Kayla placed the bag beside her foot because the strap kept sliding.
Cole stepped closer.
“You think you’re better than everybody here.”
“No.”
“You think because you got into Northwestern—”
Kayla interrupted him.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The thing you actually care about.”
Cole stared.
Kayla continued.
“You keep needing every good thing that happens to me to be fake.”
Cole told her to shut up.
She did not.
“My grades are diversity.”
“My journalism is diversity.”
“My scholarship is diversity.”
“My college acceptance is diversity.”
Kayla shook her head.
“At some point, you’re going to have to admit I earned something.”
Students around the court were watching now.
Someone raised a phone.
Cole leaned close enough that Kayla could feel his breath.
“You want everybody to think I’m racist.”
Kayla answered quietly.
“I want you to stop giving me evidence.”
Cole’s shoulder moved.
His right arm came forward.
Kayla saw the punch late but dropped fast enough that it missed her head.
Gasps came from the bleachers.
Cole turned.
Kayla backed away.
“Don’t.”
He came again.
Kayla raised her arms.
The second punch struck her forearm.
She moved sideways.
Cole followed.
Kayla had trained for almost three years at a community boxing gym with Marcus, mostly for fitness and confidence. She was not a competitive fighter, but she knew how to protect her face, manage distance, and avoid standing directly in front of someone larger.
Those habits took over.
Cole swung.
Kayla slipped outside the punch.
She countered once.
Cole stumbled.
Kayla stopped.
“Stay back.”
He rushed again.
The next exchange moved across the free-throw line.
Cole reached toward her jacket.
Kayla shoved him off.
He swung wide.