His fist flies at me, his haymaker sloppy. I sense it coming a mile away. I slip under it, plant my feet, and drive my fist into his temple with everything I’ve got.
Theknockout punch of the match.
The Tank goes down. He hits the canvas with a heavy thump and the countdown begins.
One. Two. Three.
The referee waves his arm, his fingers going up with each number.
Six. Seven.
Thompson tries to get up. He makes it to one knee, then collapses again.
Nine. Ten.
The referee calls it as the bell rings.
People flood the ring at once, the rest of the arena going wild. Hands slap my back and voices scream my name.
I’ve won. Championship match secured.
But I’m not looking at the cameras or the reporters or the sponsors Dez was bragging about. I’m not even paying attention to Dez who’s beaming and already on camera with a sports reporter from ESPN.
I’m looking at the crowd, searching for one face among thousands.
Ronan and Simone are on their feet, applauding hard. Sean’s got his fist in the air, shouting something I can’t hear.
…then I look to the seat next to them—the one where Jhene was sitting—and it’s empty.
My chest seizes from the sudden tension spearing through it.
I shove past the crowd of handlers and well-wishers, ignoring Dez’s protests and the ESPN reporter trying to shove a microphone in my face. I scan face after face, searching for curly hair and oversized glasses.
Any sign of her at all.
But she’s nowhere to be found.
“Jhene!” I call out, my voice swallowed by the noise. “JHENE!”
I finally make it to Ronan, shouldering through a group of VIP tech assholes.
“Where is she? Where’s Jhene!?”
Ronan frowns, then glances over at the row where he’s seated. “What? She was just?—”
“She said something about going to the bathroom,” Sean pipes up. “Between one of the rounds. I figured she’d be back by now.”
He’s barely finished his sentence yet I’m already barreling toward the back. More people crowd around me, trying to block my path with their fucking celebratory bullshit.
But I grit my teeth and bulldoze my way through them, even knocking one guy to the floor. None of it matters as long as she’s gone.
A rare panic has exploded inside me. Ten times as powerful as the panic I’d had the time I searched the subway station for her.
This time it’s so much worse, surrounded by dozens of people. Enough noise to split ear drums and live cameras capturing me rushing off.
I make it to the back corridor where it’s quieter. Concrete walls muffle the racket from the arena.
The women’s restroom is at the end of the hall. I break into a sprint, eating up the distance in only a couple long strides. I shove the door open and rush inside.
