Chapter 2

2

GRIFFIN

“ F ocus, idiot. Get your fucking head in the game,” I mutter to myself.

As the ring announcer goes through his spiel, I bounce around the ring, warming up and getting my shit together. I’ve got a fight to win. But like an involuntary reflex, my eyes find their way back to the girl in the front row. No more than five-two with hair the color of an old penny, she’s got eyes that sparkle like emeralds and smooth, pale skin. She’s fucking gorgeous. She’s wearing a black, vintage-style thigh-length dress with white polka dots that accentuate the full, round curve of her tits and showcases toned legs that seem longer than a girl her size should have.

I need to turn away, but I can’t. She’s fucking mesmerizing.

She’s probably no more than twenty—a college kid like most of the people in this fucking building—which means I should probably stop thinking about her. I’m thirty-two and too old for a college girl. But there’s something about her that’s captured my attention. Captured it and won’t let me go.

Every time I try to avert my gaze, I find myself turning right back toward her again. It’s not helping that every time I do turn her way, she’s looking back at me with flushed cheeks and a sultry, sexy expression on her face. I need to focus on this fight, but all I can think about is spending the rest of the night balls deep inside of her.

“Dude, what’s up? You with us?”

I turn and see my opponent, Tommy James, standing in front of me with a smarmy smirk on his face. I’ve known Tommy for years. We’ve trained and sparred together more times than I can count. He’s not a bad guy, but he’s not necessarily a good guy, either. I get along with him for the most part, but he can sometimes be a real asshole. Especially when he thinks he can get an edge by getting under your skin. He’ll say or do anything to exploit any chinks in your armor, real or perceived. It’s all part of the game.

Fighters are always trying to find an edge. Find some way to knock you off your game enough that it gives them room to get inside and blow you up. I’ve done it myself. Once upon a time, I was going somewhere and had to learn to control myself and not let people get under my skin. I learned to blow it off. But when a mid-level fighter who really isn’t going anywhere like Tommy tries to get under my skin, it’s the only trick they have in their bag. And since they can’t rely on their skill, it’s more annoying than anything.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

“You seem distracted.”

“I said I’m fine.”

He smirks at me. “You sure? We can call this fight off if you’re?—”

“Shut the fuck up and get ready to roll.”

Even though I try to keep my eyes off the redhead, my eyes drift over to her again anyway. Tommy follows my gaze, and his smirk gets even slimier.

“Damn. That chick is fine as fuck,” he says.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I can see why your head’s not in the game right now,” he says. “I gotta be honest, I’m kind of off my own game thinking about all the different ways I’m going to fuck her tonight.”

Putting both of my hands on his chest, I shove him backward, drawing an “ooh” from the crowd. Tommy stops himself before he falls on his ass and bounces on his heels, taps his gloves together, and laughs. The referee steps to the center of the ring and motions us forward. The heat beneath the lights is stifling, and sweat is already rolling down my body as I step to the middle of the ring.

Face to face with Tommy, I hear him talking about the redhead, and as fury burns inside of me, I glare daggers at him. He stares at me with that shitty little smirk on his thin lips.

The referee is giving us our instructions, but I’m not hearing a goddamn word he’s saying. My entire focus is on Tommy right now. He’d done what very few have ever managed to do before—get under my skin—and it’s pissing me off. The crazy thing about it is that I’m getting this pissed off all over a girl I don’t even know. But the thought of Tommy putting his hands on her, the thought of him doing anything with her, fills me with a white-hot rage.

I don’t know why I’m getting so hot over a girl. I don’t know, but she’s got a purity and a sweetness about her that struck me the second I laid eyes on her in the crowd. There’s something about her that I want to protect and save from creeps like Tommy. It’s insane because I have no idea who she is. I don’t even know her fucking name.

All I know is I want to keep pricks like Tommy away from her. All I know is I want her for myself.

The referee sends us to our corners. My eyes search the crowd, quickly finding the redhead in the front row, and my heart lurches. A small smile plays on her full, red lips. A moment later, the bell rings and snaps me back to reality. Turning away from her, I shut out the roar of the crowd, and my vision narrows, so all I see is Tommy coming at me from the other side of the ring. The familiar rush of adrenaline and excitement fills my veins. I love this. I’ve always loved this. Truthfully, fighting is the only thing I’ve ever been good at. And if not for things that were outside my control, who knows how far I could have gone?

