My jaw clenches. I’m about to retaliate by “accidentally” spilling a full glass of ice water down his chest, when a hand closes around the back of Kevin’s shirt.
It’s Luke.
Everything happens fast after that.
He hauls the giant former defensive lineman up like it’s nothing to him, like Kevin’s not the size and weight of a refrigerator.
Kevin’s beer tips over, foaming across the table as his buddies scramble back.
There’s a beat of shocked silence, and then Luke is dragging him—actually dragging him, Kevin’s boots scramblingfor purchase on the worn floorboards—across the entire length of the bar.
The front door bangs open.
And then Luke tosses him like a piece of garbage onto the snow-covered parking lot.
Kevin lands hard, arms windmilling. He sputters, snow clinging to his jacket as he struggles to his hands and knees.
The entire bar has gone silent. Even the jukebox seems to have paused between songs.
Then Kevin sees it: the crowd forming in the doorway, on the porch, people pressing forward with their phones out. His expression darkens, face going from red to nearly purple.
Uh oh.Bullies don’t do well with public humiliation. This is about to get messy.
He clambers to his feet, brushing snow off his jeans with sharp, angry movements.
“You fucker,” he spits at Luke.
Luke just stands on the porch, arms folded, looking almost bored.
Then Kevin charges.
My hand flies to my mouth as I cringe preemptively, my heart lurching into my throat. I’m terrified Luke is about to get flattened, because Kevin played D-line for State and he’s built like a brick wall and when he gets momentum going?—
But Luke, arms still casually folded, just sidesteps the first wild, drunken punch Kevin throws.
It’s actually kind of graceful.
The crowd erupts. There are whoops and hollers, the energy shifting from shocked to bloodthirsty in seconds.
Chants of “Fight!” and “Kick his ass!” echo through the cold air.
Kevin recovers, spinning back around, and this time he puts his whole weight behind the punch, a haymaker that would take Luke’s head clean off if itconnected.
Luke’s arm shoots up. He blocks it, the impact making a meaty thud that I hear even from inside.
Kevin throws another punch. Luke blocks that one too.
Then another. Block.
Kevin’s breathing hard now, his movements getting sloppier, more desperate. The crowd is going wild, but I can barely hear them over the pounding of my own heart.
Kevin winds up for what looks like it’s going to be a tackle, lowering his shoulder like he’s back on the field.
But he doesn’t get the chance.
Luke moves so fast I almost miss it. One second he’s in a defensive stance, the next his palm slams against Kevin’s throat with controlled precision. Kevin’s forward momentum stops dead. His eyes go wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Before he can recover, Luke has him in a headlock.
