My head’s so fucked I’m not paying attention, not that it matters. I could drive to the training center with my eyes closed. Throwing my truck into a spot, I stalk to the door, head down, trying like hell to concentrate on anything other than Mac.
That damn kiss is still infecting every part of my body and mind. Fuck! Why did she do that? Those lips felt like hot velvet against mine—Bam! I slam through the locker room door so hard it bounces off the wall.
“Whoa! What the fuck?”
The startled response gets my attention.
Cameron Kyle, the UFL’s new CEO is standing there with a file folder in hand.
He glares at me. “Carter? You look like you’re ready to rip someone’s head off, kid.”
I’m not a kid, fuckface. I need to calm down. Cam may dress as if he’s spent the better part of his life warming a desk chair, but the retired UFL Heavyweight Champion dominated the octagon in his day. Other than the fact that he no longer sports his signature shaved head, he looks as though he could pick up his career right where it was ripped from him and annihilate his competitor.
“Rough night.” The two words come out on a growl and I head to my locker to grab my towel and hit the shower.
“I’m actually glad you’re here.” His voice follows behind me. “Need to run something by you.”
I grunt in acknowledgment, but the visions of a certain black-haired, tawny-eyed girl have me preoccupied.
“Big fight’s coming up. Two weeks.” The creaking of wood tells me he’s made himself comfortable on the bench behind me. “I’m in need of a welterweight fighter.”
A welterweight? I turn and lean against the lockers, arms crossed at my chest. “What happened to Reece and Kobe?” They’ve been on the ticket for months.
He exhales a heavy breath and tosses the file folder to the ground, spilling its pages. “Kobe.” He shakes his head then sets his eyes on me. “That fucking jackass got arrested last night.”
My jaw goes slack. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“For what?” He was looking forward to this fight with Reece. It’s a rematch after Reece, a fighter from the UK, KO’ed him on home soil.
“Selling cocaine.”
My jaw completely drops. Fucking idiot.
“Now I’ve got a fight two weeks away and no one lined up to go up against Reece.” He nods toward the grounded file folder. “I’m checking out fighters that can be ready in two weeks and the list is short. After Gibbs went and butt-fucked the UFL, fighters have been laxing.”
That’s true. A lot of the UFL’s fighters weren’t sure if they’d have an organization to work for anymore after the scandal with Gibbs. “Shit, man. So what’re you going to do?”
He tilts his head and looks at me. “I’m offering you the fight.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve been training with Daniels for the last three months. I think you can pull your shit together in two weeks and take Reece.”
“Can’t.” I shrug. “Wrong weight class. Reece is a welterweight. I’m running on the high end of middleweight.”
“Fifteen pounds, Carter. You can cut that in two weeks no problem.”
Yeah, I probably could. Enough exercise, good diet, plenty of cardio. Not to mention my career could use a bump. I’ve been everyone else’s training partner for a while. It’d be nice to get my own fight. I’d prefer to fight in my weight class, but fuck it. What do I have to lose? If nothing else, it’ll keep me busy and keep my mind off all my shit.
“I’ll do it.” I offer him my hand.
He grins, stands, and shakes it. “Right on. Now get out there and start working off some of that weight.”
Grabbing his papers off the floor, he leaves me to my shower and my thoughts.
This is good. It’s been over a year since my last televised fight. There’s only one feeling in the world that beats fighting in the octagon, and that’s fighting in front of fifteen thousand screaming fans and a live TV audience of millions. The rush of a crowd that size is heady.
Feeling better already, I plan to spend most of my days training and very little at The Blackout.
*
Mac
The sun is just coming up when I finally make it home. A cab ride would’ve been cheap with us living so close, but I needed the fresh air, so I chose to walk home. I replayed what happened with Rex over and over in my head and came to the conclusion that I was wrong. I owe him an apology.
I can’t expect him to understand where my head is at. Shit, I don’t understand where my head is at. All this time watching him, worrying about him, and loving him from a distance, my body took over what my mind has never allowed. And I went there. It was a mistake, and even now I feel stupid for letting myself go the way I did.
I’ve worked at The Blackout for almost six months and managed to maintain my cool. But being so close, smelling the dark spice of his skin, watching his tongue toy with the ring in his lip . . . it was all too much. Sensory overload.