Between two kops

"I dedicate this story to the friends who now watch the matches from a better place, in the stands in the sky, and to all the misunderstood kids from the brotherhoods." Steven "What's up, gipsy? Wearing that hoodie again?" The voice of Ilija Nestorović cut through the classroom the second I stepped inside. I dropped my backpack next to the desk, slowly, without taking my eyes off him. The muscles in my neck tightened on their own. With guys like them, it never stops. That constant flexing, that endless measuring of whose street it is and whose turf we're on. Ilija Nestorović wasn't just some ordinary neighborhood delinquent. He was the guy the whole school was terrified of. The type who trips out thinking he owns the place. Built like a brick house, as if the gym was his only home, he wore his short, chestnut hair with a strange, military like seriousness. But the worst part was his eyes. Blue and contemptuous, they were constantly scanning you, unpredictable as undercover cops. You never knew if he was looking at you because you were in his way or if he was just waiting for the right moment to show you your place. "Got a problem?" I asked, my voice colder than I actually felt inside. He stood up slowly, with that half smirk that isn't looking for an answer, but a fight. "I want you to take that s**t off." He grabbed the edges of my Delije hoodie with his fingers and jerked me toward him. Just enough to prove he could. To him, it was just a provocation. To me, it was a second skin. "Or am I gonna have to take it off for you, huh?" "Step up and try it, pussy." Those six words were the trigger. He stepped up, getting so close in my face that I could see every single pore, every tiny drop of sweat on his forehead. I hated when someone got in my face. More than anything, man... And he knew it damn well. "I'm telling you for the last time, bro. Take it off." His voice was low now, almost quiet. That specific tone that comes right before s**t goes down. I shook my head. Not a chance. The next moment, a blow. His fist hit me straight in the cheekbone, hard enough to make my ears ring. I stumbled sideways, barely missing the edge of the desk, but I didn't even feel the pain. Just that crazy pressure in my head and a rage that burns through everything in its path. Maybe I screwed up... Ah, f**k him. I hit back. Instinct was faster than thought. I struck him once, then again, putting all my weight and strength into it. He might have been taller, he might have been stronger, but I had years of the stands, sweat, and street experience behind me. He wasn't taking this hoodie off me as long as I was breathing and standing on my feet. It wasn't just a piece of clothing from a boutique. It was a question of who you are and how far you're willing to stand up for it. Chairs started crashing to the floor, a sound that split your ears. Someone was shouting for us to stop, someone was cheering, and you could hear phone cameras clicking and the muffled laughter of those who always watch conflict through a screen. I pulled Ilija back. We crashed over a desk, and my legs got tangled in a chair. For a second, he used his weight to gain the upper hand on the floor. I raised my fists over my face. His elbows came crashing down, one after another, while I tried desperately to cover up. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I didn't feel pain. I was so amped up I didn't even notice how heavy his hits actually were. In that moment, it didn't matter who was a Delija and who was a Grobar anymore. It was purely about dignity. Who stays down first, and who stands up the winner. "Enough! You two, stop this right now!" The door slammed against the wall. The physics teacher, Ms. Tadić, rushed in, pale, her hands raised as if trying to stop a fire that had already swallowed everything. I felt her hands on my shoulders, trembling and strangely gentle as she pulled us out of the clinch. "Hey! You're hurting each other!" That day, I thought it was just another fight in a long line of them this year. I didn't know that because of it, I'd be packing my bags and leaving this school.