He lowered his shoulder and charged. It was a classic high school football tackle—clumsy, telegraphed, reliant on mass. He intended to drive me into the dirt.
To him, I was a speed bump. To me, he was moving in slow motion. My world narrowed down to geometry and physics.
Just as Kyle was about to make contact, I pivoted. My left foot slid back in a smooth arc, my body turning ninety degrees like a closing door. Kyle hit nothing but air.
