THE HEAT IN the Phoenix Underground arena is oppressive.
The costly seats are crammed together, one after the other, and about five hundred people are now wildly screaming as Butcher and Hammer have a go up in the ring. Then wham! Smack! And Hammer ends up bloody and motionless on the floor.
“Wow, that was unfortunate for Hammer,” Pete says.
Kirk “the Hammer” Dirkwood hasn’t even twitched since he dropped splat on the canvas.
Butcher, though, is an enormous fighter. So meaty he’s double or triple the size of any other fighter, his fists look like iron balls, and his knuckles look like spikes. He’s just been announced the victor, and now he yells out a string of curses to the crowd, tells them he’s the “greatest motherfucker this ring has ever seen!” and suddenly, the canvas shudders under his feet as he angrily starts marching in the ring, yelling even louder, “BRING ME RIPTIDE! Let me have a fucking go at Riptide!!!!”
They’re dragging an unconscious Hammer out of the ring, and my stomach is knotting up by the second as Butcher bangs his chest like a gorilla and keeps yelling in a voice that is frighteningly craggy and monster-like. “RIPTIDE!! You hear me? Come out, *! Come face me like you did Benny!”
“He’s chums with you-know-who,” Pete tells me with a roll of his eyes. “And now, thanks to last year’s final, he thinks he can beat Rip too.”
The crowd gets restless. I notice that the Butcher’s hunger has only aroused the public. They heard the name, and it spreads like wildfire across the stands, starting with murmurs and rising to a crescendo: Riptide! Riptide! RIPTIDE!
Immediately I know, with every fiber in me, that they’re going to bring him out. He’s wanted, not only by Butcher, but by the entire screaming arena.
“Riptide! Riptide! RIPTIDE!” they chant.
I feel like a ginormous fist is squeezing the contents out of my stomach as I wait for a glimpse of him. He’s angry at me. He’s angry at me because I’m being ridiculous and I hate that I can’t stop being ridiculous and then I’m angry at myself.
“Riptide, Riptide!!” the crowd continues screaming for him.
There’s a commotion as the organizers seem to scramble to comply as the crowd’s demands get even louder.
“RIPTIDE! RIPTIDE!”
“Give us fucking RIPTIDE!”
The speakers flare to life, and the announcer sounds breathless. “You asked for him, ladies and gentlemen! You asked for him! Now, let’s bring out tonight the one you are all here to see! The one, the only, RRRRRRRiiiiiiippppppppppptiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide!”
The crowd roars in delight and my body screams in silence as all my systems kick into overdrive. My heart pumps, my lungs expand, and my eyes hurt as I pin them fixedly on the walkway. All the vessels and capillaries in my body dilate to accommodate blood flow, and my leg muscles feel ready to run, even though all I can do is squirm uneasily in my chair. I can’t ever seem to make my body realize that Remy is not in danger. Nor am I. My brain cannot comprehend that the man I love does this for sport, for a living. For his mental well-being. So I sit here while my body unleashes all the same hormones it would if I were being cornered by three raving bears ready to eat me.
And then I see him enter the arena—strong, magnificent, in control.
He takes the stage quickly and removes his robe while Butcher keeps pounding his chest as the crowd receives Remington with all their love and devotion. Like they always do.
I hold my breath and my hands fist in my lap as I wait for him to look at me.
It kills me. First, I watch in anticipation, then in dread, then in disbelief, as he makes his turn, unsmiling, then drops his arms at his sides and gets into place. The bell rings.
The men charge. I wince when Remy’s head flies to the side from the impact.
“Oh, no!” My stomach drops, my eyes blurring when I see blood.
The awful sounds of bone cracking against flesh follow, one after the other, as Butcher delivers three more consecutive blows, all to Remy’s face.
“Oh, god, Pete,” I gasp, covering my face.
“Shit,” Pete tells me. “Why didn’t he fucking look at you?”
“He hates me.”
“Brooke, come on.”
“We . . . he’s . . . I’m having trouble coping with the women, all right?”
Pete looks at me with a conflicted expression, and his stare bores into my profile, as if he wants to say something but can’t.
Remington growls angrily and lifts his guard as he shakes his head, easing back. His face is bloodied from the nose, the lips, the little scar on his eyebrow, and I don’t even know where else.
Butcher swings again, but Remy blocks, and they exchange jabs for about a minute until the round break is called and they go to their corners. Riley puts something on the wounds, and Coach is yelling stuff to him. He nods, shakes his arms out, flexes his fingers, and comes back, angry now, as he goes toe-to-toe with that burly awful beast and his spiked knuckles.