The entire kitchen smells like a mix of rosemary and peppers, and I like the way it makes my lungs feel clean when I take a breath.
“Everyone is so close,” I say as I watch her slide the tray into the oven, and then I go crush the basil for the zucchini pasta dressing she’s making.
“We’re like a family. With all its ups and downs, I guess.”
“What downs?”
“Remy is temperamental, but he’d never hurt anyone. He just has his moods. Brooke can handle him well though. He’d do anything for her.”
“I can tell,” I admit.
“What about you? A boy back home?” she asks slyly, eyes sparkling as she sends me a woman-to-woman smile.
Miles.
“Maybe,” I say. Finished crushing the basil, I then go wash my hands and towel off.
“What does ‘maybe’ mean?”
“He’s a friend, but I think I want more. It’s hard to be friend-zoned and then make the change. I can’t seem to get him to see me in a different light.”
“You’re a beautiful girl. Just don’t settle until you find the real thing.”
The real thing.
Everyone talks about it as if it were black and white, but how do you know when it’s real? I believe in making things real. In making a conscious effort to make things happen. Which means that maybe, right now, I should be texting Miles and finding out why he really wants to come.
But just maybe, he should miss me some more. Maybe he should be the one to text me. I’m all for fighting for what you want, but I don’t feel like a meaningless texting ping-pong game with messages that don’t say anything at all.
Instead, I pull out Maverick’s penny and turn it in my hand, wondering what he’s doing, willing to give a penny for his thoughts right now.
TEN
TRAINING WITH OZ
Maverick
We’re training in a garage, boxes to one side, the bags in the middle of the room. No one watching. No one interrupting. No one distracting me.
First, jumping rope, forward, backward, sideways.
“Time.”
I stop, dripping in sweat, and go take the speed bag.
Flashes of my father. I see him in the hospital bed.
Flashes of my mother. Her, at the door when I left home.
Flashes of the coaches before they shut their doors on me; You won’t ever be good enough.
I’m shadowboxing.
Sparring.
Running.
Weights.
Planks, push-ups, pull-ups, ab work.
And flashes of her. That’s beautiful body art. . . .
Flashes of her. Good luck, Maverick. . . .
Flashes of her. Light blue eyes looking at me, pink lips saying, He’s with me.
“Get personal if any of the fighters get touchy,” Oz says.
I’m doing sit-ups, exhaling through my mouth.
“And if you get to Tate, don’t let him wear you out. He’s got more endurance than anyone’s ever seen. Right after he swings, he is invisible; one second there, the next gone. You never fucking take your eyes off him, you hear me?”
We take a forty-minute lunch break, and Oz plays a few tapes on an old portable TV. Tate in his crimson-red robe, heading down the concrete walk leading to the arena and the ring.
Clad in yellow, Apocalypse follows.
They touch gloves.
The bell goes.
Apocalypse jabs. Tate moves his shoulder, evading.
Apocalypse jabs again, high. Tate swings at his head, frowning. Tate throws a left, a straight jab, then a right that cracks on jaw.
The blows stun Apocalypse. He starts blocking, backing away.
Tate’s clearly the aggressor. He goes after Apocalypse until he’s got him against the ropes, dishing out multiple hits to the body. Ribs, gut.
“Somebody needs to teach Tate how to fall the fuck down and stay down,” Oz grumbles, forwarding to another point when Tate’s got Apocalypse against the ropes. Tate’s fist loops out. One last hit. Apocalypse is about to fall.
It’s the end of the round.
Tate backs off and takes his stool and gets a spritz of water.
Apocalypse takes to his stool too, bloodied, shaking his head at his coach.
He’s not getting up and spits out his mouth guard.
The announcer starts yelling out the victor. “Riiiipti—”
Oz turns off the video, and I start suiting up with my gloves again. “More often than not, when Riptide fights, he leaves with no mark on his face. He’s the greatest ever seen.”
“I’ll be greater.”
