The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the apartment, mingling with the sizzling sound of eggs in the skillet. I hum to myself, preparing breakfast for me and my roommates. Letting out some of my feelings for Ethan to Eva last night truly helped, and I am starting to wonder if it would not be better for the three of us to let it all out in the safety of our own peculiar group. It is a safe place, and as we are all three recipients of the Phoenix Rising Scholarship, it is clear that fate has not dealt us the best of cards.
I’m hoping that breakfast will put them in a receptive mood because I know we need to talk. I’m curious to know why Eva, my usually composed and well-spoken roommate, gets almost feral when Cole Westbrook is in close proximity. I need to know why Nessa, my flirty, fierce roommate, is always walking around with headphones and why she freaked out and disappeared last night when Liam Ashford gave her a little more attention. And I have to explain to them why, despite my growing feelings for Ethan, I am fighting it so hard.
These past few months spent together already made us a close-knit unit. I think that to keep each other safe and survive the next four years, we need to take it a step further.
I wince, rehearsing the speech in my head, scared that they will think I’m prying instead of trying to help us all.
I open the fridge to retrieve the orange juice.
“Who died?”
I spin around, the carton of juice pressed against my chest, meeting Nessa’s sleepy gaze. Her flannel pajamas, adorned with bats, hang loosely on her frame.
“Died? Why would anybody be dead?” I ask, pointing at the counter for her to take a seat.
“Because I think it’s the first time in three months that anyone is actually cooking anything.”
I turn to see Eva already dressed for the day in a pair of tailored black pants and a green woolen sweater-vest that complements her eyes perfectly.
“Nobody is dead.”
“How come you’re already ready? It’s only eight thirty on a Saturday,” Nessa grumbles, taking a seat at the counter with a huff.
“Yes, it’s already eight thirty.”
I clear my throat, and I serve the eggs onto plates, letting the silence stretch a moment longer. The sizzle of the pan fills the room. “About last night”—I pause, hesitating—“I think we need to talk.”
Nessa throws me a wary glance before putting some creamer in her coffee. “I’m not sure we need to.”
“I think we need to let it out. I—”
A faint shuffle at the door draws my attention, and I turn just in time to see a worn envelope slip through the gap beneath it. My name. Poppy is scribbled across the front in a familiar, messy handwriting. My heart skips a beat as I approach, picking it up with cautious fingers.
“Is that a love letter from Hawthorne?” Nessa scoffs.
I trace my name on the envelope, almost too scared to open it.
“I… I can’t only be your friend, Poppy. I want to be more, so much more.” Ethan’s voice rings in my head, each word a gentle echo that sends my heart into a fluttering mess. I pause, the envelope in my hands suddenly feeling heavier than it should, as I remember his confession.
Is it a love letter? No, Ethan is not cheesy. Is it a note calling me a coward for the way I disappeared last night? Yes, that’s far more probable and also really deserved.
“Earth to Poppy.” I blink, my gaze shifting back to the girls, their eyes locked on the envelope in my hands, curiosity painted on their faces.
“You can’t leave us hanging,” Nessa presses.
I open the envelope, and a weight is lifted off my chest. It’s not a letter full of reproach or a declaration of love. No, it’s exactly what I need, and part of me curses him for knowing me so well.
It’s a voucher for a rage room with a single yellow Post-it taped on it where he scribbled, Let it all out.
I let out a small laugh, holding up the voucher. “It’s for a rage room, booked for lunchtime. Can you believe it?” I pause, looking between them. “Are you game?”
Eva cocks her head to the side, contemplative, as Nessa starts to grin.
“Smashing stuff for free?” She snorts. “I’m so in.”
I shake my head and turn to Eva.
She twists her mouth to the side. “I’m not sure…”
“Are you scared to let it all out?” I ask, and honestly, I mean it as a joke, but the sudden seriousness of her face kills the humor in an instant.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to close the box if I do.” Her voice is barely a whisper, a fragile admission hanging in the air. Nessa, ever the comforter, places a hand on her back, rubbing soothing circles. “That’s exactly why you need to, Eva. Because we’re here to help you close it again.”
Eva’s eyes linger on ours; a silent battle wages behind them before she finally nods, a quiet agreement sealed in the small yet significant gesture. “Okay,” she whispers, “let’s do it.”
The decision is made, and with a collective, albeit shaky, resolve, we find ourselves getting ready for this peculiar experience.
The more that time passes, the more the idea of smashing things excites me. I can already imagine the frustration leaving my body, and by the time it’s time to go, I’m almost bouncing with excitement.
