“So what happened?”
“I nailed him with an uppercut and a hard right. My left hand is weaker than my right―still strong, but not as sharp. I felt his jaw pop with the first strike. But after years of training, I didn’t just hit him once. It’s been ingrained in me that one punch follows the next, and the next after that.”
So he inflicted more damage as a result. Shit. That much is clear.
“If he hadn’t gone down, I probably would have hit him a few more times―because that’s what you do, you keep going until you hear that bell or until the ref hauls you off.” He shakes his head. “But even though I’ve had several fights and knew I should keep swinging, I couldn’t. I knew something was wrong.”
“Was he okay after?”
Finn’s voice lowers in a way that tells me he’s remembering. “No. He had to have his jaw wired and he never fought again. I’m assuming he realized he wasn’t ready for the UFC and probably never would be.”
“Did you ever talk to him about it?” Although, my brain told me to stop speaking, my mouth kept going anyway. “Sorry, that’s probably a stupid question.”
He pulls into a residential block, parking in front of a classic brick Colonial. “It’s not stupid,” he tells me.
He releases my hand and cuts the engine, both of us unsnapping our seatbelts in unison. I turn to face him, knowing he’s not done speaking. He angles toward me, his arm sliding across my shoulders. “If you break down what I do,” he says. “I’m basically paid to beat people up. It’s a professional sport―like football―something that sells out big arenas. Except unlike football, there aren’t guys running for a touchdown or trying to catch a ball.”
“I know,” I agree.
He smiles a little, taking a moment to stroke my cheek before continuing. “Every time I step inside that octagon, and the gate slams shut, I know my opponent is there to inflict pain and take me out. I may not like it, but I respect it, because that’s the same thing I’m there to do to him. So when I hit that guy, I meant to hurt him, and I did. I earned my first professional knockout, secured my win in under thirty seconds, and propelled myself up the ranks. But Sol, I’m gonna tell you something I only told Kill at the time, I’ve never felt more like shit.”
“Because you hurt him?”
He shakes his head. “No. Because I hurt someone weaker than me.”
“Oh,” I whisper. Even though this happened years ago, the guilt in his eyes is as palpable as the strength that surrounds him.
“The promoter told me afterward that my opponent had no business breathing the same air as me. He meant it as a compliment, but all I could think about―when people were rushing up to me to pat me on the back―was that I had beat up on someone that in any other situation I probably would have tried to protect.”
“You couldn’t have held back, though. I mean, for as unprepared as he was to face you, that didn’t make him incapable of inflicting serious injury.”
“No. But it took the glory out of my first knockout. For a while, I wanted to find the guy to tell him I was sorry. But Kill told me it wasn’t a good idea.” He shrugs. “He thought it would affect my performance in the octagon.”
“Do you think it did? Even without finding him?”
“Oh, hell yeah. I was almost afraid to hurt someone.” He huffed. “That changed when my next opponent cracked me hard in the skull.”
“Oh! So you lost?”
Finn shakes his head. “Fuck, no. It was exactly what I needed to put me back in the game and come out swinging.”
Which is why he’s ranked as high as he is. I press a kiss to his lips. “How do you do it?” I ask him softly.
He cocks his chin. “Do what?”
“Hurt someone as badly as you do, but hold me in a way that I might break?”
He stiffens, that shimmer of life returning to his stare. “Because I like you.” His rough knuckles pass along my cheek. “And unlike the men I face when I fight, I would never hurt you.”
I mean to smile, but I can’t then, so caught up by the way he enthralls me with just his voice and that to-die-for face. “I hope not,” I whisper. “Because I really like you, too.”
He doesn’t say anything, not at first, taking in every bit of my visage as if he can’t believe I like him as much as I do. He has no idea how much I think of him or how simply picturing his face lifts my spirits.
Finn is the one thing I look forward to, the one person who makes me laugh and shoves all my misery aside. Of course I don’t tell him. But I want to . . . just like I want to make love to him all night.
His fingers travel down my throat to the exposed skin my blouse doesn’t quite cover. “Do you want to head inside?”
“I really do,” I tell him.
“Good,” he whispers.