way.
Shane, Mark, and Chris from the basketball team were gathered near the pencil sharpener, and I could hear muffled laughter filtering through the room. The story of the "Chess Grandmaster takedown" had definitely made the rounds.
Mikey walked in, radiating his usual lively energy. He dropped his books on his desk—two rows over and one desk ahead of mine—with a confident thud. He didn't look at me immediately. Instead, he pulled out a textbook, but his small smile betrayed him. He knew exactly what he had done, and what everyone was talking about.
I kept my head down, pretending to be completely absorbed in the War of 1812.
Then, Mikey stood up and casually walked over to my desk. He didn't loom; he just leaned against the corner of it, radiating heat and presence.
"Morning, Champ," he said, his voice soft, almost a conspiratorial whisper, but carrying just enough volume for a few nearby kids to hear.
I looked up, meeting his eyes for a quick second. "Morning, Mikey."
He tapped the cover of my history book. "You still planning on helping me with algebra?"
"Yeah," I mumbled. "When do you want to meet? Tomorrow after school?"
"Sounds good," he said. He reached down and subtly placed his hand on the back of my neck, just under my hairline, giving a brief, firm squeeze—exactly where he had held the headscissors the day before. It was a clear, quiet reminder of the power dynamic.
"Just making sure you got your memory back after that little... scramble we had yesterday," he added, pulling his hand away quickly.
Mark and Shane snickered from across the room. I felt my face flush, but I forced myself to meet his gaze this time, determined not to look away.
"My memory's fine," I said evenly. "I'll see you at four tomorrow. Bring your notes."
Mikey grinned, that genuine, full-face smile returning. "Perfect. I knew you'd be a good sport about it."
He paused, then leaned in even closer, dropping his voice to a level only I could hear. "By the way, Henderson already updated the chart. I'm number one now. Thanks for keeping your word. You're a lot stronger than you look, you know. You made me work for that second tap out."
Before I could respond, he straightened up and walked back to his desk, whistling a cheerful, tuneless melody.
As he sat down, Shane called out, "Hey, Mikey! You guys doing more 'scrambling' today?"
Mikey just looked up and winked at him. "Only if he tries to cheat me on the homework, Shane. Otherwise, he behaves."
The whole homeroom laughed, and I slumped slightly in my seat, accepting my new, strange place in the school's social order: the brainy kid who got wrestled into submission by the wiry chess champion.
It was embarrassing, but when I looked over at Mikey, focusing fiercely on his textbook, I felt a low, thrumming excitement. I knew the algebra session was just a formality. The real fun would start when the books were closed and the wrestling began.
The Algebra Session
The next day after school, I waited for Mikey in the school library, but he didn't show up. I was collecting my books to head home when I found him sitting on the steps outside the main entrance, tossing a pebble.
"Hey, I thought we were meeting," I said.
Mikey stood up, shrugging on his jacket. "Yeah, but the library is too quiet. My brain shuts down in there. Let's go to your place. Less pressure."
My parents were both working late, so my house was empty. We settled into the dining room table, spreading out my history binder and his geometry and algebra textbooks.
"Alright, show me the damage," I said, pulling out a sheet of graph paper.
He pushed his algebra worksheet toward me. It was half-finished, with several large, messy eraser smudges. "I just don't get this factoring stuff," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Why do I need to solve for X when I'm never going to use this?"
I patiently walked him through the steps, explaining quadratic equations and the distributive property. I used analogies, relating the steps to moves on a chess board—isolating the weak piece, forcing the structure. He listened intently, chewing on the end of his pen, occasionally getting frustrated but never quitting.
"Wait, so if I take the square root of this whole side, I get rid of the exponent?" he asked, pointing to the equation x^2 - 4x + 4 = 16.
"Exactly," I confirmed, circling the (x-2)^2 part. "You're isolating the variable."
He finally solved the problem, and a huge smile broke out on his face. "Yes! I actually did it!"
"See? You're not dumb, Mikey. You just need to look at it differently."
"Nah, I just need you," he admitted, gathering his papers. "Thanks, man. That actually makes sense now."