We embark in Eva’s Cherry Bomb, and we navigate through the city streets, the atmosphere charged with anticipation and apprehension. The rage room, inconspicuously nestled between a quaint bookstore and a bustling café, awaits us, its nondescript exterior belying the cathartic chaos that lies within.
As we push open the door, a cacophony of shattering glass and muffled yells greets us, a symphony of unleashed emotions that are somehow oddly welcoming. We exchange tentative glances, each of us silently acknowledging the step we are about to take—not only into the room but into a space where our pent-up frustrations, fears, and pains can freely unravel.
We approach the counter, and a guy with a mohawk smiles at us.
“Poppy Donovan?” I try, not sure if Ethan has used my new name or not. I put the voucher on the counter.
“Yes, perfect. I’m Ted, and I’ll be your team safety officer today. Come with me.”
We follow him silently to a changing room.
He looks down at our feet. “Shoes are fine; no need to change them,” he says before turning around. “Love the combat boots, by the way,” he adds before looking back at Nessa, who ignores his comment.
He shrugs at her obvious disinterest and continues. “You need to wear your safety gear before getting into the room.” He points at the wall where yellow bodysuits are hanging. “You need to put on a combi. They go from XS to XXL. Then”—he points at two big plastic bins—“you need to grab the face protector. We usually encourage the enclosed one, but if you want the visor, it’s up to you, but you will need to wear the glasses as well.”
I glance over at Eva, noticing how her fingers twitch at the mention of the protective gear. Anticipation or anxiety? It’s hard to tell.
“It’s like I’m in an episode of Breaking Bad,” Nessa mutters, grabbing a bodysuit from the rack.
The guy laughs. “Yeah, you’re not the first to say that. Okay. You can put your belongings in the lockers and put on the bracelet with the key, and don’t forget to grab heavy-duty gloves on your way out. I’ll wait for you by door three.”
We each step into our respective bodysuits, the material whispering against our skin with every movement. I catch a glimpse of our reflections in the mirror—three women shrouded in yellow, faces partially obscured by visors and masks. We look ready for battle, and in a way, we are. Battling our demons, our pasts, and our pent-up emotions that have been simmering beneath the surface for far too long. With a nod to each other, we step out of the changing room, our steps synchronized, our resolve solidified.
Ted, clipboard in hand, welcomes us with a warm grin, standing confidently in front of the vivid red door. “Perfect, let’s head in. Your team is already inside.”
“Our T—” My voice catches in my throat, words evaporating as the door swings open, revealing Ethan, Liam, and Cole, helmets casually held in their hands, their stances a mix of mischief and anticipation.
“Our team…” My eyes narrow at Ethan, who meets my gaze with a shrug and a smile that’s half guilty, half teasing.
My focus involuntarily homes in on Ethan as he saunters over, standing so close that I can sense the warmth radiating from him. Ted’s explanation about the array of destructive weapons available to us becomes a distant hum in the background.
He steps closer, the intensity of his gaze making my heart race. “You’re not too angry about us crashing your session, are you?” His voice is gentle, almost hesitant. “I wanted to be here.”
“To watch me lose my mind?” I retort, a playful edge to my voice.
“No,” he whispers, his breath caressing my skin, “to see you let go and to be here in case you need someone to hold on to afterward.”
His words, laden with unspoken promises and a depth of emotion, cause my heart to flutter uncontrollably. I turn to him, our eyes locking, and for a fleeting instant, the world around us fades away.
“Hey, lovebirds, focus!” Ted’s voice slices through our bubble, and we break apart, a blush creeping up my cheeks as if we’ve been caught stealing a moment.
My eyes drift to the others, landing on Cole, who’s glaring at the floor, a dark energy swirling around him. A scrape bridges his nose, flanked by two burgeoning shiners beneath his eyes.
Leaning toward Ethan, I nod subtly toward Cole. “Rough practice?”
Ethan shrugs, his eyes following mine. “No clue. He stumbled in late last night. Looks like he broke his nose.”
My gaze flickers to Eva, who’s eyeing Cole with a challenging stare and a sly, satisfied smile playing on her lips. A wild thought crosses my mind about his nose and her golf club, but it dissipates as quickly as it came—she was home all night, after all.
As Ted concludes his briefing, we each select a weapon, and before we can decide on an order, Eva slams her helmet down and begins to swing with a wild, unrestrained fury, objects splintering beneath her wrath. Her cries, raw and laced with pain, claw at my soul.
Cole approaches. His expression a carefully crafted mask of concern. “Angel…” His voice is a gentle caress, his hand slowly rising in an attempt to still her.
Angel? My brows knit together in confusion.