“You’re cocky.” He comes over to tighten my gloves at the wrists, then he slaps me on the back of the head, sober enough to glare. “Save the cock for the girls.”
“Fuck, I am.”
“Really?” he says, suddenly interested. “What girls?”
“One girl. Just one.”
“What’s her name?”
I shake my head and aim for the heavy bag.
Sorry, Oz, but she’s all mine.
ELEVEN
THE UNDERGROUND FROM AFAR
Reese
I’m wondering a lot about the Underground from my room tonight. The Tates wanted easy access to the inaugural fight, so they booked us at a five-star hotel downtown.
Apparently there are many fighting circuits. In this one, it’s fought by seasons, two a year, winter and summer. Spring and fall are for training. The fights take place at different sites—starting with the inaugural, happening tonight in Seattle, up to the final fight, which is in New York this year. During the season, fighters drop out due to injury or losses. Every night, if a fighter wins, he has the opportunity to fight another opponent, and then another, until he steps down or loses. This means the best fighters fight last; otherwise, others won’t have an opportunity to get very far. The good rookie fighters can climb their way up to fight the top dogs. From what I’ve heard, there’s only one undefeated one for the past three years. Remy Tate.
The suite is eerily silent as the whole team except for Diane, Racer, and me has gone to the inaugural fight.
I almost fainted when Remy came out with his duffel and his sporting gear. He swept past like a beast and I’m stressing about the pounding Maverick could get from him and other more seasoned fighters like him.
I’m nervous for Maverick.
I’ve tucked Racer into bed. I read him a book about trains, and then I even went and searched for some sugary treats—the kind that are not available in the Tates’ suite kitchen. I try to watch TV.
I set the remote aside and stare at the window when, hours later, I hear the team shuffle back into the suite.
Usually I don’t know what they’re talking about, I’d rather play with the trains and giggle at Racer’s smile, his eyes shining. I want to eat his dimple and take his chubby cheek along with it too. But tonight Racer’s asleep already, and I’m way too curious to go to my room yet.
Remington is soaked as he stalks straight to the kitchen to guzzle and hydrate.
He’s quiet and satisfied, and Brooke doesn’t look frazzled at all. So I’m sure things went well tonight.
When she goes to check up on Racer, I hang around the men, wondering if I should ask.
“Lots of new guys. With Scorpion out and Parker the Terror still in the hospital, they’re all thinking they have a shot at the final match this year.”
“They’re a bunch of dumb shits,” Coach Lupe says.
“What did you think of the new star, Coach?” Pete asks curiously.
“Can tell he’s been provoked in his heart and his spirit. He’s got anger locked so tight, his muscles practically seize with it.”
Maverick?
“Got some fire. You think he thinks he’ll get to fight Riptide?” Riley asks.
Coach scratches his bald head. “He’ll have to go through dozens to get a chance. Rookies don’t fight the champ unless they’re kicking some serious ass.”
/> “Oz was just snoozing behind the ropes.” Pete shakes his head in disapproval.
Ohmigod. They are talking about him. They are talking about my Maverick.
My Maverick?
No, not mine. At all. But my friend.
Maybe my friend.
“What do we know about this guy?” Pete then asks, taking out his phone as if making notes.
“Confirmed?” Coach asks. “Nothing. You saw his mark?”
“Couldn’t mean what we think it does. Rem’s not worried,” Pete counters.
“’Cause it’s my job to worry for us,” Coach growls.
I touch the penny in my pocket. I get a horrible pang for chocolate and vanilla ice cream. I head to the kitchen in search of something to fulfill my craving. “You need anything, Reese?” Diane asks.
“I’m looking for something to snack on. Dietetic!” I specify to Diane. “Definitely not chocolate or ice cream.”
“I’ve got almond milk vanilla ice cream. It’s pretty good, lower calories than the normal kind. One scoop? Or two?”
Oh god. “One,” I say, but lift two fingers.
She laughs.
