he’s in the locker room, minding his own fucking business. the only reason he’d even bothered to text holden, was for the simply fact that once again— he’d been hearing shit that sounded far too fucking familiar for it to be a rumor. take the text as a fucking warning, because he’s getting to a boiling point that resting under the hue of calmness. he’ll hear his footsteps long before he hears the voice of a shitheaded coward, and he knows the rage– he’s felt it far too often, and far too heated, to the point where it scorched to touch. and even now, that kinda’ fire still laid dormant under the surface of parker cole, who’s trigger could easily be flipped when you know the source to it. and unfortunately, for the both of them, the source herself, happened to walk up on the sidelines of a practice field, one afternoon. catherine cole, was a fucking menace to deal with. she was constantly coming in and out of parker’s life, with little regard to what he had to say about it. college was supposed to be his clean break, and despite the fact his mom was insistent on finding him— on making amends, before she could so easily disappoint, she’s clawed to the fact that maybe, just maybe, when this is all over—- he could be somebody. and right now? he’s somebody with a little extra cash in his pocket, enough for her next fix. so on a monday afternoon, she’d shown up to practice, and parker had to gesture her away from the field. you could tell by the way she scratched and shivered, that she was on it again. words played back in his head, a distant memory from last season, and he’d given her a fast twenty for gas— that would be spent on rock instead. when he’d marched back up to the field, that same anger bubbled beneath the surface, only to snap at holden’s remark about his— addict of a mom. they’d thrown hands that day too, and parker was still just as quick to retaliate. but now, as the locker slammed shut, and holden’s voice practically cracked under the pressure of confronting a fight you’d most definitely fucking lose— parker’s turning on his heels. he hasn’t gotten completely ready for practice yet, hands newly wrapped- recently busted- and his attention now fully captivated with the daunt of clenched teeth. his nose wrinkled in what would be a snarl, and the brims to parted lips, kicked into a quiet smile. the distance between them is instantly shortened, his chin tilts, broad shoulders straightening, and like a magnet, or a match to a flame, before holden even had a breath to finish the last of his sentence, parker’s right hook is nothing but collateral to the fact he’s cracking it against the other’s jaw. the sound echoes through the locker room, their teammates starting a fucking riot of a noise– but it’s background music to the way parker gripped holden’s jersey, slamming him back into the same locket he’d shut. “you wanna’ fight?” snarled, and he pushes him again— stepping back before spitting on the other player. “fucking fight then-”
a heat radiated from the delivery of knuckles to an OPEN jaw ( his piece just nearly finished before the rush of other’s ) , giving no time for the blow to register pain — perhaps something he’d thank his counterpart for at a later date . holden was well aware of his teammate’s hasty aggression & favor of the first punch , but the goal arrived almost too easily . win or lose ( whatever that would mean in this situation ) , holden riled up that rage within the other & hardly had to beg . he wanted a fight & clearly , punching-bags they’ll serve — in his eyes , he already succeeded . whether it was the throbbing sensation from the jab or the anticipation of this adrenaline release , a smirk that sat under a glare like daggers grew at the male’s lips . without skipping a beat ( silence only overcoming the room for a millisecond as other teammates began to realize the extent of the situation ) , holden lunged his body forward to tackle the other with all his might , a grunt escaping his clenched jaw to accompany the fall on the cold tile as both bodies were shoved over the locker-room bench , in hopes of knocking the air out of the opponent’s lungs . his tackling wasn’t unlike what would be seen on the field during a playoffs game perhaps , especially since holden preferred to unleash his rage in the name of competition , refusing to be confused with a similar bloodline of his father - one who expressed rage in the name of just that , rage . maybe parker reminded holden of that . knowing the other’s tactics from not being a stranger to his knuckles , as well as previous altercations , holden knew his strength sat in his weight & that’s why he was able to connect at least a few forceful strikes to parker’s face while straddling over him - at least enough so to invite blood . hollers & gasps were echoed around them but the only sound holden heard was a ringing ; the only thing he felt was a strong urge to be persistent in his throws , like gears from a machine getting carried away & unable to stop spinning . a left hand grabbed a handful of the shirt collar across parker’s neck to raise his upper torso from the ground only to slam it yet again with a drive into the hard earth . the thing is about competitive rage is that there’s protective gear that comes with it . with heaps of heated air entering & exiting the jock’s lungs , he took a moment to wipe the hair on his forehead with his forearm to retort, “ keep it coming .” perhaps devon wasn’t the only self-destructive kase at dillon after all .
