A pulsing bass drum pounds methodically as the lights dim. Tension and adrenaline spike inside my blood and my hands ball into fists.
This is it.
The moment I will be in the same space as Grayson Legend for the first time in six years.
Sarah nudges my shoulder and whispers, “I’m starting to see why you like this. This is so exciting, isn’t it?”
It is. My words are lodged in my throat and I can’t tell her. I can only nod.
With every slow, ragged breath I inhale, breathing in the smell of sweat and beer, I keep my eyes focused on the tunnel where he’ll enter.
The defender, Mancuso Tigress, already prowls in his corner, jumping on the balls of his feet to stay warm and limber. I already know, as great as his record is with only two losses this year, he will not be adding another victory. Not tonight.
He cannot steal the victory from Grayson. Mancuso’s weakness is on the mat.
Grayson's strength is in takedowns and submission holds. He can wrap his forearms around opponents, tie them up like pretzels, and his rival is pinned before he can blink.
I’m restless while Grayson’s opponent plays to the crowd and to their whoops and hollers. I don’t pay any attention to the announcer, spewing out Mancuso’s stats or his weight.
To me, Mancuso Tigress is irrelevant.
With the beating of the bass increasing in speed, my nerves speed along with it. I don’t know if there’s music, or if it’s the stomping of the fans that’s making the noise, and I don’t bother trying to figure it out.
As the lights brighten, there’s movement from the side of the tunnel where he’ll enter.
My heart lodges deep inside my chest, making breathing difficult.
Then the entire stadium erupts into cheers so loud that I finally tune in to hear the announcer declaring, “Weighing in at one hundred eighty-five pounds…The Legend!”
Screams pierce my eardrums, making me flinch and squeeze my eyes shut.
Next to me, Sarah digs her fingernails into my biceps. She yanks me back, trying to look around my shoulder to see him, but I’m unmovable, completely frozen to the cement beneath my heels with invisible superglue.
“Holy shit,” she murmurs as she gets her first real-life glance at the man who used to be my best friend. The boy who snuck in through my window to keep my bad dreams away. The boy who protected me from my father’s fists and my mother’s drunken tantrums.
Separately, we were loners. Together, we found acceptance.
Until he ripped it all away. Until his growth spurt took him from Mr. Unpopular to Mr. Every Girl Wanted Him.
Until I committed the most grievous sin.
I fell in love with my best friend.
And he made it clear that it was unrequited.
I’ve spent the last six years unable to fully move on from that one wonderful yet horrific night.
I stare at him, flanked by who I assume are his trainers and coaches. I watch as he stands at the corner outside the cage while a ref swipes ointment over his brows and cheekbones and checks inside his mouth.
Then he’s in the ring.
I watch every moment in slow motion, unable to peel my eyes away from him. He’s larger than life and definitely bigger than I remember.
He’s so close I can practically smell him. So close I can remember the taste of his lips the one time I threw myself at him and kissed him. So close I can remember the way he felt, the night that first kiss turned into something so much more as we made love.
Or fucked.
For me, it was everything.
He proved to me the very next morning, before clothes were even put back on, that it meant nothing to him—
That I meant nothing to him.
I don’t notice as the cheers diminish and the announcer takes center stage.
I don’t notice as everyone else around me finds their seat and waits for the bell to signify the beginning of the first round.
I only notice Grayson, an unrecognizable glint in his eyes, and I can’t pull my gaze off him.
Because as Mancuso spins in a circle, moving slightly to his left, I notice that Grayson’s only looking at one thing.
Me.
Two
Kennedy
I think I blinked at the wrong time.
All I know is that the bell rang one second, Grayson took his eyes off me, turned them on his opponent, and now suddenly Grayson’s arms are being raised in the air, declaring him the winner.
“What the hell was that?” I ask in awe and confusion.
Next to me, Sarah is screaming. “That was amazing! Holy crap, K. Did you see that?”
I shake my head, eyes still wide, jaw still slack. I have no response, so I stand here staring at Grayson as he’s turned in the cage.