I carry it to my room and then just stare at the ice cream and think of him. Maverick. Cage. Maverick is outside the box, but cage is as if trapped. I think of his tattoo of the bird and picture fingers tracing it, and guess whose fingers those are? Mine.
And then lips are pressing against it, and guess whose lips those are? Mine.
And he tastes better than this vanilla ice cream, and it suddenly feels like the only thing that will satisfy this endless craving he’s started in me is him, and I’m pretty sure I can’t have him just like I can’t have normal ice cream.
I hold the bowl in my hands but actually strain my ears to hear more of the talk out in the living room.
Remington Tate is the king of the ring. Undefeated for years. He trains like his life depends on it, and he fights like he lives for it. He’s an icon of the Underground and a master fighter. First a boxer, kicked out because of his unruly temper, he’s now made a name for himself in the Underground to rival that of any heavyweight, welterweight, or middleweight champion. He fights mega-fights, which draw mega-crowds; and between his cocky, dimpled grins and the way he beats his opponents to a pulp, the sensational fights he creates are cause for a lot of money and a lot of fans.
Maverick, however, has never fought in his life until tonight.
I wander back outside and stay by the fringes as the four men—Coach, Riley, Pete, and Remington—sit on a couch, bent over something. Brooke stands nearby because Remy’s arm is around her waist and she seems to have no other choice.
They’re watching the fights on Coach’s phone. Evaluating all the fighters.
Maverick?
My eyes hurt with the need to see.
“First fight. Not enough to see real weakness except he lacks patience,” Coach says.
“Play it back,” Remington says. He watches. “Huh,” he says, impressed.
“Yeah. You might just get a challenge.”
Remy mumbles something, stands, and walks away, patting Brooke’s butt all the way to their bedroom.
“What did he say?” Coach asks the other two.
“He said, ‘About goddamned time.’ ” Pete exchanges looks with Riley.
“If Oz tries to stitch the poor kid’s open cut, the kid’s going to lose an eyeball,” Coach declares as he gets up and grabs his jacket.
My heart turns over in my chest.
“He’s got some chip on his shoulder.”
Coach shoots them a grave look. “If his old man is who we think he is, of course he has a chip.” He spots me and for a moment seems confused as to why I’m here. “Reese, right?”
“Yes.” I smile at all three of them. “Congratulations.”
“Come with us next time,” Riley says. “I promise you it’s quite the experience.”
“Can’t. Apparently Racer’s on an I-need-Reese-to-sleep phase. I’m his new blankie.”
I quickly shuffle back into the kitchen, ask Diane for a cooler bag to fit a pint of ice cream, then go knock on the door of the master bedroom. I hear shower water in the background when Brooke opens the door with a towel clutched to her chest. I force myself not to look inside because when I’m around them, I almost feel like I’m intruding on the incredible chemistry they share. “Can I go out for a walk? Racer’s tucked into bed. I want to burn some calories.”
“Sure, but . . .” She glances into the bedroom as if to check the time.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure, dipping my hand into my bag. I take out the pepper spray she gave me.
She grins. “Okay, then. You’re set. Be careful, Reese. One hour back here or I’m going to bust your phone.”
“Yes!” I cross the living room and head outside.
TWELVE
FIRST AID
Reese
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the lobby of his hotel. I pretend to be his girl, the dumb-wit who forgot the room number, just got into town, and wants to surprise him. Because I’m young and seem sweet, the staff falls for it and dishes out the room number, and three minutes later, I’m a mass of nerves knocking at his door. “Just do it,” I hear, a low growl.
Even through a door, the guy’s voice makes me shiver.
Why are you here, Reese?
“Maverick.” I knock again, then say, “Maverick, it’s me.”
There’s total silence to the degree that I wonder if I made up the sounds I just heard coming from inside the room.
He swears and three heartbeats later, the door swings open. Maverick Cage stands before me, utterly still. Tall. Sweaty. And intimidating. I inhale, because, hello? Intimidating.