The Inevitable Third Scramble
He zipped up his backpack. We stood awkwardly for a moment, the math session officially over. I knew what was coming next. The air in the room seemed to thicken with anticipation.
"So," Mikey said, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. "I think I've earned a break. And you look like you need to work off some of that chess tension."
I laughed, a mix of apprehension and excitement bubbling up. "I'm supposed to be the one helping you."
"Consider this my way of helping you," he said, taking a step back and dropping his backpack. "It's a practical application of force and leverage. Educational."
"Fine," I challenged, dropping my own backpack. "But no headscissors this time. I'm going to try to tap you out."
"Bring it on, Champ."
He wasted no time. He charged, but this time I was ready. I leaned into him, using my superior weight and height to try and drive him backward. We stumbled into the living room, crashing near the edge of the large, soft rug.
We rolled and grunted, fighting for leverage. I managed to trap his arm for a second, feeling the surprising density of his muscles. I was stronger, but he was like an eel—all speed and evasion. He was laughing, completely focused on the fight.
"You're getting better!" he yelled as he slipped out of my grasp.
We flipped over, and I managed to get on top, pinning his shoulders to the rug. I held him there, breathing heavily, proud of the momentary victory.
"Ha! See? I got you!" I panted.
"Did you?" he smirked.
In one quick, shocking motion, Mikey bridged his hips violently. I lost my balance just long enough for him to explode underneath me. His legs shot up, wrapping around my torso as he flipped me over. The world spun, and the pressure returned—he’d locked me in a figure-four around my waist, then quickly transitioned his legs, securing the familiar, inescapable grip around my neck.
He had me. Again.
I was flat on the rug, my head trapped between his powerful, wiry thighs. He leaned back, holding the squeeze, the pressure firm and non-negotiable.
"Still think you got me?" he asked, his voice steady.
"No, no," I wheezed, my chest tight. I tried to flail, to pry his legs open, but it was futile. I hated that I was stuck, but the sheer effort, the quick, definitive move he used, was exhilarating. The fight had been healthy, vigorous, and he had won purely through technique and speed.
I lay still, accepting the position. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. I could smell the scent of the carpet and a faint, clean sweat emanating from Mikey. The feeling of absolute helplessness and being totally controlled was overwhelming.
"Do you concede, Cheater?" he asked softly, still holding the squeeze.
"I concede," I whispered, the words barely audible. "I submit, Mikey."
He held it for a beat longer, just long enough for the tension to snap, and then he let go.
I sat up, breathing raggedly, rubbing my neck. I looked at him, and in that moment, all the competitive feelings, all the embarrassment, and all the previous frustrations evaporated. I was left with pure, unadulterated awe.
He was the coolest person I had ever met—unapologetically himself, brilliant in his own way, and fearless.
I reached out, grabbing his arm. "Mikey," I said, the emotion almost intoxicating, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "You are honestly the best. The coolest person in the whole high school."
Mikey stopped dusting off his pants. He looked surprised, slightly embarrassed by the intensity of the compliment. He grinned, but this time it was different—less taunting, more genuinely pleased.
"Thanks, man," he said, giving my arm a friendly punch. "You're not so bad yourself. For a grandmaster."
We stood there, breathing hard, the algebra books forgotten on the dining room table. The wrestling was over, but the friendship—and the ritual—had just begun.
The Teacher’s Suspicion
A few days later, Mr. Henderson caught me just before lunch as I was passing the classroom he used for the Chess Club. He leaned out the door and motioned me in.
"Ryan, can I steal a minute of your time?" he asked, his tone professional but curious.
I walked into the familiar room, instantly feeling nervous. He closed the door, and the silence of the empty classroom felt heavier than usual.
He didn’t sit down; instead, he rested against the edge of a desk, arms crossed. "I want to talk to you about the chess ranking update. I just... I still can't quite grasp it. Ryan, you are a vastly superior chess player to Mikey. I've seen you dismantle players who've been studying the game for years."
He raised an eyebrow, his gaze direct. "Be honest with me. Were you goofing off? Did you get distracted and throw the game?"
