by Katy Evans
“Oz, we have a shot tonight.” I grab a glass of water and bring it over. He won’t take it. Sighing, I set it aside, drop to my haunches, and level my nose with his. “I’m fighting tonight, and I need you in my corner.”
“What do you need me for?” he scoffs.
“I need you in my corner, Oz.”
“Get out.”
“We have a shot, Oz.”
“We?”
“We. Look, you want to prove something? Here’s your chance.”
Oz doesn’t get up. He shifts forward and stares at the floor. “Men like us, Maverick, we don’t get the good stuff.”
“How do you know if you don’t make a grab for it?”
“Because I’ve lived longer, that’s why. I tried shooting for it plenty of times.”
“Oz. Look—”
“Don’t sermon me, Maverick! You and the Tates. You and your girl. You’re not an unwanted anymore. Like me,” he growls, frowning.
“Oz. Fuck, man. I found this girl. And she’s lovely. And she gets me. And I get her. And I want to be with her. I’m crazy about her in a way I never thought I’d be. I’ve been training like mad for tonight. Just one night, Oz.”
“You’ve been taking me for granted, Maverick.”
I stand and curl my fists at my sides. I lower my voice. “I don’t take anything for granted. I know better.”
“You don’t need me anymore. You got me because no one good enough would take you on. Now you got something better. You got Tate as a mentor.”
“Except I’ll never forget you were the one on my team when nobody else wanted in.”
“Your best buddy Tate’s got an in now,” he says resentfully. “You can get anyone you want at this point.”
“Then fucking realize it’s me who’s standing right here asking you to be in my corner.”
He shakes his head and wipes his face, then folds his arms, and he starts crying.
I groan and drop back to my haunches. “Don’t do this to me, Oz.”
“Just fucking go.”
“Not without you.”
He grabs the nearest bottle and tries to drink.
I stop it midair, yanking it away from him and setting it aside, my voice low. “So that’s how this goes. You want to sabotage us, Oz? Do you?” I’m mad now. I’m so fucking mad I can’t see straight.
I plant my hand on the back of his seat and lean forward. “Be fucking man enough to fight the fight we set out to fight.”
His eyes shoot daggers at me. “Go, Cage. This isn’t my fight anymore,” he says, glaring at me.
I curl my hands into fists, go slam my palm into the wall, then I come back and drop down before him.
“Why are you still here?”
“’Cause you’re still here.”
He glowers.
I glower back. Then I lean in my seat and stare at the room. “Good rooms compared to where we started, huh.”
“Pretty damn fine,” he grumbles.
I sigh and drag my hand down my face. “Oz. Talk to me.”
He glances down at his empty hands. “I try leaving it but I can’t. . . .” He exhales and looks away. “Seventy-eight fighters I’ve trained in the past decade as coach. Fighters I’d nurse to health. Fighters I’d wake up at three a.m. to get them ready by four to train. Fighters I helped cook for, helped dress, hell, I even helped some stay sober. They all leave. Every rung up the ladder of success, every match I helped win, was just one more rung to the top where they’d say goodbye to me. I gave everything up for so many of them. Didn’t have kids—my champs were my kids. Gave up time with the wife. They all leave. And so will you, Maverick.”
I lean forward, looking at him. “Whether this is the end of something great or the beginning . . . win or lose tonight . . . I want you in my corner always, Oz. Always.”
He frowns and clamps his lips tight, his eyes red. “Even like this?!” he cries, disbelieving.
“Hey.” I lean forward even more, nodding somberly. “I’m going to support you. You can get through this and you don’t need to do it alone. Just because you’ve lost this fight before doesn’t mean you’ll lose it forever. I won’t let you. I’m going to support you to win yours like you’ve been supporting me to win mine. If you need me right now, I’m here.”
He exhales through his nostrils, then sets the bottle aside. “Fine. I’ll take the damn twelve steps.”
“Good. I’m proud.”
