Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
“I’m busy prepping for war here.” I roll my shoulders forward and back. “I’ll be disappointed if after all this work, the only thing Magic brings to the cage is plastic surgery tips.” Okay, not my finest comeback but fuck, I’m better at quick punches, not quippy lines.
Jeb snickers and pulls his phone away. “Nice one.”
At least Jeb thinks I’m clever.
“Good luck, Griff.”
“Thanks.”
My watch buzzes and I check the incoming text. Underhill makes us lock up our phones when we’re training but he didn’t say anything about smart watches—a birthday gift from Molly that’s made it easier to keep in touch with her.
Molly: We’re here.
My skin tingles, knowing she’s close. It can’t be healthy to miss someone as much as I’ve missed her. The strict training schedule has been a blessing in more ways than one.
I’d given Molly our room number last night. And the front desk should have key cards for Remy, Eraser, and Jigsaw to get into the four-bedroom suite we’re sharing.
Under the coach’s watchful eye, I slip into the locker room and grab my phone out of my locker.
Me: In the hotel gym. I’ll be here a lil’ longer. You can come visit.
If Underhill is going to let random reporters in to ask me stupid questions, he damn well better let my girlfriend in.
Molly
“I’m ready.” I step out of the bedroom I’ll share with Griff and into the common area of our suite.
Remy’s waiting on a long white couch, scowling at his phone.
“Everything okay?” I ask when he doesn’t lift his head.
“Yeah.” He stands and slips the phone into his pocket. “That fuckweasel Magic was talking more shit this morning,” he growls.
“Oh, you mean the one where he said he wants to rearrange Griff’s face, so his ‘teenage girlfriend’ won’t recognize him? I heard.”
“Stop looking at that stuff. I fucking hate them bringing you into it at all. That’s just not cool.”
“No, but like you said, he’s a fuckweasel.”
Remy snort-laughs.
“Whatever.” I shrug it off like the comment didn’t embarrass the hell out of me. “It’s not a lie. I am nineteen.”
He runs his gaze over my outfit. “Please put something over that.”
“Duh.” I roll my eyes.
“Are you planning to work out down there?” he asks. “Or are you just going to say hi?”
“I don’t know. But I wanted to be prepared.” I slip a cropped zip-up hoodie over my workout top. “Are you?” I nod to his shorts and tee.
“Griff asked if I’d help him work on some moves.”
“Oh no. You two can’t get into it—”
“Molly, we’ve worked together for years. Who do you think he was training with before he left?”
“Yeah, well. The last time you two stepped in a cage together—”
“That was different.” He waves an impatient hand at me. “Let’s go.”
Eager to see Griff, I follow Remy into the hallway. The hotel is huge and has more than one gym. Of course, Griff’s is the farthest away.
We navigate the long hallways and elevators down to a lower floor and finally find the gym. Outside the door, we’re stopped by a security guy in a navy blue polo shirt with the hotel’s logo stitched on the front.
“We’re with Team Royal,” Remy says. “Coach Underhill knows we’re coming.”
The guard runs his slow gaze over each of us. When his gaze lingers on my chest for too long, I’m grateful Remy reminded me to put on the jacket. Remy steps in front of me, shielding me from the guard’s leering eyes. “Can we go in or not?”
“Yeah.” He opens the glass door and a rush of cool air washes over us. “Go ahead.”
Remy puts himself between the guard and me as we enter. The sleek, modern space sprawls in front of us, larger than I expected. A row of treadmills and ellipticals line the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Vegas Strip. Several fighters pound away on the treadmills, their expressions focused and intense. None of them are Griff, though.
At the leg press, one guy lifts a heavy stack. Men and a few women are using free weights and kettlebells. Except for the hum of the machines, occasional grunts and the clanging of metal, it’s quiet. The air is charged with focus and determination, not chatter.
Remy and I keep walking. To our right, there’s another room off the main gym. The rapid, rhythmic beat of someone using a speed bag reaches us. Remy and I stop in the doorway. Griff’s standing in front of the bag, his fists moving in small, precise circles. The movement’s so fast it looks like he’s barely making contact. That’s what’s creating the steady, hypnotic rhythm. Griff holds his shoulders and arms loose and relaxed, making it seem effortless.
As much as I want to run and hug Griff, to kiss him and have him hold me, I’m mesmerized by his skill and don’t want to do anything to break his concentration.