Pushing all extraneous thoughts out of my head, I step forward and raise my fists. Tommy and I circle each other for a moment as we start this dance. We probe each other for openings. For weaknesses. The benefit of having sparred with him for so long is that I know most of Tommy’s moves already. I know his weaknesses. He’s not a smart fighter and doesn’t learn to adapt and adjust. He simply relies on speed and strength to overwhelm his opponents. The problem he has right now is that I do learn. I do adapt. And I am way fucking faster and stronger than he is.

“Come on, Grif,” he says. “Let’s do this.”

“Ready when you are, man,” I reply.

Tommy starts off—as he always does—with a low kick that’s meant to distract me from the hook-and-jab combination. Moving swiftly, I block the kick and step inside his guard and, with the crowd roaring in delight, deliver a hard shot to his jaw. Tommy staggers back and looks baffled as to how that happened. I could absolutely end him in seconds if I wanted to. But part of this job—and this is what most fighters won’t tell you—is the entertainment factor. You end it too quickly; people get bored with you. People want to see a fight. They want a struggle. They want violence. And more than anything, they want to see blood.

Tommy gathers himself and, like a shark, begins to circle me again. I circle as well, but I think I’m more like a vulture. Tommy’s dead already; he just doesn’t know it yet, and when the time is right, I’ll swoop in and pick his carcass clean. Tommy storms in, and I let him get a few shots in, let him bloody me up a little bit, simply to give the crowd a little thrill. At the sight of blood, they go fucking wild. They always do. People are about as predictable as Tommy’s fighting style.

The problem with Tommy, though, is he thinks he’s winning. He sees the blood on my nose and the bruise he put on my cheek and thinks he’s on a roll. Even after all these years in the game, he doesn’t understand the entertainment aspect of what we do any more than he understands the importance of learning and evolving in his style as a fighter. Judging by the cocky grin on his face and the way he’s dancing around, the dude believes he’s doing well. It’s all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes.

“You lose a step, old man?” he asks.

He throws a jab, which I casually block, and follows that up with a low kick, which I also block with little effort. He looks perplexed for a moment, but when he sees the blood trickling out of my nose, he quickly regains his swagger. That’s the way it goes for the first three rounds of the fight—back and forth, both of us getting a few shots in, bloodying each other up, and giving the crowd a good show. And after every round, I steal a glance at the girl in the front row and laugh to myself at how concerned for me she looks.

“Let’s go,” Tommy says as he comes out for the fourth round. “Let’s finish this up. I want to get out of here so I can bang the redhead in the front row.”

The words have barely cleared his mouth when I start seeing red. A growl drifts from my throat, and I clench my fists tight.

“Hey, what if I let you watch me fuck her?” Tommy presses. “Maybe I can do it on a livestream. I’ll even have her give you a special shout-out. What do you think? Would you like that?”

The crowd got three good rounds out of us. They got what they paid for, but it’s time to end this. I’m not going to stand here and listen to him talk that way about that girl. I know he’s hoping it’d knock me off my game, but all Tommy has managed to do is focus all the heat and rage flowing through my veins onto himself. I don’t know the girl, don’t know her name or a single fucking thing about her, but all I want to do is protect her from a disgusting little prick like Tommy Fucking James.

Stepping to Tommy, I light him up with a dizzying barrage of jabs and hooks. He blocks some, but many of them connect and rock him. He staggers back a step, looking dizzy and unsteady. Smelling blood, the crowd is going absolutely fucking berserk, so I decide to end it with a flourish to give them all something to talk about. Winding up, I deliver a spinning high kick that catches Tommy square upside the head and sends him sprawling to the canvas.

He’s out cold.

The crowd erupts, taking their bloodlust to an entirely new level as the referee ends the fight. I walk back to my corner and high-five my trainer as the crowd chants my name. My eyes drift to the girl in the front row. When our gazes meet, my heart lurches again, and my gut starts to churn. And when she favors me with a smile, it does something unnatural to me.

How is this girl, a stranger to me, able to have this effect on me?