The minute I’m in the cage, everything around me falls away—the crowd, the flashing lights, the cameras. Only I can’t shake the image of Britt, who I spotted in the front row when Max took his seat next to her.
I crack my neck and force my attention away from the girl with the miraculous ability to break through my impenetrable walls. Right now there’s can only be me and the unlucky bastard I’m about to destroy.
When the pre-fight bullshit is done, the announcer steps up to get this thing going.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the next fight on tonight’s card is an AFL middleweight regulation bout.” I zone out while he explains the rules, laser-focused on studying every move Fernandez makes. Jiu-jitsu is his specialty, but he’s nowhere near as good as me. Plus, his striking sucks.
“In the red corner, from Atlanta, Georgia, representing Souza MMA, weighing in at one hundred eighty-one pounds, Keller Killer Bishop!”
If the crowd responds, I don’t notice. The announcer turns to the opposite side of the octagon and I do something I never, ever fucking do during a fight. I glance outside the cage and lock eyes with Britt.
“In the blue corner, from Fort Worth, Texas, representing Youngblood MMA, weighing in at one hundred eighty-three pounds, Darius Demon Fernandez!”
The announcer’s voice fades from my existence as Britt and I remain locked together, blue and silver. The corner of her mouth turns up and she mouths “you got this…”
“Fighters to the center of the ring!”
That snaps me out of whatever the hell just happened.
The three of us come together in the center of the cage, two fighters and the ref. I pinpoint the exact second Fernandez makes eye contact with me. The cocky attitude, the arrogant spark in his eyes, vanishes like a puff of smoke.. He probably doesn’t recognize his own reactions. But I do.
He’s seen the monster, and he’s afraid.
The ref steps back and the bell rings. He should be afraid. It’s time to unleash the beast.
Britt
Keller. His name is Keller.
Hearing the announcer broadcast K’s real name reminds me of the paperwork I read yesterday. The legal paperwork required by the AFL for every fighter before they step into the ring.
Keller Bishop. It explains the Killer nickname, but not the odd, churning sensation in my gut when I hear it over the loudspeaker.. It doesn’t explain the strange sense of déjà vu I get when I run the name Keller over and over in my head. It’s the same creepy, “ice water in my veins” feeling I get when I look into his haunting silver eyes.
Max drops into the seat next to me. We’re in the front row at K’s corner, Gabriel and Pete about a yard away.
“You think he’ll do okay?”
I turn to gape at Max. He hasn’t spoken a word to me since K—no Keller, nearly took his head off at the training center the other day.
“I-I…” Max stares at me as I start to speak, his mouth twisted, his eyes sending out a silent challenge. One that says I’m either with Max or with Keller, depending on my answer.
Challenge accepted.
I straighten up in my seat and shoot him my own confident stare right back.
“I think he’ll demolish Fernandez in the first round,” I say with confidence.
The hurt in Max’s eyes is obvious, to the point I almost feel bad for taking Keller’s side. Then I remember—there are no sides. Max is the one pitting himself against the new fighter, with my friendship as the prize.
I turn back to the cage and feel the weight of Keller’s, heavy gaze on me. He gives Max a quick glance, his lip curling into an almost imperceptible sneer. Those quicksilver eyes return to mine, sparkling under the bright lights of the ring. A ripple of heat spreads from between my thighs, sending a shudder of pleasure through my body. Reflexively, I lick my bottom lip. Keller’s eyes widen and the fire inside me explodes into animal lust.
I’m practically panting, reeling from the ability of something as simple as a look from Keller turning me into a puddle of hormones.
The bell rings and my moment of dazed bliss ends.
Fernandez immediately tries to crowd close to Keller. He knows that Keller is a better striker and being a jiu-jitsu style fighter himself, Fernandez needs to prevent Keller from landing any kicks or hits, and get him on the ground as soon as possible.
Fernandez executes a swift jab to Keller’s chin. Keller does nothing to block the shot, the other man’s fist landing flush against Keller’s jaw. His head barely moves from the blow. I blink several times in shock. This is the first time I’ve seen anyone land a hit on Keller. The corner of Keller’s mouth pulls up in an almost imperceptible smirk.
He let Fernandez hit him on purpose!