“I don’t care about that right now,” Kill says.
My scowl deepens. “As my manager and my brother, you damn well should.”
“It’s not always about the money, Finnie,” he says.
“You’re right,” I grind out. “It’s also about getting what I deserve.”
“I’m not saying you don’t deserve a shot at the title. God knows you’ve earned it,” he says. “Just keep cool and stick with the plan.” He motions out the door, ignoring the reps beating on the door, telling me I’m needed out now. “You hear that crowd. They’re nothing more than piranhas, Finn. They’ve already seen and tasted blood so they want more. Your opponent knows it. So right now, his camp is telling him he needs to make sure that’s what he gives them. They’re telling him to fuck you up. You need a fast win, in the off chance he gets lucky.”
More knocks on the door, more urges for me to get my ass moving. Kill keeps talking like no one is there. “Just like you want the title shot, he wants it too. Just like Sumar is making noise, he wants to make some of his own.”
“Hear him out,” Curran says when I start swearing.
“Just finish Boris quick,” Kill adds. “No showing off, no waiting for a shot that pisses you off enough to act. Get in, get a knockout or a submission. That’s all I ask.”
“If I get the win in the first round, it won’t be enough of a show for the higher ups,” I tell him. “Not with how much the fans on social media are talking up all the shit Sumar’s pulled―and not with how they’re demanding the champ lay him out.”
“No, it won’t,” Kill agrees, his voice tight. “But it will give you time to prepare so when the time comes, you’ll wear that belt, and be in one piece to enjoy it.” He shakes his head. “That last fighter, as young as he is, he’s done. You hear me? He was so focused on putting on a show, he got sloppy and now he’s hurt because of it.”
And messed up for life he doesn’t say. Like the others before him, and like Conan who probably won’t even be able to tie his own damn shoes.
The door swings open, but before one of the producers can rip into me, I bound past them with Kill and Curran at my heels. The cameraman scrambles when he sees me, pushing off the wall and racing to shove his lens in my face. As soon as it connects and the lights flick on, the crowd loses it.
Roars shoot down the hall like a cyclone. They know I’m coming. But they don’t know what Kill just said.
I’m not stupid. The last thing I want is to end up like some of those fighters who’ve spent years taking blows and can’t think straight, can’t keep their hands from twitching, and who can barely finish their thoughts. All that aside, I’m not going down like a punk. If he wants me to finish fast, I will. But I can’t say I’m not going to look good doing it.
The moment I cross into the arena, that’s when the crowds’ energy strikes me at capacity. It’s not the first time I’ve stepped toward the octagon, but it is like that first time. And I swear to Christ, it’s like I’m reborn.
This . . . this is where I belong.
Invincible is what I am at this moment. Alive is how I feel. And strength is all I own. I thought that part of me had died―that this taste had grown old, dulling to that numbness that had become more friend than foe. But now I’m back. I feel it, I breathe it. It’s a part of me once more. And it’s not simply because of my newfound commitment to training, or how I’m progressing in counseling.
It’s because of Sol.
This woman has been the breath I didn’t know I needed to take. Yeah, her. The one clinging to Wren and Sofia as I pass. But I don’t look at her then. I have a job to do, and that includes proving why I deserve to be her man.
I’m checked by the cut man, every inch of me tensing as he swipes petroleum jelly all over my face. It’s supposed to help the punches slide off my face, and decrease the cuts I receive. Personally, I think it does jack.
Kill clasps my shoulder, Curran does, too, both assuring me my opponent doesn’t stand a chance. I respond with a stiff nod and make my way up the steps and into the octagon.
Game time.
“Ladies and gentlemen . . .” the announcer begins.
I’m not paying attention to my stats or Boris “the Thorn” Thornsby’s. I’m looking at him, like he’s looking at me, both of us so wired and ready, we can’t keep still. His favorite submission is the rear-naked choke, when he doesn’t knock his opponent out first. He hits hard, but so do I. And I’m just as good on the ground as I am on my feet. If he gets me down, he’ll try for the choke, guaranteed.
But he better watch out for his arms, or I’m popping one loose with an armbar.