Ryder Whitten

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 Evelyn?
“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 s** up. and then you expect everyone else to clean it.”