One eye is closed, bleeding at the eyebrow. The eye beneath it is swollen and bruised, and the power in his other eye’s stare is so absolute, it would thrust me backward if I weren’t so determined to get in there and help.
It takes me a moment to realize that while I stand here and gape, he’s been checking me out, head to toe.
Heat pops up all over my body, quickly following his stare.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is about as raspy as sandpaper. There’s a world of frustration in his expression, and his throat is so tanned and thick and he’s bleeding and shirtless and he is so ripped. And glorious. Every muscle of his chest is chiseled and rock-hard, covered in the smoothest, most golden skin I’ve ever seen. His nipples—
You are not staring at his small, pointy, brown nipples, Reese!
“I can sew,” I blurt. “I mean, shirts and stuff but . . . my cousin insisted I learn first aid and more when I came to help for the summer.”
His one eye once again runs over me and he waits a beat. It’s such a long beat, in my mind I have a chance of leaving the building before he opens the door farther. “Come in.”
He’s reluctant about letting me into his space, and I’m suddenly just as reluctant when I step inside. If I thought by coming to his room, I’d have a clue as to who he is, I was on another level of fantasy. The place is as bare as a clean hotel room gets—except this room is littered with fighting gear. A duffel bag by a chair in the corner. Water bottles and electrolyte drinks. Plus a first-aid kit open and full of material that seems to have been shuffled around as something was extracted.
Seeing the bed he sleeps on makes my chest feel so weird. Like somebody punched me there. There’s a pair of black boxing gloves on the nightstand next to a similar pair of older gloves. Those second gloves look old; they’re worn and torn around the wrists, taped haphazardly with a silver tape. They’re the kind of gloves one doesn’t keep around for fighting purposes. They look older than Maverick is.
In the center of the Spartan room, a middle-aged man stands holding a shiny little needle with a slim blue thread running through it.
The man has a belly, has clearly been running his hands through his white hair in frustration, and his eyes are bloodshot and confused as he scrut
inizes me as if he’s not sure if I’m really in the room or maybe in his head.
“Hi, Oz,” I say.
He squints. “And you are?”
“You don’t know me, but everyone knows you.”
He huffs. “Is that right? As the has-been, right? I’m making a comeback, just you wait and see.” He drinks from his silver flask. Maverick smirks at me and goes to pluck the needle from Oz’s grip.
When he walks up to me with the needle, I suddenly don’t know what possessed me to come to his aid. I’ve sewn pillows, not warm, living flesh.
“Do your worst,” he says, raising his good eyebrow, challenging me.
“Has it been sterilized. . . ?” I ask, trying to focus on the needle he just handed to me.
Not on the fact that Maverick is too close.
Not on the fact that Maverick is watching me with more interest than he’s ever watched me with.
Pulling out the nightstand drawer, he grabs a lighter, turns it on, flickers it over the needle, sterilizing it with the flame, then he walks to a bag of ice and sticks it inside to cool it immediately.
“I’m impressed.”
Our fingers brush as he passes the needle again, and then he sits down on the chair by the window. I try to keep my pulse steady as I clean the wound. “No hospital for you, huh,” I whisper.
“Don’t want to go there to heal and I don’t want to go there to die.” His voice is low but adamant, and so close his breath fans over my face—and it feels so warm.
I stop smiling when I see him looking at me and feel that strange flip in my tummy.
Be strong, Reese.
If he can take the gash, you can do some needlework.
You might even take his stare.
I stand between his parted legs. He’s in shorts and . . .
Oh.
God.
His thighs are massive and bulging like rocks. He’s sitting down, his hair gleams under the yellow room lights, his knees scraped. His legs are hair-dusted and tan. His chest is soaked with sweat. I’m standing, and his face is eye level with my neck. Every inch closer, I get nervous. My hand shakes a little.
I know it’s going to hurt, but there’s no concern in his gaze. Almost as if he’s immune to pain.