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)
Deep breaths. In and out.
This will be unlike any other fight. Low-quality, bootleg clips of my fights at The Castle or other places back home have been posted online for years—that’s how Diane found me for the show. But this time, the whole event will be aired. Every drop of sweat and splatter of blood. Every punch, kick, and move I make will be dissected and analyzed by people I don’t even know and will probably never meet. Every moment—including me sitting here with my eyes closed—will be aired for the world to mock, judge, or admire.
I doubt Molly’s still watching the show, but if she is, I want to make her proud. I don’t want her to think I did all of this for nothing.
If Remy’s watching, I don’t want him to be embarrassed that he knows me. Fuck it, probably too late for that.
As the van eases to a stop, I open my eyes. The darkness of an underground parking lot surrounds us with only a few pools of light to lead us inside.
The more I try to calm myself, the faster time seems to move. I’m hustled inside to a locker room where cameras keep filming everything. People give me pep talks, but all the noise fades to a low hum—like I’m drowning.
I’d like music and headphones to block out the commotion but even today, I can’t have any electronics.
I’ve never dealt with this kind of build-up and anticipation before a fight. Or had so many people around to bother me. Usually, it’s Remy and me in our locker room at The Castle, trading insults or giving each other pointers. Sometimes Eraser joins us to share things he learned about an opponent. Jake and Murphy would hang with us when they used to fight there. We have Lost Kings providing security in case things got out of control. On my home turf, I’m surrounded by people I’ve known for years. People I trust to watch my back no matter what.
Here, in this alien environment, who can I trust? Underhill? He’s not a coach I chose to work with. His loyalty is to the show. Venom? He’s here as my friend but up until a week ago, he was my competition.
I’ve already made so many mistakes and miscalculations about this show. Underestimated how devious these people are.
The boxing coach joins us to tape and wrap my hands, momentarily giving me something else to think about.
Underhill supervises. The worried frown creasing his forehead doesn’t do anything to ease my pre-fight nerves. “Naptime’s biggest asset in the ring is his attitude,” he says.
I raise both eyebrows. “You mean his annoyingness is a strength?”
Underhill points his finger in my face. “That. Right there. Let that shit go, Stonewall. Clear your mind of all thoughts and emotions. When you’re in the ring, you’re above that. You’re a better fighter than him every day of the week. Don’t let his cockiness distract you.”
That’s the most words I’ve ever heard come out of Underhill’s mouth at one time. “I won’t. Thanks, Coach.”
“Done.” The boxing coach taps my knuckles. “Go for the KO early. Land a bomb and finish him.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promise. “Thank you.”
Underhill checks my hands. “Don’t let his antics get to you,” he warns me again. He must really hate Naptime.
“I got it.” I’ve fought people who were more annoying.
Time keeps ticking down.
Breathe. You’re fine.
I inhale, long and deep, hold for a count of five, then let it out slowly.
Think of a word. That’s the kind of new age bullshit Eraser would tell me when we were locked up as kids. Fuck, I miss him. I’ve never been more thankful for all the visualization exercises he’s had us do over the years.
Thunderstorm. That word fits what I need to be tonight. Intense, powerful, unpredictable. Move fast. Unleash raw power.
Thunderstorm, huh. Isn’t that full circle. Molly and I got caught in one the night before I was whisked away to the house. My heart pounds faster. I wish she was here. But I’m also not sure she could handle seeing me fight. Not like this.
Eyes closed, I stand and throw a quick sequence of jabs, concentrating on each movement.
A surge of determination grips me.
Slowly, I open my eyes.
Everyone’s staring at me.
Feeling more confident by the second, my mouth tilts into a cocky line. “I’m ready.”
A guy from the show knocks on the door. “Time to go.”
Underhill grips my shoulder. “They’re gonna want you to do a stare down for the cameras. Just look that soulless punk dead in his squinty little spider eyes. Don’t flinch.”
Oddly specific description. “Uh, dead-eyed stare. Got it.”
“Make me proud.” He leans in so we’re almost nose-to-nose and pats my cheek. Christ, I hope he’s not planning to kiss me next.
We’re led down a long, brightly lit corridor. Underhill stops at a corner and holds out his arm. “We wait here,” he says.