Rage boils over.
Julia handcuffed to his bed.
Boone in the shower.
I lunge at him, but he ducks back into the house.
Scott steps up and shoves me. “If you want to see Parker, you’ll have to go through me.”
“Bring it,” I say as he swings at me, too high, and I slip under it, then connect under his armpit. One, two, three, four. Body shots. Chest, leg, mouth, eye.
Gasping, he retreats backwards until he’s against the wall of the house, blood pouring from him.
I pounce on him and my fists fly, connecting with his face again and again.
He stumbles backwards, clutching his nose in agony. With a roar, he comes at me, but I dance around him, lashing out with jabs until he weaves on his feet and slumps against the railing of the porch.
The other guys close in, maybe five, yelling. Some pull Scott away. Others grab my arms and tug. I get a punch in the gut, in the ribs. I windmill my arms to shove them off and it works for a minute.
One of them, a beefy guy I recall drinking with me after one of our hockey wins, lunges at me and I nail him in the chin. He drops like a bag of dog food.
Another member charges me, his fists meaty but his body open. I land a punch in his stomach and he doubles over.
Parker comes back out of the house with brass knuckles on. He grabs me from behind, but I shake him off and slam my fist into his face. Once, twice. I drive my fist into his stomach. He doubles over, and I deliver a final punch that sends him crashing to the ground.
A triumphant growl comes from my throat. This feels good. So damn good.
Someone hits my eye. A gush of air comes from me as I stumble and blink it off.
Shouts come as more brothers spill out of the house, some of them running from the front yard.
A flurry of blows connect with me from different directions.
Someone or something connects against my temple.
Shit.
My vision blurs, then I fall back. My shoulder slams against the rail of the porch and I’m sliding, the Kappa house stretching up and away from me.
I shake my head but it’s filled with cobwebs.
I think I hear Reece yelling for me.
Or maybe I’ve been knocked around too much and I’m hearing things.
Reece. I hope you’re here. I bit off a little too much.
Punches land on my body. I throw my arms up to protect my head and wrestle through them.
“Get off him, motherfuckers! Eric!” I glance up as Reece grabs me by the armpits and drags me up and away. Several players on the first line take my place, knocking fists with the guys who were on me.
I sway on my feet as the world tilts. He reaches out a hand to help.
“I can stand,” I gasp out.
“The hell you can,” he mutters as he leans me against a gate between the properties.
“Your nose is bloody,” I tell him as I suck in air. My head throbs and I touch it gingerly.
“That’s because I joined your fight,” he growls. “Then I had to rescue you from getting swarmed by ten of those fuckers.”
“Minor timeout,” I say. “I’ll go back in a sec. Just need a breather.”
“No way. You look like shit. Plus, someone is bound to have called the cops.”
No blue lights yet.
I squint into the fray. Donaldson and Falcon wrestle with some of the frat guys, their well-toned physiques easily overpowering the Kappas. I laugh as one of the freshman players, a wiry guy who’s quiet as a mouse, does some kind of karate mojo on one of the big-ass Kappas and knocks him down.
Falcon lets out a piercing wolf whistle and motions the hockey guys to retreat. They rush over to where Reece and I are.
“What’s the plan?” one of them asks me.
I look back at the Kappa house. They’re regrouping and eyeing us. No sign of Parker. We’re still outnumbered, but . . . “I’m ready for round two, yo.”
Reece shakes his head. “Nope, Eric, nope. Everyone back to our place for beer and ice-packs.”
Fine.
We take off as a group, weaving on our feet from our injuries as we yell curses to the frat guys.
Reece grumbles at me as we walk into Hockey House. “You could have warned us. We could have all gone over there together.”
I hadn’t really planned on fighting them—had I?
Maybe I had . . .
My nose flares. “Parker was hard on Boone because of me. He hurt Julia. He had it fucking coming.”
The kitchen spills over with hockey players. Someone grabs a bottle of water and chugs it. Another player has dropped to the floor and does push-ups, like he’s training to go back and fight.
I smile. I’m going to be hurting once the adrenaline has worn off, but for now . . . I’m floating.