I kept my shoulders squared, sticking to the story I’d been forced to adopt. "No, sir. Mikey plays aggressively. I underestimated him early on and lost too many key pieces. And then, yes, I got embarrassed. I was losing badly, and in a stupid, momentary panic, I tried to cheat, thinking I could sneak away with a win."
"A lapse in judgment," Mr. Henderson mused. "You, the top player in the club, losing so badly that you resorted to an illegal move. It seems... out of character."
He paused, letting the silence hang in the air while he watched my reaction. I focused intently on a chipped corner of the desk.
"That’s one version of the story," he continued, his tone shifting to something more cautious. "The other version, the one I hear bits and pieces of, is a little different."
My stomach dropped. This was it.
"Ryan, the other boys—Shane, Mark, those ones—they talk," he said softly. "I heard about an incident in the gym two days ago. Something about a confrontation. Something physical, involving you and Mikey... and wrestling."
I felt the blood drain from my face, mortified that my humiliation had become school gossip that reached the teachers. I shrugged weakly. "We were just... messing around, sir. Boys being boys."
"Messing around," he repeated, unconvinced. "They said it looked like quite a bit more than messing around. They said Mikey had you completely dominated. Ryan, I need to know, are you being bullied by him?"
"No! Absolutely not," I insisted, my voice gaining sudden strength as I defended Mikey. "Mikey and I are good friends now, sir. We were just settling an argument, and he knows wrestling, and I... I don't."
Mr. Henderson tilted his head. "And how, precisely, did this argument settlement conclude? If you don't mind me asking, what hold did he use to... settle the argument?"
He waited patiently, forcing me to own up to the specifics.
I swallowed. "He... he got me in a headscissors, sir."
"A headscissors," Mr. Henderson repeated slowly. "An inescapable pin, typically used for submission. And he held you until you agreed to his terms?"
"He was just being playful," I insisted, trying to sell the lie. "He's just really competitive."
Mr. Henderson looked at me for a long moment, then smiled—a knowing, almost sympathetic smile.
"I see," he said. "So, you two are... close, eh? I'm starting to get the picture. You're different characters, you two, but you bring out something in each other. He’s a bit wild and physical, and you're the brainy, thoughtful type. You guys have some sort of chemistry."
He paused, his eyes twinkling a little, but the concern hadn't vanished.
"Look, Ryan," he said, moving closer and resting a hand gently on my shoulder. "Whatever the dynamic is between you and Mikey, I respect that you stood by your word and made the correction on the chess board. But if at any point this 'chemistry' becomes uncomfortable, or if you feel pressured in any way, you know the school counselor is here. My door is always open."
"I understand, sir. Thank you," I said quickly, relieved the interrogation was finally over.
I left the classroom, slightly embarrassed but also weirdly proud. I had kept my secret and protected Mikey. I had maintained the story that he was the rightful chess victor, and the wrestling was simply a side note to a new, intense friendship. As I walked down the hall, I realized Mr. Henderson might be suspicious, but in his own way, he was starting to understand that something unique had begun between the "grandmaster" and the wrestler.
The Geometry of Humility
The atmosphere in my room was cozy, a sharp contrast to the grey clouds gathering outside. On the television, the Toronto Maple Leafs were just dropping the puck for the first period against the Bruins. Mikey was hunched over his algebra notebook, while I sat back in my desk chair, spinning a pen with practiced ease.
"Look, Mikey, it’s not that complicated," I said, my voice carrying a patronizing edge I didn't even try to hide. "It’s just basic logic. I finished this unit in twenty minutes. I don't get why you’re staring at it like it’s ancient Greek. Some people just have the 'math brain,' I guess."
Mikey stopped writing. He didn't look up, but I saw his jaw tighten. "I'm trying, Ryan. You don't have to act like I'm a toddler."
"I’m just saying," I continued, leaning into my academic arrogance. "It’s a good thing you have wrestling, because if the world ran on quadratic equations, you’d be in some real trouble. Luckily for you, you’ve got a 'grandmaster' like me to pull you through."
I let out a small, self-satisfied chuckle. It was the last straw.
Mikey didn't say a word. He stood up slowly, tossed his pencil onto the table, and looked at me. The lively spirit in his eyes had been replaced by a focused, predatory stillness.
