“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.