7
Sydney
The instant the bell rings—only moments before Taz could deliver what was sure to be the final punch of the fight—I turn to Lena. “What the hell was that? What’s he doing out there? He’s letting that guy kick his ass!”
Oh my God, I’m going to kill him. If Taz Montgomery doesn’t do it first.
“He’s out of it,” Lena says, trepidation in her eyes. “And he keeps glancing over here.”
I’d noticed the same thing, and damned if it hasn’t made me wonder whether this is some kind of sick payback for bringing Ken to his fight. As soon as the possibility enters my mind, I want to dismiss it, because surely Gabe isn’t so messed up and masochistic that he’d take a pounding just to upset me, but I keep coming back around to it. The only other thing I can think of is that he feels so betrayed by my bringing Ken here that he can’t focus—and surely that’s too self-indulgent to be true. Why would he care that much about me bringing a man along? It’s ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly.
And yet.
On the other side of me, Ken hums thoughtfully. “After how you sold him to me, I half-expected your friend to body slam the other guy and end it within thirty seconds. Maybe he’s not as tough as you believe.”
“Shut up,” I snap, because his comment is not helping my peace of mind. “You don’t know him like I do. He’s got this.”
“If you say so.” He sounds dubious, and I don’t blame him. Well… actually, I kind of do. If he’s the reason Gabe is bleeding from a cut beneath his eye, I resent his presence, but I also resent Gabe’s pigheadedness.
Lena thrusts something into my hand, and I glance down. A hip flask. Grateful, I tip it back, with no idea what’s inside, and feel a burn down the back of my throat.
“Good, right?” she asks. “It’s from Jase’s liquor cabinet.”
“Thanks.” Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I give all of my attention to Gabe in the cage, willing him to smash the other guy’s face and be the fighter I know he is. My heart in my throat, I draw my knees up to my chest as the action restarts, grateful I’m not wearing a skirt. Whatever Seth said, it seems to have worked because Gabe doesn’t falter once. It’s clear to anyone who knows him that he’s still shaken, but he’s in control. His punches and kicks are snappy, and he takes his time gauging his opponent before making each move.
This is the version of Gabe I love to watch. Some people make the mistake of thinking he’s passive because he waits for his opponent to screw up before attacking, but I think he’s like a predator luring his prey into showing their belly. In this case, Taz lowers his guard for just a few seconds, and it’s all over.
“Take him down!” I scream, as Gabe moves with far more grace than a man his size has any right to. “Go, Gabe, go!”
Gabe’s foot whips into Taz’s temple, and the guy drops like a rock. His eyes roll back in his head and he thumps to the ground. The umpire stands over him, counting. When he reaches six, Taz groans and tries to pick himself up, but then slumps into a heap. At eight, the umpire makes a slicing motion to indicate the fight is over. Gabe is victorious. The audience cheers, but he doesn’t celebrate. He knows he screwed up tonight. Tension is visible in every line of his body, and in the stiff way he interacts with Seth, who hands him a water bottle. The announcer cries out that it’s a win by way of knockout, and then the boys from Crown MMA, plus Gabe’s dad, are heading out of the auditorium, passing us by, beelining for the back room.
I shoot to my feet. “Let’s go, Lee.” I turn to Ken. “Come on, we’ll go say hi.”
“Seriously?” He grins. “Awesome.”
Together, the three of us make our way out. I flash my pass at the security guard, who admits us into the corridors behind the arena. When we reach the door marked “Gabe Mendoza,” we pause outside. I can hear Seth ranting and don’t want to interrupt his tirade. Awkward moments stretch out as we wait for them to finish, and finally the door swings open and Seth, Jase, and Devon stride out. I gesture for Ken to stay put, and slip inside to see Gabe. The medic is checking him over, but it’s obvious the only thing injured is his pride. He looks sullen and angry—almost like a pouty toddler, except he’s six foot three and solid muscle. Tomas Mendoza lingers in the corner and I wave at him. He smiles back, but it’s strained.
“You’re all clear,” the medic says, as if it was ever in doubt. She smiles at me then leaves, closing the door quietly behind herself.
“You’ll get him next time,” Tomas says. “What you need to do is—”
“Later.” Gabe holds up a hand. “Give me a moment with Sydney.”
Tomas’s eyes slide to me, and he hesitates but then nods. “You can’t keep putting me off though,mijo.”
He leaves, and when I hear the door click shut, I cross to Gabe and dab his bleeding cheek with my sleeve.
“You fought well,” I say, and he just grunts. At this point in my life, I can interpret his grunts well enough to know he disagrees. “Okay, so maybe the first round was a loss, but you took him out pretty quickly after that.”
I fuss with his cheek, where a bruise is forming, and he knocks my hand aside.
“I was distracted,” he says, his tone accusatory. With my hands up, I back off. It’s rare for his temper to show, but when it does, no one wants to be in his path. “I can’t be expected to do my best when you’re fucking with my head like this.”
My lips fall apart, and a puff of outrage escapes. “Excuse me?”
He glowers, and it’s obvious he didn’t work out all of his issues in the cage. “What the fuck did you think would happen when you brought your new boyfriend along without giving me any warning?”
Wait a minute. Is he actually insinuating this is my fault?