He glowers. “You really want to fight tonight or are you turning into a pussy?”
“My dick’s just fine tonight, Oz, and so are my fists, but I want you to be there.”
“Well. Guess I will just take one step first. ’Cause if my champ needs me and it’s not out of pity, then he’s got me.”
“Good. ’Cause if my coach wants me, he’s got me.” We share a look of understanding as we both stand, and I glance at the clock. The seconds have never ticked faster.
We have seven minutes to get to the Underground.
Once outside, it’s five minutes and counting. I take a look at the hotel cab line and swear.
Half a dozen people in line and no cabs pulling in.
“All right, Oz. Let’s get you a much-needed workout.” I trot to the sidewalk and check to make sure that he follows, and he groans and tries to catch up as I start running like hell to the Underground.
FORTY-FIVE
RINGSIDE SEATS
Reese
“Reese?” Brooke calls my name from the bedroom door. “You ready?”
I leap out of the bathroom, where I was tying my hair back in a braid, and nod. “I’m so nervous.”
She laughs and hugs me, happily so.
“You don’t look nervous,” I tell her as she goes to give some last-minute instructions to Racer and kisses him good night.
She grins privately. “Whatever happens, Remington will be celebrating tonight.”
“Why do you say that?”
She leans over to tuck Racer in bed. “Because I’m pregnant.” She smiles so wide as she looks back at me. “I’m pregnant and Remington is going to be thrilled. Nothing matters more to him than we do. Right, Racer? A little sister, or a little brother?”
“No,” he says frowning, sitting up in bed. “My mommy’s mine!” He squeezes her. And she laughs and smacks his rump and settles him back down to bed, and nods to Diane.
We take the elevators to where Pete waits with an SUV. And then we both head out of the hotel, past Central Park and toward the East Side, to the warehouse of the Underground.
There are easily fifteen thousand people present, and Brooke leads me to a row of empty front-row-center seats.
I can smell the metallic scent of blood and sweat and beer and warmth of too many humans together. The sight of the ring so close makes my breath hitch.
“How you do it, I don’t know,” I tell her as we wait.
She pats my thigh reassuringly. “It gets easier. It’s never fun when there’s blood.”
“There’s going to be blood.” I exhale, preparing for it.
She nods. “It’s the final. They fight for all.” She scowls and waves Pete over. “What’s the delay?” she asks.
“They’re saying Maverick isn’t here.”
“What do you mean?”
Pete purses his lips in concern. “If he isn’t here in a minute, he’ll be disqualified.”
I glance at Maverick’s corner with a sinking feeling in my gut, then I tell Brooke, “Something happened. There’s no way Maverick would miss this fight—”
“Reese—” Brooke tries to appease me when the announcer speaks.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen . . .”
And Pete glances at Riley, who waves a signal at him, and Pete turns to us with a grin.
“It’s on,” he says.
And oh god.
It’s on.
FORTY-SIX
LAST FIGHT
Maverick
Oz is pacing in the back room of the warehouse
like an angel of death, hair sticking up, eyes bloodshot, jaw set in determination. “Okay, kid, you better not dump me for anything new and shiny. I’m sobering up for real now.”
I look at Oz, smiling to myself.
“This better be fucking worth it.” He jabs a finger at my bare chest. “When I get sober, I want to realize I got something good in my life.”
“You do, motherfucker. You got me.”
He nods. “Now go show Riptide he taught you well.”
“I will,” I vow quietly, and I let Oz tape up my hands.
“Nah, fuck, it needs to be perfect,” he grumbles. He unravels one of them and tightens it up.
I’m pumped up and wired after wondering for a hot second whether I’d even make it to the fight. After Oz, after the run, my veins are crackling with testosterone.
Tate wants a big fight, his last fight.
And suddenly I just want to fight.
“He told Brooke this is the best match of his life, and Reese says he means it,” Oz says.
