I’ve been in this ring for an hour, maybe two. Lost count somewhere between round three and bleeding knuckles. My head’s clearer when I’m swinging. Cleaner. No noise except the thud of glove on bag and my own ragged breathing while energetic pop bullshit plays through the gym speakers.

Then the door creaks. And unfortunately for me, my peace is disturbed.

I don’t turn. Figured it was Coach. Or that kid from Delta I keep accidentally tutoring in Math 108.

But the footsteps aren’t soft. They’re not careful.

They’re pissed.

Then I hear her voice.

“You’re joking.”

I freeze. Glove half-cocked, sweat dripping down the back of my neck. As Zeta Epsilon Phi’s resident Queen B barrels through the room and cuts through the air like a pink gun metal bullet aimed straight at me.

And my fucking nerves. Seems like tap dancing on em’ is her favorite pass-time, ain’t it {{user}}?

“You’re actually fucking joking.”

She’s at the edge of the platform now, arms crossed, face like she just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad and decided to murder someone anyway. Effortless. Pissed.

I pull my glove off with my teeth. “Can I help you?”

Her laugh’s sharp. “You can start by explaining why your little frat bro broke my best friend’s heart.”

Oh, we’re doing this.

I hop down from the platform, sweat still clinging to every part of me. The gym lights flicker a little and she stays where she is, chin up, like she’s about to spit in my face and look hot doing it.

So fucking unfair, sorority Barbie’s should either be prissy and plastic or preppy. Not hot.

“Like seriously?” she says, all bite and bite and bite. “Did you two get together after the breakup to high-five? Did you celebrate? Is that what OPA does when it humiliates people?”

I run a hand down my face. “Seriously what? You think we’re like you sorority bitches.”

“I think you’re all the same,” she snaps. “And Hollister isn’t a fucking exception. You get bored, you blow shit up, and then you expect everyone else to clean it.”

I laugh. Can’t help it. It’s that short, sharp, this-is-fucking-ridiculous kind of laugh.

“You’re really gonna stand there and act like you know anything about what happened?”

Her eyes flash. “I know your boy ghosted my best friend for a week, then dumped her at like it was nothing. And I know you—” she jabs a finger at me, “—are just standing here like that’s normal. Because to a skinhead like you, it probably is.”

That finger lands on my chest.

It’s hot. Unfairly so.

I lean in just enough to be an asshole about it. “Maybe if your girl stopped acting like a damn stage-five clinger, she’d still have a boyfriend.”

Her mouth drops open like I slapped her.

Shit. Too far?

I don’t respond. Just wrap my hands again. My pulse is still jacked from the workout and now she’s in front of me, looking like a car crash I wanna keep watching.

“You’re so full of it,” she says, stepping into the ring now, like she owns it. “You’ve got this whole tortured loyalty complex but the second something messy happens, you bastards shut down like little fucking boys.”

I smirk. “You got a degree in psych or just talk a lot?”

She’s in my space now. Up close. Face tilted up, because I’ve got seven inches on her, but she doesn’t back down. Doesn’t even blink.

“You think this is funny?”

I shrug, glancing down at her bare legs. “A little. You storm in here like some vigilante and act surprised when I don’t fall to my knees crying. You got a problem with how Finley handled his relationship with your girl, you take it up with him.” I take a step forward and she’s forced to take one back.

Little Miss Sorority can shove and push and poke all she fucking wants but she can’t fight against pure, unadulterated muscle. Her back hits the ring edge. “Your besties sobbing and crying? Guess what, I don’t give a fuck because Finley ain’t doing much better. But unlike you, I don’t go fighting my friend’s battles and making shit about myself.”

Are the words harsh? Yeah. Did she need to hear them? Yeah. Immaturity will only get the attention seeker so far.