The first Tab knew of anything—of course—was when the glass door to the training room slammed back and Uncle Eddie barged into the foyer, his assistant instructor Marcus at his elbow, both holding up a couple of staggering students. The red was blood this time, and Tab scrambled out of his seat for the first-aid kit.
“Alright, lemme look,” Marcus was saying, and Tab yanked the green box from under the counter before realising who they were: a ginger kid he vaguely recognised as Justin, one of the friendlier boys, and Nick. Nick was bleeding copiously from the nose, and his mouth guard had been removed by Marcus. Justin was muttering a rapid, “Ow, ow, ow!” as Uncle Eddie untied his glove and pulled it off.
“A&E for you,” Uncle Eddie said flatly.
“Bloody hurts!” Justin said in a petulant
