He positively beamed at me, and I was thankful that he was my roommate because Noah Matthews was the guy you wanted in your corner.
“Good odds,” he said with a quick jerk of his head toward the guys in the back, signaling them to come outside. “I’ll take the three biggest ones. You got the other two?”
My smile was wide as the fresh, cool air greeted us. “Noah, you may be even crazier than me.” I already knew the five guyswere going to follow us out. “If I haven’t said it before, good to have you as a roommate, man.”
“Let’s kick some ass.” His laugh was loud and free as we got ready to face off against five guys who looked like they were about to beat the shit out of us.
The bar door slammed open as the five of them poured out, eager to begin.
“You think you’re hot shit, huh?” the biggest one snarled at me as he stalked toward us. Not the tallest — just the one who thought volume and shoulder width were the same as authority. “Quarterback thinks he owns the damn town.”
I didn’t even get a chance to answer.
Noah stepped forward first. He didn’t posture, puff up, or say a word. He simply looked at them all with that steady, unblinking stare that said,I see how all of you move before you move.
It made the loud one hesitate, just for a blink, but that was enough for another big guy to decide he needed to prove something. He lunged at Noah.
Noah didn’t dodge. He absorbed the momentum, turning his body and snapping his forearm across the guy’s chest, sending him stumbling sideways into the brick wall. No wasted motion. No theatrics. Just violence, efficient and clean.
The second attacker came at him from the right, and Noah pivoted, keeping his knee low and driving his shoulder up into the guy’s rib cage. A breath was knocked out of him. A grunt. He collapsed.
Two down.
I didn’t have the luxury of admiring Noah and his cold efficiency any longer, because the mouthy one was in my space.
He grabbed my shirt, and I pushed him back, but he had weight and beer behind him, so he didn’t go far. His fist swung wildly — telegraphed and sloppy. I ducked, feeling the wind of itbrush my hair. My knuckles hit his jaw. The crack sounded loud in the night. He staggered. Not down — just more pissed off that I got the first solid hit.
He swung again, and I felt my teeth rattle when his punch connected, his other fist landing heavily at my side. I threw my punch, driven by rage, and a dull ache echoed in my knuckles. Another guy grabbed me from behind, one arm around my chest, the other over my shoulder. His hands met, locked, and then he squeezed. Pain shot from my shoulder, and I clenched my teeth hard to hold back a cry. I had to get him off me. I threw my weight backward and slammed him into something solid behind us.
His grip loosened just enough. Noah suddenly appeared — hand grabbing the collar of the guy’s shirt — and ripped him off me like peeling a sticker from glass. He threw him to the ground and kept going without checking if he stayed down.
It’s the way Noah played ball, too. He didn’t need to check if you were on the ground; he just knew you would be after he hit you.
The biggest one charged at me again, face red, spit flying, all anger and no restraint. I let him get close, then drove my fist into his gut — hard, low, right beneath the ribs. He doubled over. I brought my knee up to meet his downward momentum.
He dropped.
The one Noah had peeled off of me was on his feet again. He charged at me, but I was ready for him. He tried to tackle me like we were on the field, attempting to take me down in a sack. But I’d been avoiding those plays all my life. I sidestepped his lunge, and my fist connected with the side of his head. He stumbled but quickly regained his footing, rising up and swinging. I felt his punch land on the side of my face, and my own fist shot out, connecting with the fucker’s jaw. My follow-up punch dug intohis fleshy belly, and then — filled with the fury I’d been holding back — I smashed my head into his and knocked the fucker out.
The fifth one hesitated now, eyes darting between me and Noah. His bravery seemed borrowed, and whoever he took it from was down on the asphalt trying to get back up.
Noah didn’t even have to touch him. He just stepped forward, and the guy turned and bolted.
One of the others was back on his feet with a groan, and we both turned just as he tried to play hero, swinging a bottle.
Noah caught his wrist mid-arc. Their eyes met; no words were exchanged, only an understanding that he would pay for his foolishness. Noah twisted, the guy cried out, and the bottle hit the ground first. The guy hit it second.
A hand landed on my shoulder, and I spun around and punched without hesitation. My assailant staggered backward, fell over his friend’s prone body, and landed flat on his ass.
“Stay down,” Noah barked, coming over to stand beside me. His shirt was ripped, his lip was bleeding, but he grinned as he checked me over.
As quickly as it started, it was over. It had been as ugly as it needed to be.
We stood there, both breathing hard. Both sore, but still standing with hearts thudding, adrenaline pulsing, and the night suddenly sharp around the edges.
The guy had grabbed my shoulder. I felt it now. That was going to cost me.
Noah wiped a smear of blood from his lip with the back of his hand and looked at me. “You good?”