"You think you're so much better than me because of some numbers on a page?" Mikey asked, his voice dangerously calm.
"I mean, the grades don't lie, Mike—"
Before I could finish, Mikey lunged. He didn't go for a tackle this time; he simply grabbed my collar and yanked me out of my chair. I tumbled onto the thick, navy-blue carpet of my bedroom floor. I tried to use my size to push him off, but I was slow, and Mikey was already in his element.
"Let’s see how that 'math brain' handles this," he grunted.
He scrambled over me with the speed of a desert fox. I managed to roll onto my back, but I walked right into the trap he’d set a dozen times before. His legs flashed upward, and in a heartbeat, they were locked around my neck in a crushing headscissors.
"Mikey, come on! I was just joking!" I gasped, my face already flushing.
"You weren't joking. You were being a jerk," Mikey snapped. He sat up, leaning his weight back to intensify the pressure.
On the TV, the play-by-play announcer was shouting about a Leafs power play. I realized with a sinking feeling that Mikey wasn't letting go anytime soon. He settled in, his ankles locked tight, his thin but incredibly strong legs acting like a vice.
The minutes ticked by. On the screen, the first period was a back-and-forth battle. I thrashed and flailed, trying to find a gap in his hold, but Mikey was an anchor. Every time I moaned or tried to pry his legs apart, he just squeezed harder.
"You feel that, Ryan?" Mikey asked, his voice steady over the sound of the skating and the crowd's roar. "Does your GPA help you right now? Can you solve for X to get out of this?"
I couldn't answer. I was too busy trying to breathe through the pressure. My shame was absolute. I was four inches taller and forty pounds heavier, yet I was being held like a trophy on my own bedroom floor. By the time the horn sounded for the end of the first period, my energy was completely spent. I tapped his thigh, a rhythmic, desperate signal.
"I... I give," I managed to wheeze. "I'm sorry, Mike. I'm a jerk. Please."
Mikey held the lock for ten more seconds of the intermission, letting the silence of the room settle in, before finally uncrossing his ankles.
I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, my neck throbbing and my ego in tatters. Mikey sat back against my bed, breathing easily, watching the highlights on the TV.
"Ready to try that algebra again?" he asked, no malice left in his voice—just a quiet authority.
"Yeah," I said, sitting up slowly. "Yeah, let's do it."
For the next hour, the dynamic changed. I stopped talking down to him. I slowed down, listened to where he was getting stuck, and explained the concepts with patience and respect. I realized that while I knew the math, he had a different kind of intelligence—a grit and a focus that I lacked. We finished the worksheet, and for the first time, Mikey actually seemed to enjoy the process.
By the time we finished his other subjects, a fierce snowstorm had hit. The wind rattled against my window, and the landscape looked like a white wall of wind-driven snow.
"I should get home before this gets worse," Mikey said, grabbing his bag.
"I'll walk you," I said immediately. "It’s brutal out there."
We bundled up in our heavy parkas and stepped out into the freezing night. The snow was horizontal, stinging our faces. We walked side-by-side, shoulders touching for warmth as we navigated the drifts.
The silence between us wasn't awkward anymore; it was comfortable. I looked at Mikey, his small frame pushing through the wind without a complaint, and I felt a surge of genuine affection. He was my best friend, not because we were the same, but because he balanced me out. He humbled my arrogance, and I helped his ambition.
As we reached his front porch, I patted his shoulder. "See you tomorrow, Mike. Good job on the math today."
"Thanks, Ryan," he grinned, the snow clinging to his eyelashes. "And thanks for the 'extra' lesson. You’re not so bad for a grandmaster."
I laughed, watching him disappear into his house. Walking back home through the storm, I didn't mind the cold. I realized that Mikey meant more to me than any rank on a chess board or any 'A' on a report card. He was the only person who truly knew how to keep me grounded.
Boardrooms and Basements
Fifteen years had passed, but the rhythm of our lives remained remarkably consistent. I had followed the path everyone expected: a career in high-stakes corporate strategy. My days were spent staring at complex data models and navigating boardroom politics—modern-day chess, but with much higher stakes and far less joy.