Eva’s grip on the bat tightens, her entire body radiating fury. “Don’t touch me,” she snarls, swinging the bat with all her might. It slices through the air, stopping mere inches from him.
His reflexes save him, but the threat lingers in the air, charged and volatile. “Do not touch me. Ever again!”
He growls a low, primal sound that sends shivers down my spine. “I’ll touch you if—”
She swings again, her movements a chaotic dance of fury and despair. My eyes seek Ethan, helpless and pleading.
He steps forward, inserting himself between them. “Chill, bro,” he murmurs, a hand resting on Cole’s chest.
Cole slaps it away, his eyes ablaze with a dark fire. “You don’t tell me what to do with her!” he spits, trying to peer around Ethan at Eva, who now sobs openly.
Nessa encircles Eva with her arms, cautiously lifting her mask.
“No, but I won’t stand by while you scare her,” Ethan counters, his stance solid, protective.
Nessa’s eyes, shadowed with defeat, meet mine. “Take the Cherry Bomb and drive her home,” I tell her. “I’ll be there soon.”
Nessa barely resembles herself as she whispers, “I can’t… I’m not allowed to.”
“Ethan, move, or I swear to God—” Cole’s voice is a venomous hiss through gritted teeth, his demeanor feral.
“Enough!” Liam’s voice slices through the tension, his helmet crashing to the floor with a resounding crack. “Enough of this damn drama. No one needs it.”
He steps forward, his hand caressing Nessa’s shoulder, coaxing her to look at him as Eva’s cries, now heart-wrenching, are muffled against Nessa’s chest.
His expression softens, eyes tender. “Let me take you home,” he whispers.
She glances at me, and I nod reassuringly. “I’ll take care of the car.”
She nods to Liam, and he reaches down to carry Eva out of the room.
The room’s atmosphere is thick with tension; each shattered object is a testament to the raw emotions unleashed. Ethan’s grip on Cole remains firm, his eyes locked onto the other man’s seething gaze. “Let them go, Cole,” he says, his voice a steady, calming force amid the chaos of emotions swirling around us.
Cole’s body trembles with restrained fury, but eventually, he relents, his shoulders slumping in a mixture of frustration and defeat. Ethan cautiously releases him, his eyes never leaving Cole’s face.
Cole turns away, his voice a mere whisper in the distant echoes of destruction from other rooms. “She’s mine,” he says before stepping out.
Ethan and I are left in the room. He turns toward me, his eyes reflecting a storm of emotions—regret, concern, and something deeper, more vulnerable.
“I’m sorry, Poppy,” he whispers, his voice a gentle caress that somehow soothes the chaos inside me. “I truly thought I was helping.”
In that moment, something shifts, a barrier breaking down as I step closer, my heart pounding in my chest. His eyes search mine, a question lingering in their depths, and I find myself drowning in the sincerity I see there.
My hand cradles his cheek, his stubble grazing my palm, and his eyes flutter closed briefly at the contact. When they reopen, the vulnerability has deepened, mingling with a raw, aching need that mirrors my own.
And then we’re kissing.
We cross the room and every brush of our hands sends sparks skittering across my skin. His lips, tender yet assertive, become my entire world, and I drown willingly in the sweet urgency of the moment.
My fingers weave into his hair, drawing him impossibly closer, while his hands, gentle yet firm, find the small of my back, anchoring me. The world dissolves, leaving only the feeling of his lips whispering silent promises against mine and the tender caress of his breath mixing with my own.
When we part, a sigh of mingled breaths remains between us. His forehead finds mine, and his voice, a low, husky whisper, sends shivers cascading down my spine.
But as Ethan’s lips linger, a sweet, tantalizing promise, the reality of our closeness, the unveiled emotions, crashes over me like a tidal wave. My breath catches, eyes darting away from his, unable to bear the raw vulnerability shimmering in his gaze.
His fingers, still tenderly cradling my face, coax me back, but I’m already retreating, walls hastily rebuilding. “Poppy,” he breathes, a plea, a prayer, but I’m spiraling, the intimacy of the moment too stark against the chaos of my thoughts.
I step back, the physical distance a meager attempt to shield my now exposed heart. His hand falls away, the loss of his warmth a stark contrast against the heat of his kiss. My voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper. “I can’t, Ethan.”
His eyes, a tumultuous sea of confusion and longing, search mine, but I’m already turning away, fleeing from the intensity of what transpired. My feet carry me swiftly out of the room, away from a moment too potent, too real.
This kiss was a mistake, but how could a mistake feel so right, and why is it that I want to do it again?