When his back is to me and I catch the muscles all over him, I see the giant tattoo I’ve noticed before on television. Black angel wings span the width of him, and as his shoulders flex, I finally blink.
Turning to Sarah, I say, “I’ve never seen that before.”
Behind us, the beer-bellied ex-frat boys are jumping so high the beer sloshes over the edges of their cups and splashes onto my arm and Sarah’s.
“Hey!” she shouts, whipping around and glaring at them. At five feet two inches and with typical all-American girl features, she’s not exactly threatening. “Watch what you’re doing.”
One of the men lowers his cup. “Chill out, bitch. The Legend just fucking won.”
Her eyes fly open wide, and her hands whip to her hips. “Did you just call me a bitch?”
Drunken ex-frat boy dips his chin and sneers, “Yeah, I did. What the fuck are you going to do about it…bitch?”
I watch as her shoulders lift, and I take a step back. Sarah’s sweet and cute and so tiny you can practically carry her in your pocket, or travel cases—like the stars do for the puppies they wear as accessories.
But get her pissed? Call her a name when she doesn’t deserve it? She turns into the Tasmanian Devil.
She opens her mouth to speak when all the men in front of us drop their jaws to their knees.
Then their eyes lift higher and higher and their wariness grows until they’re staring above our heads.
“You wanna fuckin’ say that again?”
I close my eyes, cursing my existence and my memory bank for immediately recognizing the voice directly behind me.
“Uh…no?” The chubby guy looks so scared, I take a quick glance at his crotch to see if he’s pissed himself. With disgust, I snap my head away from the view I just had. Because ew.
Unfortunately, I hear Sarah whisper, “Holy fuh-reaking cow.”
Her stunned response is expected. When Grayson turned sixteen and started working out after hitting a growth spurt over the summer, all the girls in our high school had the same exact reaction. I had already known he was attractive, silently nursing a slight crush on him even through our best friend years. But then I had to go and watch every single girl in our school begin throwing themselves at him—and watching him partake in everything he caught.
Add thirty pounds on him, at least six inches in one summer, and muscles that popped out of nowhere, and my crush went through the roof. I also stayed clearly in the friend zone while he sampled every blonde, brunette, and redheaded creature that looked his way.
“Let’s go.” His voice rumbles in my ear, and his hand clamps around my bicep. “Now, Kennedy. I’m not fuckin’ around with you.”
My jaw drops as I stare at his hand…touching me. He’s hot and sweaty, and damn it if he doesn’t smell really good.
My lady parts quiver in acknowledgement.
I’m too stunned to say anything before his hand leaves my arm and drops to my waist. Another hand hits my waist and then I’m being lifted, shifted, and set down in front of him.
“What the hell, Grayson?” I ask, completely breathless.
I whip my head around only to find Sarah staring at me like she’s looking directly at a ghost. Or a stranger.
Grayson points his gloved hand directly in my face, index finger extended. “Don’t fuckin’ move.”
He turns his back and does the same move to Sarah. Unlike me, she squeals in delight like she’s ready to throw her hands in the air on a roller coaster.
When we’re both standing in front of him, stunned stupid and speechless, he gives a nod in the direction above our heads.
“Let’s go. Now.”
We spin around, hypnotized and synchronized, and I’m face to face with three of the men who surrounded Grayson on his way into the cage. Two look exactly the same, with olive, tanned skin and onyx eyes. The only difference is one is bald and the other has a full head of black hair. Without thought or acknowledgement, we’re moving. My feet are pushing me forward, men are surrounding us. In the far distance I hear screams and shouts and maybe cheers and a few inappropriate gestures from men. I might see scowls from some women sitting in the front row when we reach Grayson’s corner.
And then we’re in the tunnel. Men wearing unassuming black suits, white dress shirts, and black ties line the halls. The earpieces in their ears make it clear they’re part of a security team. More people with cameras flashing and microphones being thrust in our direction appear out of nowhere. I’m pushed forward through the melee.
A man behind us, and I’m assuming next to Grayson, says, “That was the biggest fuckup you could have done, Legend. You were supposed to play with your food, put on a show—not annihilate the pussy in three seconds.”