I push through the crowd, my kit clutched against my chest. The warehouse is packed for the tournament.
The smell of sweat, blood, and too much cologne hits me like a wall as men part reluctantly, their eyes glazed with the excitement that comes from watching violence.
Two fights are happening simultaneously in the rings. One fighter takes a brutal hook to the jaw in Ring A while I'm trying to reach Ring B, where someone's already down.
"Coming through!" I shout, elbowing past a group of men with fistfuls of cash.
It's like a damn pressure cooker in here. More fighters, more money, more testosterone.
I've already been called twice in the first hour. First for a dislocated shoulder, then for a gash that needed six stitchesabove someone's eye. Reminds me of Declan's cut. I shake my head, forcing the image away.
As I reach the edge of Ring B, I see what's happening. A fighter is facedown on the mat. Blood pools beneath him, a bit too much.
"Fuck," I say, climbing through the ropes.
The referee waves me over frantically. "Hit his head on the corner post when he went down."
I kneel beside the man, my fingers immediately going to his carotid. His pulse is rapid but strong. I open his eyelids, pupils equal and reactive. That's good.
"What's his name?" I ask no one in particular.
"Nick," someone answers.
"Nick," I say loudly near his ear. "Can you hear me?"
He groans. His eyes flutter. More blood seeps from a cut near his hairline.
"He's done. Bring him to the back," I say, standing.
The crowd boos, hungry for drama, as four men lift him carelessly.
Nick moans as they lay him down on the floor. I don't have a bed.
I look him over. His skin is pale beneath his tan.
"Out," I order the men who carried him. "Everyone out."
I work better on my own. So I can zone out. Focus.
I quickly see the blood is coming from two places. I press gauze against both, but it immediately soaks through.
"Shit," I say, reaching for more.
The bleeding won't stop. Head wounds bleed dramatically, but this is excessive. I apply more pressure, my gloves feeling slick.
"Come on," I say, grabbing a suture kit. I need to close the larger gash. It's the source of most blood loss.
I've just inserted the needle when the door bursts open.
"Hey, you need to come with me," Frank demands, standing in the doorway. "That Killaney guy needs you. It's urgent. One of his guys is bleeding. Corner can't stop it. Ref's about to call it."
I look back down, focusing on the stitch I'm placing. "No. I'm working on someone."
"He won't be happy. Maybe finish that guy later."
That makes me look up. My hands are covered in blood, and I'm literally holding a man's flesh together with needle and thread. Heat rises in my chest.
"No," I snap. "I'm not abandoning him. Tell him his man isn't my problem right now."
