Who Falls Hardest (Clearwater University)

he is. Which is exactly why you don’t deserve her. She probably will forgive you, because she’s got a better heart than any of us. But don’t think for one second that means you actually deserve forgiveness.”

Trent scoffs. “Goddammit. I’m getting really fucking sick of people telling me what I do and don’t deserve today.”

I don’t know what the hell that means, but I don’t let it distract me from my point. Trent needs to hear this, and he’s going to hear it whether he wants to or not.

“If you’re any kind of man at all, you’ll walk away,” I say quietly. “Take the fact that she’s accepted your apology and move the fuck on. But don’t try to claim her for yourself. Don’t try to fucking win her over. She’s worth more than that.”

Trent goes quiet as he absorbs my words. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and I realize that mine are too. We’re standing just a few feet apart, each of us puffed up in anger, and I can feel it filling the room like bolts of electric energy.

The silence stretches out until it seems like time itself has come to a standstill.

And then Trent’s fist lashes out toward my face so fast I don’t even have time to raise my arm and block it. His punch is hard, and it catches me on the cheek, making my head whip to the side.

It’s not the first time I’ve been hit, and I’m sure it won’t be the last—but it’s the first time my best friend has punched me. Memories of growing up, of enduring beatings from my old man, flash through my head, and a haze of red fills my vision.

I never hit back when I was little. I didn’t want to make it worse for my mom, and it always got worse if I fought back.

But the last time my dad ever hit me, I swore I wouldn’t put up with that shit anymore. And I haven’t ever since then.

I recover from the blow quickly, and my body is already in motion before I give it a conscious command.

Stepping forward, I take a swing at Trent. I don’t have the element of surprise like he did, so he manages to block my shot. But that’s okay, because a second fist is swinging right after the first, and he’s not ready for that one.

My knuckles collide with his jaw, and he grunts in pain as he stumbles to the side, staggering away from the wall and pivoting to keep facing me.

He lifts one hand to the side of his mouth, wiping away the blood there, then pulls his lips back in a snarl. “You’re gonna fucking regret that.”

“Maybe.” I step forward, my fists raised, adrenaline pumping through my veins. “But it was worth it anyway.”

Anger fills Trent’s features, and he throws himself at me, tackling me with his full weight. We go down together, hitting the floor so hard the entire fucking house seems to rattle.

That’s it. This motherfucker is asking for it now.

Trapping his arms, I headbutt him, and when his body recoils, I roll us over giving myself the upper hand.

It doesn’t last long though. Trent’s almost as strong as I am, especially since I haven’t gotten to hit the gym as often since this whole mess with Emma and Leslie started. And he’s a fighter down to his core. It’s one of the reasons we became friends—we both have this predatory, almost animalistic instinct to fight.

Trent’s elbow lashes out, colliding with the side of my face. The blow stuns me momentarily, and he shoves me away, leaping to his feet as I scramble to mine. Like two forces of nature meeting, we hurl ourselves at each other again, fists flying as low grunts fall from our lips.

I catch Trent in the face again, but he manages to duck my next punch and slide in close enough to deliver a bruising blow to my side.

We’ve stopped talking entirely. Every bit of anger and resentment that’s built up between us over the years is being communicated in a much more primal way now.

Through our fists.

Trent has been one of my best friends for years. He’s seen me through some seriously messed up shit, and he’s stood by my side for all of it. I would die for him. But right now, I kind of want to kill him too.

He swings at me again. I duck out of the way, but his fist still connects with my shoulder. Grimacing, I grab hold of him and pull him off balance, shoving him toward the wall. He hits the plaster so hard that the entire wall shakes, and before he can move, I’m on him, grabbing the front of his shirt with both hands and stepping in close.

“You done yet, you fucker?” I growl.

“I won’t be done till you’re laid out on the floor,” he shoots back, his voice dark with anger. He shoves at me, nearly breaking my hold on him, but I grip his shirt again and slam him against the wall.

“What—”

The new voice comes from near the front door. It sounds breathless and frightened, and I know immediately who it belongs to.

Trent and I both freeze. Then we turn to look toward the front of the house. As we do, my gaze lands on Emma. She’s still got her hand on the doorknob, and her jaw is hanging open slightly.