Alyssa ♔
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My mother would say tears are wasted on men, which is why I'm done crying. Instead, I stand taller, straightening my shoulders before slipping into the perfect defensive stance.

I'd had a feeling he'd be here – had planned for it even – but what I hadn't counted on was how much the sight of him would hurt me. Two weeks of no contact, of not waking up to his face every morning, has been downright torture, but I'll be damned if I let him see it.

Instead, I tilt my chin in defiance, focusing on the feel of the canvas as it gives beneath my weight. We've done this before – too many times to count – but this time feels eerily different. In all the times we've sparred in this ring, I've never hated him.

Until now.

With a brief touch of gloves, we circle one another, our eyes locked in a fierce stare-down. He looks handsome as always, much to my annoyance, but there's a ruggedness to his face that I hadn't expected. Dark circles frame his eyes, and old, yellowed bruises shadow newer purple ones, staining his once-perfect skin. Either he's taking on too many delivery shifts or not sleeping well, and I don't know which is worse.

I bite down on my cheek, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him, to run my finger along the bruise on his cheek. He broke your heart, Alyssa. Stomped on it and left you high and dry. The only thing he deserves is pain.

When that doesn't work, I focus on the night he left. The sobs I'd let out, the tightness in my chest as he walked out the door. His words. I love you, he'd said, and nothing you did or do will change that. But either he's stupid or a liar because you don't walk out on the people you love. Not unless you never loved them to begin with.

With newfound fury, I get ready to strike. Max swings first, but I dip my head and let it sail past my shoulder before slipping behind him. With Maddie's help, I've learned I'm particularly fast on my feet, so I'm determined to use it to my advantage.

He whips around to face me, moving with a fluidity that speaks of countless hours of training and dedication, but I'm undeterred. I've watched him enough times to know he favors a right hook, so when it lands, I'm ready. I drop my shoulder, dipping my head as his fist cuts through air and misses entirely.

My jab comes hard and fast in the silence. Max steps back, and the tip of my glove lightly grazes his jaw as he dodges the brunt of my hit. Still, contact is contact, and anger gives way to the tiniest hum of relief. It doesn't last long – he's already surging toward me again and landing a blow to my helmet.

For a moment, as I stumble, all I can think of are the times he made me feel safe. Now every good memory feels tarnished by questions I doubt will ever get answered: how long had he been planning on leaving? Did I somehow miss the signs? Did he ever really love me?

He lands another hit, and this time, the blow feels much like the one he'd delivered the night he walked out. I block my face, able to feel the sting in my eyes as the tears set in, but I fight to blink them back.

Hands raised, I try my best to focus on my footwork, my breathing, on anything but him. Think of all you've achieved these last two weeks. You don't need him, Alyssa. You don't need anyone.

That last part isn't entirely true. If it weren't for Maddie, who'd immediately dropped what she was doing when I called her, I wouldn't have found a place to stay, nor would I have known how to apply for last-minute college loans. And if it weren't for Tiana, who'd spent every day cheering me up, I'd still be crying in that office.

As it stands, all there's left to do is make it through the next few months, win my fight, and start fresh at college, where I can finally forget about Max.

In theory.

I pick up the pace, feeling the bitter energy thrumming through my veins as he once again evades me. Max jabs and weaves with lightning-fast reflexes, slipping my punches and countering with his own, sticking to his promise of fighting as if I were Hayden. Good. When I beat him, I want it to be on equal grounds, not because he let me.

I swing again, missing his cheek by what can only be centimeters. Frustration gives way to a surge of adrenaline, and I strike again with a flurry of punches that only half land. Still, I'm not the girl he last fought in this ring. I'm faster, stronger, with enough fury in my chest to burn this ring down. Hopefully, him too.

For the next few minutes, we land an equal bout of blows that fill me with adrenaline. I can feel the strike of his punches jolting me around, and yet somehow, they barely register. All I can think about is hitting him as hard as I can. Hurting him.

The way he hurt me.

"I heard you're staying with Maddie." His voice comes low and controlled between hits, sending a shiver through me. Once upon a time, the sound of his voice would fill me with excitement, but now it only adds to the hurt. "How's that going?"

The crack of my glove across his face feels therapeutic, and I watch him stumble back, catching himself before he hits the ropes. Right now, this fight is the only thing stopping me from crying. Another word, and I'll break.

As if he knows this, he moves forward again, dodging my next few hits before landing a blow to my helmet. The force is so strong that I'm about to fall back, but he's already in front of me, snaking an arm around my waist to keep me steady.

Safe.

My breath catches as he lowers his head, allowing his nose to brush mine. In a single, low breath, he whispers, "I'm sorry."

