That’s if I avoid flipping the switch. I’ve never, not once, been able to control it from happening. A groan rumbles in my chest. There’s too much on the line for me to doubt myself. I will control it tonight.
Before I know it, I’m pulling into the lot at the training center. I jump out of the truck and head to the door in a daze. My head is a whirlwind. I focus on my pre-fight checklist to keep my mind off the emotion.
Weigh-in, strategy meeting, warm up, arena.
I quicken my pace through the parking lot as a few photographers snap pictures.
“‘Assassin,’ you ready for the fight tonight?” The reporter has a microphone at the end of his outstretched arm.
With a tug to drop my baseball hat lower, I ignore him and keep walking.
“Is it true that fighters never have sex before a big fight?” another reporter shouts.
Fucking idiots.
“Do you have a lucky charm of some kind? Dirty socks or a jock strap?”
Do they really expect me to stop and give them an answer? I force a smile their way, pulling off a sneer at best.
Pushing through the doors, I’m hit with cold air that prickles my skin. Blake’s sitting alone in the lobby, obviously waiting for me.
“Blake.”
He stands and meets me halfway to the hall. His eyes work the room before coming back to me. “You ready for this shit, man?”
I nod.
“All right, dude. I got your back. We do this as planned, shouldn’t be any problems. You’re home in bed with your girl, naked if you’re lucky, by midnight.”
A grin pulls at my lips. “Got it.”
Blake drops his signature crooked smile and his jaw goes hard, eyebrows dropped low. “Let’s fucking do this shit!”
He claps me on the shoulder and leads the way into the locker room. My entire team is there huddled in the back, waiting. I’m greeted with fist bumps and chin lifts.
Guilt eats away at my insides. My crew has worked just as hard as I have to get me this fight. They’ve trained with me non-stop, taken punches, suffered injuries, all for me. I’m letting them down by not going out there and giving it my all.
I sit on a bench, elbows on my knees, focusing on the ground. I force myself to pull an image of Raven to the forefront of my mind: her wide, innocent, aquamarine eyes. That’s it. I need to keep my mind right here.
“You ready?” Owen says as he plops down at my side.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I fix my eyes to the floor. It’s a dick move, but I’m hoping he brushes it off to me getting in the zone.
“Good enough. Let’s warm you up and get you to weigh-in.”
My body moves through all of the pre-fight bullshit, but my mind is absent. I pop in my earbuds and listen to music, mentally walking myself through every round. The guys don’t talk to me much, only direct me where to go and what to do. Every now and then I catch a look from Blake. His jaw set, eyes cold, but knowing. We seem to share the same thought. Let’s get this shit done.
We load up into a white van and head to the arena. The streets are lined with tourists, fans, and paparazzi. I’m grateful for the dark, tinted windows and the inconspicuous car that allows us through without hassle. The driver avoids the front entrance and turns down a ramp to a private parking garage where he parks beneath the arena.
Blake turns around in his seat. “It’s show time.”
We unload from the van where we’re met by a man in a suit. He introduces himself as the event planner and takes us to our assigned dressing room.
The space is about half the size of the locker room at the UFL Training Center. Two large leather couches line the walls with a coffee table in between. The floor has been covered with padded, interlocking mats that provide cushion for a grappling warm up. A heavy bag hangs in the corner, along with some boxing mitts. A small refrigerator sits in the opposite corner, probably stocked with water and a variety of sports drinks.
I drop my bag of gear next to a couch and take a seat while the guys on my team talk to the planner. Blake turns from the group, stalking toward me. His face is hard. Shit. Once he reaches me, his hand motions to his ear for me to pop out my earbuds.
He points to the door. “Motherfucker’s sending in chicks.”
“The fuck you say?”
A woman in this room would cause the exact opposite environment that I need. Before a fight it’s all about relaxation. A relaxed mind is a sharp mind. The last thing any of us need is some chick in here kissing ass.
I shift to the side on the couch to look behind Blake. My team is hovering over the event planner, pointing in his face. The poor suit looks like he might shit his pants. I sit back, shrug, and lock eyes with Blake.
“It’s probably just something the networks orchestrated for ratings. They come, they sit in the corner and keep to themselves. They keep the fuck away from me.”
“Been fighting here for years and never had chicks in the dressing room.” Blake’s eyebrows lower over his eyes. “Gibbs knows we need calm before a fight. Why would he agree to this shit?”