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Finally finished wrapping me up, Slater pressed his fingers to my jaw. I feinted as if he’d taken a swing. “Hurts, huh?” He shook his head slowly. “Look, man, I’d never try to tell you what to do, but maybe you should call off the fight, reschedule for—”
“No. Don’t start that shit. I’m fine.” I flexed my fingers, impressed as always by Slater’s way around a wrap. He could handle blood and guts in the ring, but out of it, he paled every time he had to bandage my injuries. Didn’t mean he didn’t do an incredible job, though. “How does Costas look?” He’d already been whaling on a bag when I came in. It looked like he’d been at it for a while.
“Cocky motherfucker. He’s out there crowing that he could kick your ass blindfolded.”
I shrugged. “He’s a kid.”
“He’s a dick, Fox. Don’t kid yourself. The dude wants to use your face to polish his bright whites.” Slater blew out a breath. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, man.”
Along with all his other quirks, Slater fancied himself as a spiritual type. He believed in crystals and spells and voodoo and all that crap. He also claimed to have psychic tendencies, which I could not confirm or deny because fundamentally I thought he was on the pipe.
Still, Slater had never said that to me on fight night before.
Rolling my shoulders, I forced out a laugh. “Stop worrying and take out your knitting. I’ll be fine. I’m indestructible, remember?” That cockiness was all I had left, especially now. I’d been stripped bare, as raw and exposed as my hand.
For the first time, I’d met a girl I would have done anything for. Fought any fight, moved any mountain. And she didn’t know how to accept that or didn’t feel she was worth it or hell if I knew. I didn’t know what to say to reach her.
I got that we’d just met and I had to take it slow. Trauma like Mia had experienced didn’t heal quickly. Sometimes it didn’t heal at all.
But how could we take it slow or fast or anything in between when days passed and I didn’t see her? When I didn’t hear her husky voice or smell that clean scent clinging to her hair or feel her skin against mine?
I’d glimpsed her once at Vinnie’s this week, when I was leaving and she was coming in. She’d stopped, looked at me, and then looked right through me.
I hadn’t finished pulling the knife out of my heart yet.
“Maybe you were indestructible once, but not anymore. That chick of yours has done a number on you.”
I laughed, though it wasn’t particularly funny. He didn’t know the half. I’d told him briefly what had happened—leaving out the tongue lashing on my bar, of course—and I still didn’t think he believed me that a woman could’ve bruised my jaw like she had. Mia had one hell of a pair of hands. I’d better swap my cup protector for a brass cage before we fought.
God, I’d even started looking forward to our match. At least I’d get to see her. Not having her in my line of sight created a hole in my vision. No matter how I squinted, I never got the full picture.
I missed her so fucking much.
“You need to snap out of it, man. I’m serious. This isn’t just about hearts and flowers shit. If you walk out there with your head as messed up as your body, you’re going down. And it might not just be for the count of three. Costas wants to take you out for good, Fox.”
Saying nothing, I turned away.
Slater spun me right back and got in my face. “Look, you brainless fuck, you’re my family. I’m not watching your skull get turned into banana puree because some hot piece of ass screwed you up. If you’re not sure you can make him tap out, you tell me now.”
I had to dig down deep to summon the strength to meet his gaze. “I’ve got this. Really. And she’s not a hot piece of ass.” I considered. “Well, she is, but she’s so much more.”
Slater’s smirk injected a rare moment of normalcy into the unusually tense night. He was right. Something was off. The charge of anticipation in the air seemed almost…ominous.
“Keep your mind on pinning Costas and not pinning your cute little fighter babe.”
“Little? She’s five-nine.” Maybe five-ten. She wasn’t little by any stretch.
“Metaphorically. Now shut up and go swim. I’ll meet you by the ring in sixty. Don’t forget to listen to the tape. It’s cued up and ready to go.”
I rolled my eyes and stuck my head in my locker, waiting until the door clanged shut behind Slater before I tugged out my bottle of pills. Not only did Slater rely too much on woowoo nonsense, he also refused to catch up with technology and insisted on spoon-feeding me meditation tapes on an old school cassette player. The tapes usually weren’t half bad, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t razz his ass. It was one of my few pleasures in life.
I popped off the cap, poured my mixture of ibuprofen and acetaminophen in my palm, and threw them back without water. My jaw hurt, my hand stung, and I’d messed up my back at Vinnie’s unloading some boxes.
Mentally and physically, I was in rough shape. If I won tonight, I’d know Slater was right about that karma shit being real. Good thing I always donated to charity.
I strutted into the ring an hour later. Tonight’s crowd filled the old converted warehouse, and the smoke machine and booming music made it feel like what I imagined a big time fight would. We had the tinny PA system, the roped cage, and the groups of men huddled at either end advising their guys—Costas in red, me in blue.
Impossibly young girls in bright pink hot pants and tiny tops hip-swayed around the ring, tossing their hair and juggling their cards. They got to call out the rounds in their 900-line voices, and most of them pretended pursing collagen lips and shouting out a number counted as a real skill.
