Page 32
Three weeks. Twenty-one days of unanswered calls.
The title rematch is officially announced. Six weeks out. Zane kept his belt after the draw, but Victor got me another shot. The promotional tour kicks off on Tuesday, which means in less than ninety-six hours, I have to sit on another stage and look at the man who kissed me like he’d been waiting years, then spent three weeks pretending it never happened.
I gave up on hearing from him on day fourteen. I made my peace with the silence. Mostly. Some nights are harder than others, but I function. I wake up, I run, I spar, I eat, I bleed. Training gives me something to do.
Right now, that purpose involves beating a heavy bag until my shoulders scream.
It’s past midnight. The gym is empty, just me and the echoes of my ragged breath bouncing off the high, corrugated ceiling. The solitary bank of overhead lights casts long, harsh shadows across the mats.
I step into range. Jab, cross, lead hook. The leather snaps against my wrapped knuckles. Sweat drips from my chin, stinging the freshly healed tissue of my split lip. I drive a heavy roundhouse kick into the bag’s lower half, the impact shuddering up my shin and into my hip.
I should be home. I should be asleep. My body aches with a deep, bone-weary fatigue that no amount of ice or stretching can fix. But every time I close my eyes, I see amber irises blown wide with panic. I feel the ghost of his mouth on mine.
I throw a four-punch combination. Hard. Fast. Leaving no room for ghosts.
The front door of Oath MMA groans on its hinges.
I freeze mid-strike. My fist hovers an inch from the bag. The chain rattles above me, the only sound in the cavernous space besides my own panting.
A silhouette stands in the entryway. Broad shoulders. Tall frame.
Zane steps out of the shadows and into the dim pool of light near the front desk.
He looks like hell. So much for Ironside’s golden boy. Dark circles sit beneath his eyes. A rough shadow of stubble covers his jaw, untrimmed and uneven. He wears a faded gray hoodie and dark jeans, clothes that look out of place on a man who practically lives in bespoke tailoring.
He also looks terrified.
I lower my hands. My chest heaves. A dozen different reactions battle in my throat—anger, relief, exhaustion—but my voice comes out remarkably steady.
“How did you get in here?”
Zane swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs sharply. “Victor.”
I stare at him. The sweat cools rapidly on my bare shoulders, sending a shiver down my spine. “Victor let you in?”
“I called him.” Zane’s voice is a raspy wreck. “Told him I needed to talk to you. I didn’t know your address.”
“And my coach just unlocked the door for a rival fighter at midnight.”
“He said—” Zane drags a hand through his disheveled hair, the strands sticking up in chaotic angles. “He said everyone deserves a chance to stop running.”
Victor Kaine. I’m absolutely going to kill that man tomorrow. Or buy him the most expensive bottle of scotch in the city. I honestly haven’t decided yet.
I don’t move toward the door. I stay right where I am, at the edge of the sparring ring, the heavy bag swinging gently behind me. If Zane wants this, he has to cross the floor. He has to close the distance. I refuse to make it easy for him, not after three weeks of staring at a silent phone.
I bite the Velcro strap of my left glove and rip it open. I pull the leather off, toss it to the mat, and do the same with the right.
Zane watches the gloves hit the floor. He takes a step forward. Then another. He moves slowly, treating the open gym like a minefield, treating me like a wild animal that might bolt. When he reaches the edge of the elevated ring platform, he stops. His knuckles are white where he grips the top rope.
“I owe you an apology.”
“You owe me several,” I say.
“I know.” He closes his eyes. His breath shakes as it leaves his lungs. “I know. I was… I am…” His jaw works, but nothing comes out. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Any of it.” His voice cracks. “Being honest about what I want. Wanting something I spent my whole life being told was wrong.”
