The crowd is on its feet.
The ring room girls are bouncing and cheering.
Girls like that have never been my thing, though.
Superficial and fake everything. More substance in their tits than in their heads. Not my type, even if their cheers fuel my ego as I pace the ring.
My eyes land hard on the only man in the room not cheering.
Not that I expect him to.
Rafe.
Rafe is sitting at one of the VIP high tops. His eyes are narrowed on me like the edges of a knife blade. His jaw is taunt. His lips are coiled into that signature smug smirk.
If I had to guess, his money is on the other guy.
The one flattened on the floor right now. It’s a poor bid in my opinion, but I expect no less.
Rafe Shaeffer isn’t a fan of mine.
The feeling is mutual.
He’s one of my opponents.
When we fight, the animosity between us runs thicker than blood, both in the ring and in the professional world.
I’d go as far as to say that he is my nemesis.
And right now, he’s calculating our next match.
Because he probably just lost a lot of money.
My view of him is suddenly skewed when one of the waitresses steps in front of him. She looks nervous and confused.
She’s new.
While these girls aren’t my type and don’t hold my attention, this one is different.
Olive skin, pouty pink lips, Aphrodite’s curves.
Damn…
My expression has no choice but to soften as I watch her juggle the drink tray.
Suddenly, as if she can feel my gaze on her, pricking her skin with heat, she turns and looks up at the ring.
Her eyes lock on mine.
Her deep brown eyes flash with something I can’t read, and I’m almost tempted to smile.
But then, in a miscalculated motion that makes my heart sink in my chest, she drops Rafe’s drink.
Right. In. His. Lap.
His attention jerks from me over to the waitress.
She is visibly mortified.
