This time when I come in, he's ready. We exchange a flurry of blows, most blocked or deflected, but I catch him with a hook to the ribs that makes him grunt.
"Fuck you," I spit out, already circling again.
"No thanks, not my type. Though your little dancer?—"
I don't let him finish. I charge him, throwing caution to the wind, and connect with a solid right that snaps his head back. The taste of victory is short-lived as he retaliates with a brutal body shot that forces the air from my lungs.
"Too easy," he taunts, wiping blood from his lip. "You're so fucking predictable when it comes to her."
By now, we've drawn a small crowd. Six or seven guys have stopped their workouts to watch, forming a loose circle around the mats. I hear someone whisper, "Holy shit, is that Blackwood and Astor?" but I tune it out, focusing only on Copeland's movements.
"At least I'm not fucking everything that moves just to feel something because your stepsister fucked you up," I counter, ducking under a wild swing and landing a shot to his kidney.
He hisses through his teeth but grins through the pain. "But I am feeling something, Ghost. That's the difference between us. I embrace what I am."
"And I don't give a fuck what you think," I growl, landing another hit that makes him stumble back a step. "Your opinion on this means jack shit to me."
We're both breathing hard now, sweat mingling with blood as we continue to circle each other. The crowd's grown bigger, people pulling out their phones to record two of SCU's hockey stars beating the shit out of each other. Tomorrow it'll be all over campus, but right now I couldn't care less. If it gets to Coach, he’s going to lecture us again. He might as well just record it and play it and save his breath.
Cope spits blood onto the mat. "You think she's so fucking innocent? That pretty little dancer probably spreads her legs for that?—"
I see red. Pure fucking rage floods my system as I launch myself at him, tackling him to the ground. We roll across themat, trading blows, neither of us willing to back down. I slam my elbow into his jaw and feel a sick satisfaction when he grunts in pain.
"Enough!" A booming voice cuts through the haze of my fury.
Declan Reed, the gym manager and former SCU legend, pushes through the crowd of spectators. He's got at least five years on us, but he's still built like a fucking tank. His buzzed head and stern expression make him look like a drill sergeant about to tear us new assholes.
"Break it up now," he orders, stepping onto the mat.
Neither of us moves immediately. I've got Cope pinned, my forearm across his throat, and he's got his fist pulled back ready to slam into my kidney.
"I said now, motherfuckers," Declan growls, grabbing my shoulder and physically hauling me off Copeland.
I stumble back, chest heaving, as Cope rolls to his feet with a shit-eating grin on his face despite the blood trickling from his split lip.
"Just a friendly sparring session, Reed," Cope says, wiping blood from his chin. "No harm done."
Declan looks between us, his expression making it clear he's not buying that bullshit for a second. "You two are gonna get yourselves suspended before the season even starts."
I roll my shoulders, feeling the ache setting in. Tomorrow's gonna be a bitch, but right now the pain feels good.
"Blackwood," Declan says, turning to me. "Your girl called up here for you. Said you're not answering your phone."
My heart fucking stops. "What?"
"Yeah, about twenty minutes ago. Halsey took the call at the front desk." He runs a hand over his buzzed head. "She said not to worry about picking her up from the dance studio. She's going out with Brian or Brant or some shit. I don't know, Halsey told me the shit and I'm just fucking relaying the message."
"Brett," I correct automatically, my blood turning to ice in my veins. "His name is Brett."
Copeland snorts, wiping blood from his split lip. "How many boyfriends she got? Damn, Woodsy, you're losing your touch."
I ignore him, already moving toward my gym bag. My phone's buried at the bottom, screen showing three missed calls from Reese and a text message I haven't read.
"Fuck," I mutter, swiping it open.
North Star
Hey where are you? I'm done with class early. Brett asked if I wanted to grab dinner with some of his friends. I said yes since you're MIA. Don't worry about picking me up! See you later? <3
