Jhene hovers by the doorway, fidgeting uncertainly as if questioning whether she belongs here. I understand why—the locker room’s full of my team, all men.
She’s wearing jeans and a simple black top, curls half upand half down, pulled away from her face. Her glasses are perched on her nose as they always are.
She looks so damn beautiful. Distractingly so.
Enough that I have to consciously fight those thoughts off. I can’t afford to not have my mind on the fight and only the fight right now.
That’s not even touching on how we’ve started exploring together in recent days.
She crosses to me slowly, then rises onto her toes and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. “Make sure you win.”
It’s a whisper only I hear. I nod at her and murmur back, “I always do.”
Half an hour later, I’m heading out to the ring, backed by my team. The crowd goes wild at the sight of me.
I scan the arena, picking out some of the clan in the VIP section. Ronan and Simone are seated together, along with Jhene and Sean who already looks like he’s three beers deep into the night.
Then my gaze pans to a group of men on the other side of the VIP. Though it’s from afar, I can tell they’re Russian. They’ve got the same cold-eyed stares and deadpan expressions they’re known for.
It’s no surprise they’re here. The Russians have always had a heavy presence in the New York boxing circuit. Tonight’s no exception.
The only difference is we’re currently at war.
I say let them watch. Let them see what I can do and how I’ll fucking crush them myself.
Winner takes on Ivan Sharapova, and he’s got known ties to the Bratva too. When I beat Thompson tonight, it means I’ll be going up against their prized fighter in a couple months.
I look forward to it.
The fight starts a few minuteslater.
The Tank lives up to his name—he’s huge and slow, with a jaw that seems immune to pain.
The first few rounds are no cake walk. We trade blows that would drop lesser men. He catches me with a left hook right out of the gate. It blurs my vision and slashes open a cut above my brow.
I’m quick to recover, reverting to what I know. Playing strategic defense as he presses on.
He throws out punches backed by sheer power. I’m faster than he is, often a split second ahead.
The crowd roars as the second round ends and we’ve come up dead even. Nobody’s landed a knockout blow, but we’re both hungry for it.
In the third round, he once again throws heavy punches designed to take me down. I duck his latest assault and then follow up with a jab to his ribs.
It sends him doubling back, his first real retreat. Still not enough to take him down. The oaf attacks again, more determined than ever.
The excitement in the arena only grows. The energy in the air crashes over us in waves.
We fight on.
The fourth and fifth rounds test our stamina. The fight’s no longer new, and the human body can only take so much.
By the sixth round, we’re both slicked in sweat with a couple gashes and bruises. I landed a hit to his jaw last round that’ll swell up any second. He’s drawn more blood from the split above my brow.
We go at each other again as the bell rings, and I work his body. He tries to retaliate, but Malone’s warning comes in handy.
His shoulder dips, and I anticipate his next move, dodging his right hook. It only frustrates him and he starts swinging more wildly, burning energy he doesn’t have.
The eighth round’s when I end it.
