Chilliness consumed the air that swept over my cheek. The cool breeze left goosebumps. Despite that, I took off my jacket and slipped out of my denim jeans, revealing blue basketball shorts. Besides, bits of sunlight snuck through chunky clouds. Ares kept his graphic hoodie on and cracked his tattooed knuckles. His lanky shadow slanted behind him and reached for the apartment sign: Mirthtown Manor, where police officers visited every other week.

Cars sped down cracked asphalt and spewed weed smoke from windows. Printed tags, good for thirty days, covered most of them. Did no one pay their car note? Or did they crash their vehicles often? After folding my jeans and jacket, I placed them beside Ares’ Nike bag. He watched me check my phone, a black rectangle that was primitive compared to the iPhone, which our parents couldn’t afford.

“Kyshawn,” Ares glanced at me. “You sure you don’t want me to hold your phone for you?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” I slipped my phone back into the pocket of my folded jeans. “I’m ready.”

“Alright, we got ball first.” Ares led the way towards boys who looked like men. “Don’t be soft out here. You’re a representation of me.”

“Say less, big bro.”

Cyrus sat on the air conditioner with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He was shorter, skinnier, and darker than me. Locs fell down his face and touched his brownish-black lips, a drawback from smoking too much. I knew him somewhat. Or I should say, I was privy to his reputation as a troublemaker. Since his brothers were well-respected, he got away with shit others wouldn’t. It bothered me that he wasn’t playing football with us.

Ares gathered his team around him. He drew the play with his finger on the football. All of my teammates had nicknames earned through various ways. Ares’ nickname was his name because he would go to war with anyone, especially those who messed with his loved ones. Speed got his nickname from fleeing security guards after getting caught skipping class. Pimp got his nickname from fucking three white girls in their house out Virginia Beach. Dome’s nickname was given to him after he broke some nigga’s nose and knocked him out with a single headbutt. And the story behind Ramen’s nickname was he ate noodles like chips, which was pretty good, despite being ghetto as hell. Only two of them were middle schoolers like me. Everybody else was in high school. Of course, there were more to their nicknames that I’d only heard rumors about. For example, Ramen once ate noodles while selling coke to a pastor.

Unlike my teammates, I didn’t cement myself yet. I didn’t have a nickname protecting me from these wolves raised on food stamps. For now, Ares, who told me to line up in formation, kept me safe while our parents struggled to make ends meet. I was a wide receiver like Pimp. Dome and Ramen were offensive linemen, protecting Ares, our quarterback. He tapped the football and said, “Hike!”

Ares drew back and clutched the football while black bodies crunched together. Grass decorated dust clouds. I pushed the cornerback’s hands off me and performed a slant route right on cue. The football swirled towards me. I caught it and dodged a tackle, but his hands gripped my leg. Before I could get free, a fat defender lowered his shoulders and crashed into me. The bones in my leg shook but remained in place. Pimp jogged towards me and said, “Damn! You good, Kyshawn?”

“Yeah,” I stumbled to my feet and ignored the laughter. “I think so.”

My leg felt as if I stretched it too far, but nothing seemed broken. I limped around and tested my leg out. Everyone on the opposing team kept saying I needed to just sit out because that was a nasty hit. After watching me walk for a few seconds, Pimp shook his head and said, “I think you better sit for at least a play or two.”

“Yeah, you might be right.” I leaned over my knees. “But who’s gonna take my spot?”

“I’ll take your spot.” Cyrus pulled up his pants and fastened his belt tighter. “I’m surprise you can walk after that. Look like you broke your fucking leg.”

Ares sucked his teeth and grabbed the football. His gaze followed me to my jeans and jacket not as neatly folded anymore. Did someone bump into them by accident? Nah, I doubted it. My brother’s bag was just how he left it. He seemed so disappointed in me. Why didn’t he ask if I was okay? I wasn’t soft. I just needed a breather, a moment to stretch out my leg. But on the first play, though? I loudly sighed and cursed to myself. What if I kept playing? Would I have earned a nickname? And what if I got called something like Cotton because I sat out? Shit!

Cyrus ran with the football and trucked one defender before being tackled. A phone fell out of his pocket. He snatched it off the ground.

