Evan vs Carla - He Wants Revenge. She Wants More Blood.

Ok, I have quick story starting for their fight:

The locker room smelled like blood, sweat, and unsaid shit.

Not new blood. The dried kind. The kind that clings to the tile in whispers. Somewhere down the corridor, you could still hear the thump of gloves on pads, the roar of a crowd watching a knockout replay on loop.

But in this corner of the club, time had slowed to something dangerous. Something... intimate.

Carla Whitaker stood alone.

Leaning against a dented blue locker like it owed her rent. One stiletto heel pressed back against the steel, the other leg straight, slightly crossed in front. Her long, flawless blonde ponytail fell over her exposed shoulder, freshly flipped by the slow glide of her fingers.

She wasn’t dressed for a fight.

Black slacks hugged her legs like they were tailored by the devil. Her heels were glossy murder. Her top — if you could call it that — hung off one shoulder, teasing skin, tight abs, and deliberate provocation.

She looked like a CEO who fired you, bankrupted your family, and winked doing it.

And when Evan walked in?

She didn’t even look up.

EVAN: (voice low, tight)

“You think this is funny?”

Carla let her eyes drift toward him. Slowly. The kind of gaze that said: I’ve already weighed you. And you don’t tip the scale.

Her mouth curled — not a smile. A smirk soaked in venom and silk.

CARLA:

“Funny?”

She tilted her head, biting the inside of her cheek in a mock-thoughtful gesture.

“Mmm… no. Predictable? Very.”

Evan took a few steps forward. Shirtless. Chest rising hard. The sweat across his torso wasn’t from heat — it was fury. His fists weren’t clenched. Not yet. But they wanted to be.

EVAN:

“Connor can barely eat solid food after what you did to him.”

Carla let out a soft breath, almost a purr. Then she shrugged.

Her top slipped just slightly lower.

CARLA:

“Then maybe next time he should use his mouth to fight instead of flap.”

Beat.

“Though... if you’re here to complain on his behalf, I gotta say — you're much cuter when you're angry.”

That did it. Evan’s jaw locked. His right hand lifted, pointing at her like a gun.

EVAN:

“You’re not gonna flirt your way out of this, Carla.”

“I’m not Connor.”

She laughed. Actually laughed. Low, smoky, cruel.

CARLA:

“Oh, sweetheart. I know.”

“Connor had rhythm.”

Evan moved closer, tension in every joint. His voice dropped.

EVAN:

“You think you’re untouchable because you’re tall, blonde, and can throw a knee through someone’s spine?”

“You think no one’s coming for you?”

Carla’s arms folded under her chest. She shifted her heel slightly off the locker, arching her back just enough to tighten her silhouette. She was a statue built to mock masculinity. All curves. All cold.

CARLA:

“No one’s come close.”

EVAN:

“I will.”

CARLA:

“Mm. Careful.”

She licked her bottom lip — not seductively. Intentionally. Like she was savoring the taste of his pride.

“You say that like it’s foreplay.”

Evan’s breath caught. His mouth opened. Closed.

He hadn’t come here to be seduced.

But Carla didn’t seduce. She overwhelmed.

He took a step forward. Carla didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Her gaze stayed fixed on his eyes, but her voice dipped into honey-laced cruelty.

CARLA:

“Tell me, Evan… when you were watching me destroy your best friend...”

“Did it scare you?”

She cocked her head.

“Or did it turn you on?”

He exploded.

EVAN:

“Shut the hell up!”

His shout cracked through the locker room like a whip. His arm shot forward again, jabbing the air between them.

EVAN:

“You think this is a joke? You humiliated Connor in front of the entire club!”

“You treated him like a training dummy, and now you wanna stand there—half-naked—smirking at me like I’m next on your checklist?”

Carla pushed off the locker slowly, sauntering toward him — just a single, slow step, heels clicking like punctuation.

CARLA:

“Darling… you walked in here pointing fingers, growling, breathing heavy...”

“Sounds like someone wants to be next.”

EVAN:

“No. I’m not ‘next.’ I’m the one who ends it.”

She raised an eyebrow.

CARLA:

“Oh?”

EVAN:

“I’m not scared of you, Carla. Not your smirk. Not your body. Not your goddamn reputation.”

She was right in front of him now. Inches away.

She leaned in, lips almost to his ear.

CARLA: (whispers)

“You should be.”

Evan shoved back slightly. Not a hit. A line drawn.

EVAN:

“No. I want you in the ring.”

“You and me. No jokes. No flirting. No games.”

“Just violence.”

Silence.

Carla let it hang. Let it thicken.

Then, she smiled — full smile this time. The kind of smile that signs death warrants.

CARLA:

“You want it official?”

She turned her back on him, walking two steps toward the exit, then glanced over her shoulder.

“Then go change, pretty boy. You’ve got about twenty minutes before I turn that ring into your fucking wake.”

Evan didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

His eyes were already burning with fire.

As she disappeared into the hallway, hips swinging like they were taunting gravity, Carla didn’t look back.

Because why would she?

The conversation was over. The next round wouldn’t need words.

She was going to change. The ring was waiting.