This is where it starts.
You face each other. Madam Hooch speaks, you don’t listen. You reach forward and grasp his hand. It is tradition. It is nothing special.
But he squeezes too hard, as usual, a friendly handshake between competitors suddenly somehow a contest of wills. A challenge. Someone has to let go first, and it’s not going to be you. You squeeze back, harder. You let go at the same time, because people are starting to stare.
You play. You win. The game ends.
After, he finds you.
In the locker room, usually, where he slams you into the lockers, cold metal always a shock against your skin. In the showers, once, when neither of you could wait. Outside, on the grass, beneath the stands.
There are three absolute truths: After the game, Marcus will find you. He will be rougher than you expect, and you will like it. When it ends, when you are still light-headed and gasping, he will tell you that he won’t do this again, and you will know that he is lying.
There will always be another game.