Hammer steps into my peripherals, and when I see him head straight for her, my anger ignites.
With deadly calm, I grab the tape from Coach and throw it aside as I stalk over to her. Then, I position myself directly behind her and to her right, taking my spot in a way that lets the dipshit Hammer know I was born to be here. Beside, behind, and by her.
“Just walk off,” I warn him, my voice low but lethal.
He doesn’t seem inclined to listen, instead narrows his eyes in contest. “She yours?” he asks with narrowed eyes.
Nodding, I narrow my eyes and let my gaze burn into him. “I can guarantee you, she’s not yours.”
The asshole leaves, and I notice Brooke doesn’t move for a long second, as if she doesn’t want to step away from me in the same way I don’t want her to go anywhere. Holy god, she smells good.
I drag her scent to my lungs like a junkie, and suddenly every inch of my body wants to cup her hips and draw her into me so I can scent her more. She turns her head to mine and softly murmurs, “Thank you,” but quickly leaves. I duck my head and haul in as much as I can before she walks away.
I remain standing there, feeling dizzy, my shorts ridiculously tented.
“Riptide! Hammer! You’re up next!”
Exhaling as I hear my name, I glance narrowly at Hammer across the room, who seems amused as fuck that I am clearly in deep shit with this girl.
He’s in even deeper shit with me.
“Remington . . . are you listening to me?”
I whip around to Coach, who’s fixing that last bandage he couldn’t secure. I keep glaring at Hammer as Riley extends my satin robe, and as I ram my arms into the sleeves, I decide Hammer better be prepared to vacation in a coma for a while.
“I said don’t let that bastard get to your head.” Coach knocks his knuckles to my temples. “And that girl neither.”
“That girl’s been in his head since the first fight here,” Riley tells him with a smirk. “Hell, he wants to carry that girl around with him like an accessory on tour. Pete is drafting the contract as we speak.”
Coach pokes a finger into my chest and I feel it almost bending. “I don’t give a shit what you’re planning to do tonight with the girl. You keep your head in the fight going on right now. You got that?”
I don’t answer, but obviously I get it. I don’t need to be told these things. Half a fight is in your head. But Coach likes feeling useful, so I just roll with it and trot out. I’ve fought all my life to stay sane. To keep focused, driven, and centered. But tonight, I fight to show one woman my worth.
I climb onstage and go to my corner, and I can hear the crowd going wild. Makes me smile.
At my corner, I yank off my robe and hand it to Riley, and the public goes even wilder when my muscles are on display.
They shout my name and I let them know I fucking love it, chuckling with them as I stretch out my arms and let them know I’m soaking it in. Every second it takes for me to do my turn, my heart pumps, and pumps, and pumps in exhilaration, because I feel gold eyes on my back, almost burning through me, making me want more. More than what I get here, from this wild crowd. More than what I’ve ever been given in my life.
Dragging in a breath, I keep turning in her direction, my gut already tight with the sheer anticipation of looking into her eyes. I want her to be looking at me when I turn. I know it’s going to give me a rush. Her attention gives me a rush. The way she smelled in the locker rooms—so fresh and clean—still heats the blood in my veins. I don’t know what it is about this woman but all I’ve been able to think of since the first moment I spotted her is hunt. Chase. Claim. Take.
“And now, I give you, the Hammer!”
I smile as Hammer is announced, and finally, I slide my gaze to where it wants to go and there she is. Jesus. There she is. And she’s just like I wanted her, looking at me.
She sits there, tense and lovely, with her hair down her shoulders and her eyes wide and expectant. I know she was waiting for me to turn. I can almost see her pulse quicken—mine does. I don’t know what this is. If it’s fake. If it’s real. If she’s real. But I know I’m leaving this city soon, and I won’t be leaving without her.
Hammer comes into the ring—my ring, where I’ve never let any other motherfucker finish standing—and I jab a finger in the air toward him . . . and then I point at her.
This one’s for you, Brooke Dumas.
Her eyes flash in disbelief, and I want to laugh when the blonde friend beside her starts screaming. The bell sounds, and my muscle memory takes charge as I position my guard, bounce on my toes, and do my thing.