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Ryder stares at me.
“What?”
“Your dogs are named Dumpy and Bergeron?”
“Yes. Got a problem with that?”
“Sort of.”
I roll my eyes. “Take it up with my father. We’ve already established he’s a bad namer.”
“About that… How’s my endorsement going?”
“Haven’t spoken to him today. But don’t worry, I’ll be showering you with praise next time we talk.”
A burst of laughter sounds from the firepit. I glance over, astounded to discover someone was brave enough to cross the Eastwood-Briar divide. It’s none other than Will, who’s now chilling with Shane, Beckett, and two others whose names I don’t know. He chortles at something Shane said, but the good humor dies fast. Will is midchuckle when one of his friends forcibly drags him away from the Eastwood players.
Ryder notices the same thing, rumbling under his breath.
“So how is this ever going to work, cocaptain?” I can’t help but taunt. “Because it seems like you’ve got a serious stalemate happening. No one’s budging.”
“You’re budging,” he points out.
“I’m not part of this.”
“Sure, you are. You’re Briar hockey.”
“Sweetie. You’re Briar hockey.”
He cringes.
I laugh in sheer delight. “Aw, you just hate to hear that, don’t you? I kind of like knowing how much it pains you to be here. Why didn’t you transfer?” I ask curiously.
Before he can answer, loud shouts spill out from the open back doors of the house.
Yeah.
That was bound to happen. Surprised it took this long.
I hurry inside to find a full-blown fistfight has broken out in the living room between—who else?—Trager and that guy Rand. They’re going at it hard, and once again nobody does a goddamn thing to stop them.
“You still think it’s funny?” Trager spits out as he slams his knuckles into Rand’s cheek.
Rand’s head rears back, but he barely misses a step. He lunges at Trager, and the two men go tumbling onto the hardwood floor. I hear a sickening crunch of bone on bone when Rand lands a blow that triggers an eruption of blood from Trager’s nostrils. Cheers break out all around us, drowning out the music that’s still blaring in the room.
“What are they fighting about?” I hiss at Camila, who appears beside me, her face creased with concern.
“The Eastwood guy made some joke about Miller transferring because he’s too much of a pussy to stick around to see if he’d make the roster, and Jordan just lost it.”
On the floor, Trager now straddles Rand, peering down at him with a bloody smile. His eyes are bright and feral.
“You wanna talk about the roster? Eastwood is shit. Jensen only put you on the roster because he fucking feels bad that your school went under.”
“We’re better than all of you combined,” Rand sneers half a second before Jordan’s fist smashes into his mouth.
I push my way forward and seek out Case. “Come on, Case. Stop this,” I urge.
“I don’t know,” he says grimly. “Maybe they need to get it out of their systems.”
But I can tell it’s more than that. These guys are going to beat each other to death if they’re not stopped. And I’m not nearly as entertained by this fight as some of the other partygoers, many of whom are shouting and egging it on, several actually filming it.
“Fucking prick,” Rand roars, managing to roll himself out from Jordan’s grip and get up. “Y’all are a bunch of entitled Ivy League assholes.”
“Not my fault you’re goddamn poor,” Jordan grunts out, lurching to his feet.
“Fuck you.” Rand launches himself at Trager again.
Abandoning Case, I grab Ryder’s arm instead. He’s so tall I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes. Dark blue and deadly.
“Stop this?” I say softly.
Case realizes who I’m talking to and his expression flashes with disapproval. But he had his chance to put an end to this. He said no.
Ryder looks at me for a moment. Then he lets out a breath and takes a step forward. Completely unfazed when a fist flies past his cheekbone.
“Enough.”
One word. Deep. Commanding.
It succeeds in stopping Rand cold. Ryder shoves his teammate’s chest. “Get your shit together, Hawley.”
Rand is breathing hard. Blood drips from his split eyebrow in a sticky line down one side of his face. I wince. Trager doesn’t look much better. His nose is swollen, bloody, and likely broken.
But while Rand has been reined in thanks to Ryder, Trager remains a loose cannon. He shoots forward again, and now one of his teammates, Tim Coffey, decides he’s going to be the hero.
“Dude, stop,” Coffey orders, grabbing Trager’s arm.
But Trager is still a wild beast. He pushes Coffey off him.
Hard enough that Coffey loses his balance and crashes into the coffee table, which collapses under his weight and breaks apart like a house of cards. Wood splinters fly in all directions, table legs creaking and snapping, and then a cry of pain as Coffey lands awkwardly on the floor.
