“You’re the only fighter I’ve ever met who’s not intimidated by the current champion, Maverick, I swear . . .” He shakes his head in consternation as he pulls off my gloves.
I look at my fists, curl my fingers in slowly, then squeeze and release them.
It’s my first time in the ring with Tate, but it’s not going to be my last.
? ? ?
I’M BACK IN my hotel room an hour later, my body in a tub of ice. I’ve got an ice pack on my temple. Oz sewed up my cut and just dropped dead on my couch. I’m bouncing a tennis ball against the wall of the bathroom, catching and throwing it back. I used it to lay my back on and release any knots, but I just like the rhythmic sound of it now. Helps me think as I replay what Tate said.
I’m getting madder and madder, throwing the ball faster and harder.
Something to say to him?
I might have something to say to the asshole.
Hell, I have a lot to say.
I would prefer my fists did the talking, but those will have to wait for another day.
Catching the ball, I toss it into my duffel, then swing to my feet.
“Oz,” I call into the room, tightening a towel around my hips as I storm out of the bathroom. “Oz.” I nudge his prostrate form. “Where’s he staying?”
“Huh?”
“Motherfucking Riptide. Where’s he staying?”
He grumbles a hotel, and I shove my legs into my jeans, slip on a T-shirt, and head over there.
? ? ?
THERE’S A CROWD outside the Tates’ hotel. I shoulder my way past and through the revolving doors just as Tate and his wife step off the elevators. Gritting my teeth, I stalk across the hotel lobby. “Why are you giving me pointers?”
His brows lift. “Because you need them.”
I laugh mockingly. “I don’t need your help. Fight me. Privately, you and me.”
“I don’t fight puppies.”
He narrows his eyes when I stay in place and cut him a dark, unflinching look.
“Armor’s gym tomorrow. Five a.m. Be there,” he says.
He takes his wife by the elbow and leads her across the lobby when the elevator opens and feet shuffle out.
“Mavewick!” I hear.
My eyes fall down to a familiar little grin and there’s Racer, looking up at me. He’s dressed in tiny shorts and a Batman T-shirt and someone is holding his hand. A female hand with neatly trimmed, soft-pink nails. My chest feels tight, and I lift my gaze.
Reese.
And it dawns on me.
She is with them.
I look at her and search her face to see if she knows who I am.
She knows.
I fought with Tate tonight and he can’t not know. Everybody knows by now.
I can see wariness and concern in her eyes, concern for what, I don’t know.
It’s not concern about me. Can’t be.
She glances past my shoulder at Tate and his wife, and I realize, it’s concern about them knowing she knows me.
Loss.
You can’t lose shit you don’t have.
But in my mind I had some sort of . . . attachment to looking for her every day. I feel like I just lost a fight I didn’t even know I fought.
And I lost it to Tate.
“Mavewick!” I hear again, and I feel a tap on my thigh.
I look down again. “Hey, little buddy.” I fist-bump him before I can catch myself. I look at Reese, and she’s amused and surprised seeing that. I edge my hand back. A tight black top covers her upper body, and dark-wash jeans cover her legs. It’s hard to breathe right.
There’s something about this girl. What the fuck is it about this girl? I can smell her, a sweet flower scent, and feel her. She’s under my skin. I’m boiling in jealousy that she’s with Tate. Jealous she’s living with him, holding the hand of his kid. Rooting for him.
Jesus, how come my body always knows when she’s in my space?
Her purse slides down her shoulder and I impulsively grab it.
“Oh, it’s fine,” she flusters.
I sling it over my shoulder reluctantly and signal for her to walk past me. “After you.”
“Mavewick, come celebwate.”
“Can’t, buddy.”
I watch her as they walk next to me.
Every inch of my body is beat-up but the pain is gone now. The pain is gone except the new one in my crotch.
I’m attracted to her round little face, her heart-shaped mouth, her firm little legs, the softness she has going on in all the right places. The shade of blue in her eyes. She calls to me on the most primitive level. She’s in my fucking veins. This girl.
I grab her waist and keep her close to me as we shuffle out into the crowd.
Her breasts press into my chest. I inhale for control, but my mind’s fucking running a thousand miles an hour. The blood rushes south. Impossible to get enough blood supply to my brain. Her hard little nipples press against the flat of my chest. It’s impossible to stop thinking of those firm, round breasts and how great they feel. I’m getting all lathered up just thinking of getting my hands on them, squeezing and teasing them with my fingers, tasting them. I’m betting her nipples are as pink as her lips, and I want to softly smother them with my mouth and suck on the tips until my jaw hurts.