player ♚ lrh

08 - anger

A crack, a pop, the unmistakable sharp splintering of a fist connecting just right with the jawbone; it fueled Luke.

It was his favorite part. The point in the fight where every person watching made the same face—a wince, a hiss of air between their teeth because that noise meant someone just got fucked up, and there was simply no coming back from it.

He thrived off of it, the muffled chanting of the crowd just barely gracing his ears. When Luke got in the zone he had complete tunnel vision, even the noises around him couldn't faze him. He couldn't care less how many people were watching, and he definitely didn't care who was in the crowd.

Luke cared about one thing, and that was winning. The money, or the praise: Luke didn't need it. He had enough money to be more than satisfied, and the only person worth proving himself to was himself. No; it was all about the win, and definitely for the adrenaline.

The fact that he got to put punk kids with egos they didn't deserve nor earn in their rightful place was merely a bonus. He didn't care about who he was fighting, he cared about showing them why they shouldn't have gone up against him in the first place. That was the odd thing; Luke rarely fought someone twice. They never bothered to try again, and Luke liked it that way.

Except for Calum Hood—but Luke didn't like dwelling on the boy who proved to be his only suitable challenger.

And as for the battered kid with his collar fisted in Luke's hand at the moment: he was done for. He hadn't stood a chance from the moment Luke sized him up, and that's the same reason he was getting no satisfaction from the win.

This wasn't his fight. It was supposed to be Michael's.

It was supposed to be his first match back after quitting altogether long before Luke had left. And, quite honestly, Luke should've known this would happen, because he simply didn't show. He didn't give an excuse, or even an explanation—mostly because there were none that Luke would've ever accepted in the first place.

And so there Luke was, angrier than usual, holding a kid by his collar who would otherwise be slumped on the floor at this point, covering for Michael Clifford in the only way he could. In truth, Luke had actually called off the match the second his gaze landed on his so called 'opponent', but the kid was a downright idiot, pushing Luke's buttons and taunting him with words thrown around that he simply had no business in uttering.

So, there was really nothing left for Luke to do but to toss his fist in his face, and make the boy wish it was Michael instead.

And usually, this would've made Luke feel good, especially since the crowd around them went nuts the second he threw the first hit. But tonight, this wasn't what he came here to do. He was supposed to be supervising Michael's return, not putting on a pathetic show to prove a point he'd already made countless times.

Luke was good at fighting. Simple as that. He liked to say he had nothing to prove in that department, but every time a cocky little boy walked into his club looking to claim his title, Luke found himself back at square one, reiterating his reputation for everyone to see.

As he tossed the defeated boy into the crowd, Luke felt nothing but anger. Anger at the dumbass who thought he could take him, anger at Calum who watched from afar with an unimpressed glare, anger at Michael for forcing his hand like this, and anger at himself for letting the kid get one sloppy—but undeniably painful—hit to his jaw.

"Woah there, Rocky," it was Ashton who stopped him on the way to the back rooms, blocking his path as he inspected the damage. "You're bleeding, mate."