“Hell, it’s the best match of mine.” I look up. “Reese told you that?”
“I talk to Reese sometimes,” he says, smirking. He slaps the back of my head. “You were right. I think she’s with us.”
I exhale, drag my taped hand down my face. Then shove my hands into my gloves.
Because I’m the challenger, I get called out first.
“. . . so please welcome our challenger of the night, the fucking underdog of the season. It’ll be a miracle if the match lasts past the first round. No rookie EVER has survived that long against our champion. But this isn’t just any rookie, ladies and gentlemen, oh no. We give you, here at the Underground, MAVERICK CAGE—THE AVEEEENGER!”
Oz opens the door, and I tap my gloves and head outside, the competitive juices flowing through my veins.
Dozens of lights are trained on the ring. Every single eye in the arena trained on me as I hop inside and jerk off my robe, then wait quietly in my corner as they call Tate.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our defending champion of the Underground, the undefeated KING OF THE RING, we give you, REMINGTON TATE—RIIIIIIPTIDE!”
The crowd comes alive, and Oz cackles in my corner, amused. I scan the crowd for Reese—and my gaze stops on a woman with short dark hair and eyes like mine behind a pair of prim glasses.
Mother.
Her hands are trembling in her lap, and I look at her in apology. This is why I didn’t want you to come before, Mother.
You’re not going to like this one bit.
But she smiles a brave smile, and I cant my head at her in gratitude for coming. Behind her, Ward gives me the finger and Seneca lifts his fingers in a mocking peace sign.
I glare at them, but I’m glad they’re close to my mother. The last thing I want her to feel is alone here, among thousands, with no one cheering for her son.
Tate takes the ring like the king does.
He hits the floor soundlessly.
I stand here. Ready. Waiting.
He turns around. His fans go wild.
I prowl to the other side of the ring as the crowd cheers him. And there, sitting next to Brooke, is the loveliest girl I’ve ever seen.
She’s smiling tremulously, her eyes fixed on nothing—not the ring, not the crowd, not Tate—nothing but me.
My jaw tightens as I try to tame back the wild emotion seeing her here gives me. I put my fist to my chest and her breasts rise a little on a breath, as if she knows what it means.
That’s it, between me and her.
She knows.
That I love her. Adore her.
And she knows that I wanted—needed—her to be with me.
And she’s there, in her seat in the front fucking row on my left, right where Tate said she’d be.
The referee brings Tate and me together. “When I come in, you step back and stop punching, I want a clean fight tonight.”
We both nod in understanding, eyes on each other.
There’s respect between us now.
And I know this second that if I lose tonight, I lose to the best.
It begins.
The count . . .
The testosterone is thick in the air. Neither of us likes to go down. We’re both too stubborn to go down.
We both hunger for victory. Over each other. Over ourselves.
It’s the biggest match the Underground has ever had. My father’s departure made people happy, but the fact that word spread about Tate and me developing a friendship created controversy and curiosity. They want to see us—see it to believe it.
We’re both aggressive fighters. Though I’ve learned to defend too, because Tate is also great at defense. While training me, it felt like he wanted to create something better than himself. He taught me everything to look for, things nobody’s ever seen because he’s never let them close enough. Things nobody else can find but me. I’ve never been able to beat him. But he’s given me every opportunity to find out how.
We tap gloves, both of us trying to gauge each other’s strategy for the night. Wear me down? No. He’s not playing games with me, and I’m glad he isn’t, because we’re both here to fight.
Ting ting.
The crowd goes wild as I take the first swing.
He blocks, grins.
He follows me, trying to land a big hit. His knuckles land a clean blow to the head. I react when he opens and bury my glove in his gut. It’s like hitting concrete. But I’m strong and, judging by the sound my punch makes, it went deep.
We leap back, then circle.
The crowd alternates between silence and cheers. We’re giving them quite a show. A blow that stuns me. He’s got the most powerful punch I’ve ever felt. He’s got me against the ropes. He doesn’t tell me where I fucked up—hell, I know it already. I put my arms up and block, then lower them and narrow my eyes.