Mikey, true to his spirit, had opened his own gym. He was a highly sought-after strength and conditioning coach. He was still several inches shorter than me and still had that lean, whipcord build, though his shoulders had filled out with the functional muscle of a man who moved for a living.
One Friday evening, after a particularly brutal week involving a failed merger and fourteen-hour workdays, I found myself at Mikey’s house. We were in his finished basement, a space lined with thick wrestling mats and a large screen TV that was currently muted, showing a re-run of a classic Leafs game.
"You look like hell, Ryan," Mikey said, handing me a bottle of water. He was wearing his old wrestling sweatpants and a faded gym tee.
"It’s just the job, Mike. It’s all mental. It’s like my brain won’t stop spinning the same three problems," I said, rubbing my temples. I felt stiff, trapped in my own head.
Mikey looked at the mats, then back at me. A familiar glint appeared in his eyes—the same look he’d given me in the schoolyard and the chess room all those years ago.
"You know the cure for a brain that won't shut up?" he asked, kicking off his sneakers.
I sighed, already beginning to unbutton my dress shirt. "I think I remember."
We didn't need to say much. We stepped onto the mats, and the years seemed to melt away. Even as an adult, I had the weight advantage, but Mikey’s technique had only sharpened. We locked up, our breathing the only sound in the room.
The wrestling was a language we both spoke perfectly. It was vigorous and honest. When I tried to overpower him, he used that same deceptive speed, slipping behind me, forcing me to react, to move, to be present in my body instead of my spreadsheets.
"Still trying to muscle it, Grandmaster?" he grunted, catching my wrist and spinning me toward the mat.
"Old habits," I panted, reversing the pressure and pinning him for a fleeting second.
But, as it always did, the scramble led to the inevitable. I overextended, trying to catch his leg, and Mikey saw the opening before I even realized I’d made it. He spun, his legs flashing with the same lightning-fast precision he'd had at sixteen.
In a heartbeat, the world went horizontal. I was on the mat, and Mikey’s legs were locked firmly and flawlessly around my neck.
He settled into the headscissors, his ankles crossed in a tight figure-four. The pressure was intense, grounding, and strangely familiar. I thrashed for a minute, purely out of habit, trying to find a way to bridge out, but Mikey was a master of the hold now. He sat back, his weight perfectly balanced, holding me in that definitive, uncompromising grip.
"You still there, Ryan?" he asked, his voice calm.
I stopped struggling. I lay there on the mat, my head squeezed between the legs of my best friend, watching the silent hockey game on the TV. The corporate stress, the merger, the endless emails—it all vanished. There was only the pressure, the mat, and the physical reality of the moment.
"I'm here," I managed to say, my voice muffled.
He held the lock for a long, quiet interval. It wasn't about winning anymore; it was about the shared ritual, the way he knew exactly how to pull me out of my head and back into the world. After a few minutes, he tightened the squeeze once more, a silent question.
"I submit," I whispered, tapping his calf. "You win, Mike. You always do."
He released the hold, and we both rolled onto our backs, staring up at the basement ceiling, gasping for air and laughing. The intoxication I’d felt as a teenager hadn't changed; if anything, it was deeper now.
"You needed that," Mikey said, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"I really did," I admitted, feeling a profound sense of clarity. "You're still the best, Mike. Honestly. I don't know how I'd keep my head on straight without you around to squeeze it every once in a while."
Mikey laughed, a warm, genuine sound. "Whatever it takes to keep the Grandmaster humble."
We sat up, two grown men who had found a way to keep the best parts of their youth alive. We were different in every way—the strategist and the athlete, the brain and the brawn—but on the mats, we were just Ryan and Mikey, and that was more than enough.
Legacy on the Living Room Rug
It was a Sunday afternoon at Mikey’s place, and the house was full of the kind of chaotic warmth that only a family can create. Mikey’s two kids—ten-year-old Leo and eight-year-old Sarah—were huddled around the dining room table. Between them sat the heavy, wooden chess set I’d gifted Mikey for his thirty-fifth birthday.