I close my eyes, hating the way I shiver at his touch. He's apologizing for the hit, not the heartbreak, but even so, the word settles deep in my chest. I stare up at him, lump in my throat, and resist the urge to throw my arms around him. To bury my face in his chest. For the last two weeks, it's all that I've wanted, and now I'm seconds from caving.

Disgusted by my lack of willpower, I shove him so hard that it sends him stumbling. Then I'm advancing toward him before he can recover and raining down a flurry of punches on his arms and chest, hitting as hard as I can. Maybe if I hit hard enough, fast enough, I'll forget what he did to me.

It'll stop hurting.

His eyes darken, but he moves quickly, raising his arms to block my hits. The sound of slapping leather echoes through the gym, punctuated by the occasional grunt of pain, and even though my energy is flagging, I can't seem to stop. I step forward and swing, determined to land a few solid hits, but he blocks my every attack.

"You're not even trying anymore," I snap, shoving him back. "Justin hits harder than you."

His eyes flash with something dangerous. He breaks his defense to push me away, which only fuels me forward. "Alyssa," he warns when I get too close, "stop."

The words cut through me like glass. It's the same thing he'd said to me that night in the office, and instead of picking my pride off the floor, I begged him to stay. Deep down, that's what I hate him for most.

He made me feel weak.

"Why?" I ask. "Because you've decided it's enough?" I shove him again, goading him to fight me back, but he's as stiff and unmoving as concrete. "You said you wanted to fight me, so fight me."

Something inside of him snaps. He closes the sliver of distance between us, and his eyes are so dark that I feel myself brace for impact. Instead, he stares down at me and rips off his gloves, his jaw a hard, tight line. "We're done here."

"Like hell we are," I hiss before blocking his exit. "Put your gloves on."

For the longest moment, he doesn't move, just stares at me with eyes so black they leave me feeling cold. Then slowly, as if he has all the time in the world, he drops his hands, leaving himself completely open.

I stare back at him, taking in the trickle of sweat that runs down his clenched, coiled neck. The worst part about this, the part that hurts most, is that even though I should hate him, I don't. Not really.

I can't.

"Fine." I rip off my gloves, followed by my helmet, and drop them to the floor before resuming my stance. "If that's how you want to fight."

He briefly runs a hand down his jaw, the muscle in his neck working overtime. "Forget it. I'm not fighting you, Alyssa."

"You don't have a choice." I swing, and he dodges, allowing my hand to zip past his shoulder, which only urges me on. I try again, able to feel the steady rise of anger as it works through my chest. One good punch, and I'm certain I'll feel better. Just one. Good. Hit.

"You're going to hurt your hands," he warns.

I ignore him and swing, but it's too late. Max is already on me, taking us down until I'm flat on the mat, my hands pinned firmly above my head. I struggle against him, able to feel his hot, labored breath as it brushes my skin, sending shivers along my neck.

"Get off me," I hiss, but the way his grip tightens around each of my wrists suggests struggling is futile. "Max, get off me."

"Not until you calm down."

I struggle one last time before closing my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. I can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, his chest rising and falling as heavily as my own, not that he has any right. If anyone deserves to be angry, it's me.

Eventually, when he's determined I'm calm, he loosens his grip. "Alyssa." His hand comes up and cups my cheek, rough and familiar. "Look at me."

It takes me a while, but finally, I do, and god, how I've missed him. I miss him so much that just the feel of his hand, warm and gentle on my skin, is enough to make me tremble. Another second of this, and my carefully crafted defense will crumble. I know it.

"I'm sorry," he mutters in the hollow of my ear, and for a moment, my thoughts take me to the worst possible places. I'm lying in his arms, allowing him to hold me as if nothing ever happened, as if he never broke my trust.

I'm forgiving him.

I let myself stare up at him, knowing I'm on the verge of tears and being powerless to stop them, because even though I know I shouldn't, all I want right now is to hug him.

I hate it.

He lowers his voice, allowing his mouth to gently graze my jaw. "I never wanted to hurt you."

I swallow down the lump in my throat, because it feels like another right hook. Maybe he didn't mean to hurt me, but that's what scares me the most. Max was the one person I trusted more than anyone, and he still ended up hurting me.

I'll never be that stupid again.

"You didn't hurt me," I say because even though it's petty, right now, I want to hurt him. "In fact, you did me a favor. I do deserve better than you."

It does the trick. His body stiffens, and his eyes, which had been warm and protective just seconds ago, now flash with hurt. I feel a sense of satisfaction at the sight, but it's short-lived. He lets me up, and I move to the ropes with well-feigned confidence, refusing to look at him. If I look at him, I'll cry, and crying over Max is the last thing I need. For once, my mother was right.

Tears are wasted on men.

A/N

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