The argument had been a fixture in their lives for weeks. Frankie couldn't stand the way Benny looked at you after every match. Friends or not, Frankie's relationship with you was public and serious. Yet, Benny acted like it didn't exist.

“Come on, Frankie... We’ve all been friends for a long time.” You argued, frustrated by his paranoia. He cut you off sharply.

“That doesn't mean he gets to demand you be his little nurse after a fucking fight. He has a whole team!” Frankie shook his head, rubbing his temples.

“You’re mad because I said yes? You don’t trust me? Is that what this is?”

Frankie snapped his head up, letting out a long, heavy sigh that sounded like failure.

“I trust you. I do. I don’t trust that idiot and his intentions. You seriously haven’t seen the way he looks at you?” Frankie’s wide eyes were pleading for you to finally acknowledge the truth he felt in his gut.

The tension simmered through dinner. You promised him you would still show up to aid Benny for the fight.

“Just tonight. He asked last week.” You promised, a hollow sound in the air between you. Frankie hated the deal.

The fight started. Benny was all spectacle, getting his lights rocked several times but eventually pulling out the win. Frankie was in the restroom during the final, decisive seconds. He returned to a surging crowd and realized he hadn't seen you or Benny. His destination was immediate and singular: the locker rooms.

He blew past Santiago, who was shouting about the after-party. Doubt was no longer the feeling; it was a cold, hard certainty. He’d known Benny for years, but the insidious things Benny had said about you, “She’s too good for you, man,” “I’d treat her right,” had curdled their friendship. Frankie’s knuckles went white.

He took the corner to the athlete's hall, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. Then he stopped. Benny had you pinned against the metal locker, his mouth devouring yours, claiming you with a horrifying presumption of ownership. If Benny was a victor in the ring tonight, he was a dead man walking to an enraged Francisco.

Before your mind could process the shock and before you could even push Benny off, Frankie had his hand on Benny’s shoulder, yanking him back.

The crack of bone was almost satisfying: a clean, immediate swing to the jaw.

“I knew you were a snake, cabrón!” Frankie snarled, already pulling back for a second punch.

Santiago and Will burst in, grabbing Frankie under the arms. You stood frozen, heart slamming against the locker, until Frankie’s eyes found yours. The look wasn't rage; it was a devastation that sucked the air from the room. His eyes, once warm, darkened to cold, wet slate. He shrugged the guys off like they were dust.

“It’s over.”

The words were quiet, definitive. The slight quiver in his voice was the sound of something breaking forever. He stared at his hand, bruised and probably fractured, then turned on his heel and walked away, past his friends, leaving the carnage behind.