“How do you think?”
“Why do you do it?” She shakes her head.
I clench my jaw, this is a question I’ve gotten a lot. People really don’t understand the appeal to wanting to go into a cage and fight another person. Well, most people don’t. That’s what I liked about everyone at Uncaged. They got it, for the first time in my life, they gotme.
“Why do you sing?” I counter.
“Because I love it,” she answers, easily.
“Same thing. And I’m good at it.”
Rae looks down, swirling her straw around in her drink. “I guess I just don’t get the appeal.”
“Do you get the appeal of any sport?”
Her eyes narrow at me, and I feel like this isn’t going well. I don’t know if I invited her here because I wanted her to like me, or to distract her. Or maybe for my own selfish reasons. With the way she’s glared and argued with me, I feel like no matter what my original intention was, I don’t think she’s going to be here much longer.
“No, I guess I don’t,” she says, and her answer surprises me. “I enjoy watching them, but I don’t get the appeal toplayingthem.”
“What about when your puppy dog, Grayson, gets in a fight on the ice? Do you cover your eyes?” I taunt.
She chokes on her drink. “He’s not my puppy dog. What do you have against him? Against everyone in my family?”
“Oh, he’s family. Does he know that?”
Rae rolls her eyes. “I grew up with Grayson and Easton, but they’re just both really good friends. Plus, Gray doesn’t really fight.”
“Not surprising.” I shake my head.
I watch her take another long sip, her tongue touches the straw right before taking it into her mouth, and swallowing more of the drink. I’m distracted by the sight, and open my mouth without thinking about it. “I saw the article.”
I don’t even need to elaborate; the look on her face is enough. She knows the one I’m talking about.
Rolling her lips together, she asks. “And what do you think?”
“About the article or about you?”
She looks up at me, her blue eyes seem to have some fire behind them when she answers. “Both.”
I settle back against the seat, stretching out my right armalong the back of it, wishing I could stretch both out. I keep my eyes locked on hers without speaking right away.
Lifting my chin, I keep looking at her; she shifts in her seat, and looks away. She’s nervous. I’m making her nervous. There’s some sick part of me that likes that. She takes another long sip of her drink, and reaches the bottom of it.
“I think,” I start. The sound of my voice has her looking at me once again. “That I don’t even know who you are.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes, but I continue.
“Neither does that journalist who wrote the article, or the people leaving comments all over it.”
She swirls her straw in the cup of ice, jaw clenching.
“But I don’t think you know who you are either.”
“What does that mean? Of course I do.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Do you?”
“I—Yeah, I mean, of course I do.”
