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Oh hell. I’ll never make it through dinner.
Killer
“Meu filho, where is your head?”
I flinch at Gabriel’s question. “I’m here, just… getting in my zone.”
He laughs loudly as he weaves the red wraps around my fingers and palm. “You? You’re always in the zone. You are the zone!”
I ignore the teasing. He’s right. I’m off today. My wandering mind won’t make a bit of difference on the outcome. Once I’m in the cage, I’m one hundred percent focused on my opponent, on the only thing I’m good for… fighting. Even if I’m not all there, I’ll still slaughter the other guy. I’m that confident in my skill.
Britt made herself scarce after fleeing dinner Thursday night. It didn’t make any sense. To let me fuck her into the mattress, show up in that dress, flaunt her delectable body, making me burn with jealousy, give boners to every single fighter and AFL executive in the room, and then take off without so much as a goodbye tossed my way.
We crossed paths briefly at weigh-in yesterday. Gabriel asked if I needed to consult Britt for any last-minute problems or issues. I could have used the opportunity to confront Britt, to ask what the fuck happened, but I decided it’s better to let her go. I’m not the guy who sits down and hashes out feelings. I don’t have feelings.
And she doesn’t owe me a goddamn thing.
Jackson Wolfe, however, needs to be at the receiving end of my fist sooner rather than later. When I saw him touching Britt Thursday night, I nearly jumped over the table and strangled him in a rear naked choke. The bastard is lucky Gabriel reminded me I would be disqualified if I made a scene. If he hadn’t, a hospital room was in Wolfe’s immediate future.
Fortunately, my memory is long, and waiting is something I can manage. I’ll be back in Atlanta and in the cage with Jack soon enough.
“Come, come!”
Gabriel claps his hands, waving the team in. The team consists of Gabriel, my cutman Pete Emery, that creepy little prick Max, and myself. I hate ritualistic bullshit team building crap, but I respect Gabriel, so I put my hand in the center of the huddle with everyone else and shout the proper cheer when prompted.
The door to our prep room opens, and a man in an AFL polo and a headset signals for us to follow.
Gabriel grins. “Let’s go!”
The man brings us to a halt at the doors to the event center, waiting for our cue. The beginning notes of Skillet’s “Monster” flood the arena and it’s time. AFL employees fling open the double doors, exposing thousands of fans screaming in the darkness, bright spotlights highlighting the octagon, and the undeniable thirst for blood hanging low in the rafters.
I start down the path, following a man who walks backwards with a massive camera aimed at me. The lyrics of the song convey what everyone who looks in my eyes knows to be true—I hide a monster, caged and locked up until the moment I step into the octagon, where the layers peel back and the monster is exposed.
Gabriel and Pete stop at the stairs leading into the cage. Journalists and who-the-fuck-knows who else form a tight, raucous ring around us. Gabriel grabs the back of my neck, pulling me close until our foreheads touch.
Gabriel’s dark gaze meets mine without fear or hesitation. It’s unnerving, and Gabriel notices the tension in my eyes.
“Stay focused, meu filho. You got this one, easy.” He removes his hand, smacking my shoulder.
Pete puts in my mouth guard after offering me water. “No problem, Killer. You’re gonna slay him.” He slathers Vaseline all over my face and brows and steps aside for the official.
I nod and turn to the AFL official. He pats me down, skimming his hands over my skin and doing all the required ringside checks—ears, hands, groin, feet—and has me open my mouth to check for my mouth guard. Satisfied, the ref does the same for my opponent, Darius “Demon” Fernandez. Like me, the guy is new, but this is his second fight.
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…”