"Now, remember," I said, pointing to the board. "The bishop stays on its own colour. If it starts on a black square, it stays on black squares. It’s the rule of the game."
"Why?" Leo asked, his brow furrowed with the same intense focus I used to see on Mikey’s face.
"Because," I said, a playful smirk tugging at my lips, "if you move a bishop to the wrong colour, you’re cheating. And trust me, you don’t want to get caught cheating in this house."
From the kitchen, I heard a sharp, familiar laugh. Mikey walked in, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He looked exactly like a slightly older version of the kid I’d met in seventh grade—still wiry, still grinning, though his hair was starting to grey at the temples.
"Is Uncle Ryan telling you about the 'Illegal Bishop Incident' again?" Mikey asked, leaning against the doorframe.
"He says you beat him, Dad!" Sarah chirped. "Is that true? Did you beat a Grandmaster?"
Mikey winked at me. "I sure did. Put him right on his back. In chess and on the carpet."
I rolled my eyes. "He’s leaving out the part where he used physical coercion to get that win on the official record."
"It’s called 'leveraging your assets,' Ryan," Mikey countered.
I turned back to the kids. "Your dad has a very... unique way of teaching sportsmanship. But look, Leo, you’ve got me in a bit of a corner here. If you move your knight to F3, you’ll have my queen trapped."
Leo studied the board. I could see the wheels turning—he had Mikey’s competitive streak and my analytical brain. He moved the piece with a flourish. "Checkmate soon, Uncle Ryan?"
"Maybe," I teased, feeling that old, familiar spark of intellectual arrogance. "But I’ve been a Grandmaster since before you were born. I think I can still outmanoeuvre a ten-year-old."
Mikey caught the tone in my voice—the "high-handed" Ryan persona that usually preceded a humbling. He walked over, standing behind my chair.
"You're getting a little cocky again, aren't you, Ryan?" Mikey’s voice was low, full of that old, playful mischief.
"I'm just stating facts, Mike," I said, leaning back. "The kids need to know that chess is a game of superior logic."
"Logic, huh?" Mikey’s hands dropped onto my shoulders. He gave them a firm, meaningful squeeze. "I think the kids have had enough logic for one day. What do you think, guys? Should we show Uncle Ryan what happens when he gets too big for his britches?"
"Wrestle! Wrestle!" the kids started chanting, jumping up from their chairs.
I didn't even have time to stand up. Mikey pulled the chair back, and with the practiced ease of twenty years of friendship, he hooked my arm and guided me down to the thick rug in the living room. The kids scrambled onto the sofa to watch the "main event."
"Mikey, the kids are watching!" I laughed, though I was already bracing myself.
"Good! They need to see how to handle a 'Grandmaster,'" Mikey grunted.
We scrambled for a moment—a soft, domestic version of our basement sessions. I was laughing, trying to keep my long limbs from knocking over a floor lamp, while Mikey moved with that terrifying, eel-like efficiency. Within seconds, he had me pinned. He spun around, and I knew exactly where this was going.
His legs flashed up, crossing perfectly under my chin and over my ears. The world went quiet as the headscissors locked in.
"Do you give, Uncle Ryan?" Leo shouted, leaning over the back of the couch.
"I... I give!" I muffled out, the pressure firm but safe, a grounding weight that always seemed to reset my internal clock.
Mikey held it for a beat, grinning at his kids. "See? This is the secret to life, kids. Doesn't matter how smart you are, there’s always someone who can catch you if you stop being humble."
He released the hold, and I sat up, rubbing my neck and laughing while Sarah and Leo piled onto both of us. The house was loud, the chess game was forgotten, and the Toronto Maple Leafs game was just starting on the TV in the background.
As I sat there with Mikey’s kids climbing over me, I looked at my best friend. He was laughing, breathless, looking entirely content. I realized then that while I had taught him algebra and chess, he had taught me something much more important: how to let go, how to be vulnerable, and how to find joy in being "beaten" by the people who love you most.
"Ready for the second period, Grandmaster?" Mikey asked, offering me a hand up.
"Always," I said, taking his hand. "But I’m still not letting Leo win that chess game."
"We'll see about that," Mikey laughed. "We'll see."
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