Ramen chuckled and said, “Aye, that phone look awfully familiar.”

“I know it is.” Cyrus threw the football back to my brother. “Because it’s my shit.”

I checked my jeans. A shiver flowed through my entire body. My first ever cellphone was gone. That glimpse wasn’t enough to know for sure Cyrus took it. But he was definitely the main suspect. Everyone on the sidelines kept playfully asking him, “What you got in your pocket?”

My heartbeat throbbed. I couldn’t hear because of how loud it was. My blood bubbled throughout my veins. Ares threw a touchdown. He glanced at me, as if letting me know he wouldn’t step in and save me. I had to save myself. He taught me everything I needed to know. All those sessions of slap boxing prepared me for this moment. Violence was already instilled in me. I was from a place nicknamed Pistol City. I was born for conflict.

I cracked my neck, got up, and said, “Let me see that phone you dropped, Cyrus.”

“I ain’t got your phone, nigga.”

“Then, prove it.”

“You better chill out.” Cyrus frowned. “I’ll knock your ass out in front of your brother.”

“Do it then,” I pushed him. “Hoe ass nigga!”

“Oh, you don’t know me.” Cyrus took off his hoodie. “I’m one hundred percent goon, nigga!”

Everyone formed a circle around us. My brother and his friends made sure no one interfered. Cyrus’ fist nipped my chin, but I got him with a hook. He stumbled backward and put his guard up again. I swung and missed, which he capitalized on. A haymaker scraped across my cheek. Spit flew from my mouth. He went for my legs. I placed my weight on him and spread my legs as wide as they would go, like I was setting up for a race. I punched him in his sides until he ripped out of my grasp. I closed the space between us and let my hands run free. It didn’t matter what he threw. My brother showed me how to harness my anger. I was a black, young man screwed by history. On my birth certificate, Black or African American was just another word for nigger. So, with every breath in me, I’d raise hell!

Cyrus gave me a reason to unleash my frustrations. My punches were questions. Why couldn’t I go to a private school? Why did my parents not have college degrees? Who was responsible for me sleeping through gunshots, huh? He tumbled to the ground. Before he got up, I pinned him down. He scratched and clawed at my throat, hoping I’d get off him. No, I had more questions for him. They possessed my reddening fists.

Thunder filled the greying clouds, roaring like the rowdy crowd. Pimp shook his curling fingers. Ramen clapped his hands. Speed cheered me on with his shadow boxing. Dome stomped and bit his lip, saying, “Yeah, there you go. Make sure he don’t ever steal from you again!”

For every raindrop, I punched Cyrus. Why wouldn’t he take from someone with money, huh? Like the motherfuckers who lived in beach houses out Virginia Beach? But he was too pussy for that, right? He wouldn’t take back from the families who pushed black folks out of the largest city in Virginia. According to my brother, that prosperity wasn’t self-made by Caucasians. Why did I have to worry about Chesapeake Police Officers? Whenever I wanted to go into that stupid city, my mother reminded me to be careful. What if I didn’t want to be careful? Maybe I wanted to be dangerous. It was how I survived, anyway. Why pretend I was civilized?

Cyrus’ head sunk into mud. He groaned and shielded himself, but didn’t know what to cover. When he guarded his face, I punched him in his gut. When he protected his gut, I pummeled his face. As someone pulled me off him, I grabbed my phone from his pocket and kicked him several times, yelling, “Don’t you ever steal from me again!”

“Imma get my brothers to jump your ass,” Cyrus cried.

“That ain’t happening.” Lightning glazed Ares’ face, which was still as a stone. “I know your brothers. If anything, they’ll beat you for asking. You good, Kyshawn?”

“Yeah,” I said and wiped blood from my lips.

Everybody dapped me up and rubbed my aching head. They crowned me as Killer Ky, but I hoped I’d never catch a body. On the bright side, that name alone provided me with protection. Now, people would think twice before trying me.

The rain didn’t matter because storms lived inside all of us. Still, the watery wind bellowed, like it wanted to sweep away everything in sight. While the crowd dispersed, I slipped my jeans and jacket on. Ares grabbed his Nike bag. Throughout the whole walk home, his hand rested over my head like an umbrella.