“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had that much fun competing with anyone,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it. “Before or since. Everyone else was too easy.”
He looks at me over his glass and smiles. “Same here, Brooke.”
We’re still stranded in this tiny town in the middle of the Mexican mountains, no closer to Mexico City than we were two hours ago. But right now, that feels very far away. All of it does. The old grudges, the anger, the version of him I’ve been carrying around in my head all these years. None of it fits anymore.
Maybe we’re finally starting to see each other clearly.
Both our phones buzz at the same time, vibrating against the wooden table in unison. We look at each other, then down at our screens.
“Holy shit, we have service,” I say, grabbing mine and swiping to the notification. My stomach drops as I read it. “No. No, no, no.”
“Fuck.” Dominic is staring at his phone with the same expression I’m sure is plastered across my own face right now.
Flight 847 to Mexico City has been cancelled due to severe weather conditions. All passengers will be automatically rebooked on the next available flight. We apologize for the inconvenience.
“Next available flight,” I mutter, already pulling up the airline app with fingers that aren’t entirely steady. The page loads slowly, the service clearly struggling. When it finally loads, I want to throw my phone across the bar. “Tomorrow at 4pm. That’s the earliest.”
Dominic’s jaw tightens. “That’s way too fucking late to make the weigh-in.”
I stare at the screen like I can will it to change through sheer force of indignation. “This can’t be happening. This literally cannot be happening.”
“¿Malas noticias?” the bartender calls over, and I turn to see him watching us with a curious expression, rag slung over his shoulder, clearly having picked up on the sudden shift in energy.
Bad news?
I turn. “Sí, malas noticias. Nuestro vuelo fue cancelado. Tenemos que llegar a la Ciudad de México mañana para la pelea de UFC.”
Yes, bad news. Our flight was cancelled. We need to get to Mexico City tomorrow for the UFC fight.
Both guys at the bar swivel around on their stools, suddenly interested.
The Volkov fight? The American kid?
“Sí, Roman Kincaid.” I gesture toward Dominic. “Este es su entrenador.”
Yes, Roman Kincaid. This is his coach.
The two men exchange a look, and then immediately start arguing with each other like we’ve just handed them the best entertainment they’ve had all week. The stocky one slaps his hand on the bar and points at Dominic. “¡Yo lo sabía! Kincaid va a ganar. El chico tiene corazón.”
I knew it! Kincaid is going to win. The kid has heart.
His friend, a taller guy with a gray mustache and the skeptical expression of a man who’s seen too many fights go wrong, waves him off dismissively. “Estás loco. Volkov es un asesino. Tercera ronda, nocaut técnico.”
You’re crazy. Volkov is a killer. Third round, TKO.
“¿Qué están diciendo?” Dominic asks, watching them go back and forth with the bewildered expression of someone who’s suddenly become the subject of a debate he can’t understand.
“They’re arguing about the fight,” I say, biting back a smile. “That one’s rooting for Roman. Says he’s got heart. The other one thinks Volkov’s going to knock him out in the third.”
Dominic’s eyebrows rise. “Tell the tall one he’s wrong.”
I laugh and translate, and the tall guy throws his hands up in mock offense while his friend cackles and slaps the bar again, clearly delighted to have backup from Roman’s actual coach.
The stocky one turns back to us, still grinning. “Oye, si necesitan llegar a la Ciudad de México, mi hermano tiene una agencia de renta de autos. Puedo llamarlo.”
Hey, if you need to get to Mexico City, my brother has a rental car agency. I can call him.
I sit up straighter. “Wait. Really?”