He grins as they stop us and force us apart. I can see it in his eyes—a challenge. Asking me, Do you think you deserve to be world champion? Champions never fuck up twice.
I take position.
The crowd stands and starts chanting, “Remy! Remy! Remy!”
I’m waiting for him to look at his wife and take a hit.
And somehow I wonder if he’s waiting for me to look at Reese.
Achilles is only as strong as his heel.
And we both have heels.
And we both know where they are sitting tonight.
He takes a shot under the heart, then a hook that shoots my head around. I back away as I recover, Tate becoming the aggressor.
I stop backing up and take a left straight jab. He moves his shoulder, evading, but I see that coming and counteract with another right. Knuckles crush into his temple. The hit stuns him.
The bell for the first round rings.
We keep fighting after the bell, suddenly both of us punching, some landing, some missing, ducking, punching.
The referee yells and slips inside. “Stop! HALT!” he demands.
We ease back and take our stools.
We’re back on. The announcer: “Cage is prowling . . . the only fighter this season not in awe of the champion . . . and Tate’s up against the ropes! Cage takes a hit. They’re getting touchy. Referee cannot break them apart. . . .”
“HALT!” the referee calls again.
“Fucker,” Tate says when he steps aside and lets us continue. “Won’t let us have any fun,” he growls.
“Speaking of fun,” I say, chest heaving as I catch my breath. “Checked your wife out yet? She’s not looking at you, she’s looking at me.”
He smacks my face so hard I bounce on the ropes, then I duck and he misses and swings around, frowning and grinning. “Fucker. Reese just left. Said to call her when you got better game, pussy.”
I swing my left, he ducks and shoots his left out. My forehead catches the blow and my brain jerks inside my skull. I back away, listless.
Things get bloody after that.
I feel a high, a complete rush of adr
enaline. Boxing, moving, punching, countering, blocking.
Round four, five, and six—he breaks my rib and I give him a swollen eye. He can only see through one, squinting at me as we fight.
The crowd is overwhelmed. Ringside seats splattered with blood. We’re beating each other to a pulp. Throwing punches left and right. We’ve both got gashes above our eyes, Tate on his temple, and my blasted same cut above my eye has opened again. We are breathing hard, getting Vaseline on our faces when we take our stools, and getting patched up, and wearing down the more we fight.
Round seven, he knocks me to the canvas.
I get up, and the fight keeps going. . . .
Three of Tate’s hooks on round eight, and I’m down again.
“Fuck,” I growl under my breath, my cheek flat on the ground as my body convulses from the hits.
The countdown begins.
Reese is on her feet, hands to her mouth, crying.
She’s with me.
My body trembles as I demand more from it than it can give. Everything. I plant my hand down on the ground, and then the other, bring my knees up and stand.
And I look at Tate. One eye is swollen. His coach is cutting it up so the blood can emerge, and he’s taping him back.
I look at my gloves. Every mark there on the leather is from me. Fought for by me. I think of my father’s message and drag a deep breath. Guess I’m a real fighter now.
Tate approaches. He’s angry now. Is he disappointed? He looks mad that I haven’t given him more. Did he think he wasted his time with me? Is he thinking I wasn’t worth it? Like my own fucking father?
Don’t want to think he’s bigger. More experienced.
He thought I’d give him the better fight.
And I will.
I don’t fight for my father.
I fight for me.
I’m the phoenix rising.
I brace my legs, lift my arms, and keep on fighting.
Hungry for victory.
His nose crunches.
He hooks back and busts my face open. I hit the ground and immediately leap up.
My vision’s blurred. Legs, arms, nothing responds. I blink and taste blood in my mouth. Pain slowly streaking through me, I force myself forward.
I picture my father. His face. Him fighting me. You’re not good enough. . . .
