Fifty-seven . . . fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine . . .

A hundred . . . a hundred and one . . . a hundred and two . . .

I’m doing sit-ups. Training in an empty hotel room Oz and I wrangled for the day.

I’m thinking of finals six weeks ahead. And of her. Always of her.

I know losing can get to your head. I know losing can ruin a fighter’s life. I also know you’ll never win if you don’t believe you deserve it. Because when your body’s about to give up, and you’re on your last push, you won’t ever go that extra mile if only a fraction of you didn’t believe you could nail this.

Maybe it’s my rebel inside. I’ve always believed I could; mainly, because I don’t think anybody else did. I believe I can. So I will.

And she is mine. I’m claiming her as mine. Slow and easy. That’s how we’ll do this.

But in the ring, I’m not going easy. I’m getting stronger, I’m getting faster, and I’m getting shit done.

I’m pumped up after yesterday.

I’m pumped up thinking of Reese, in the back of a cab, putting my hand between her legs. In my mind, the better I become, the more deserving I will be of Reese formally dating me.

“Oz, you need to watch Tate when we’re fighting. Tell me if you see an opening.”

“Maverick, I tell you what to do, not the other way around. Get yourself to semifinals first.”

I stop with the sit-ups and ease to my feet, jumping rope now. “Still mad I took you to AA?”

He glares, takes out a water bottle, and guzzles it down.

I toss the rope aside and go slap his back. “Hey. You can do this.” I toss him the tape so he can tape up my hands. “Oz, I can’t be everywhere in the ring. You need to tell me if you see weakness ’cause his coach is sure as hell telling him mine.”

“Not his coach, YOU ARE. All those times training with him? That guy’s been studying you like an encyclopedia.” He scowls bleakly.

“Good,” I murmur, letting him tape my hands. “I’ll know my own weaknesses before finals when he comes at me. I’ve been studying him too.”

“Get yourself to fucking finals first. Twister’s all up on standings, climbing the ranks. There’s talk that he’s cheating the system, pumped to the balls in steroids.”

“His balls have nothing but air.” Hell, I’m insulted he thinks I’m losing to Twister. I already beat him once. I glare. “I can take him.”

Oz guzzles more water. I narrow my eyes. “You dehydrated?”

“What?”

My eyes widen when he closes his bottle like it’s holy water and slips it into the inside of his jacket. I reach out and wiggle my fingers. “Give me that water.”

“No.”

“Oz.”

He tosses me a new bottle of water from a small cooler. I catch it, set it aside, and take a step. “You put vodka in your water bottle, Oz?” I ask quietly.

He stands up and puffs out his chest as he looks up at me, trying to intimidate me. “Drop it, Cage.”

“Give me your water, Oz.”

“I said it’s water,” he growls.

“Are you drinking?” I ask.

He glares, stomps away, and slams the door shut.

I grit my teeth and stare down at my untaped hands, curling my fingers into my palms. Then I run after him before he catches an elevator.

“Oz, come on. Let’s talk about it.”

The elevator arrives, and he boards defiantly. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re gonna be on my back, then I quit.”

“Oz.”

“You either lay off me, or I’m not going to be spending time here to be lectured. I got enough of that before with Wendy.”

“I’m not Wendy, all right? Just chill and we’ll figure this out. Get back on this fucking floor, Oz,” I growl.

He glares but steps off. “I’m chill. Just back the fuck off.” He storms back into the room, and says, “Heavy bag.”

I follow him inside, simmering in frustration as I spread my hands out in helplessness. “I don’t know how to help you, Oz.”

“I can take care of myself. You worry about you. Heavy bag.”

I grind my molars. Then I go hit the bag, bare-knuckled. And get the perfect sound. And I keep going. And going and going. Getting it all out of my system. Getting ready for a fight.

♥ ♥ ♥

THE CROWD ROARS outside, and then there’s silence and the announcer speaks. “For the first time in Chicago, ladies and gentlemen, we give you the man causing waves . . . the man causing whispers . . . the man you all fear . . . the first rookie ever to get this far in an Underground championship . . . We give you, Maverick ‘the Avenger’ Cage!”

I turn to Oz. “If we win tonight, promise you’ll try again tomorrow.”

He smirks. “I’ll promise tomorrow.” Then he sobers and opens the door, where the crowd starts with a combination of name-calling and booing. “Let’s do this, son. One match at a time.”

I nod and I step outside and head to the ring.

TWENTY-NINE

RUN WITH ME

Reese

He won. I heard it from the team. Depending on the rankings of the fighters, they get to fight on separate nights in each location now that we’re heading to semifinals. Even numbers fight on one night, odd numbers on the next.

Maverick didn’t get to fight Remy in Chicago. But he beat every single man put in his path.

We’re in Chicago now, and he’s shot up in rankings from 148th (where he started, with no record) to thirty-ninth (after his first five match nights) to seventh now. Everybody is talking about the way Cage “cages” his opponents against the ropes, then knocks them out with what they’re calling the Maverick Jab because of his long arms and incredible reach.

The question on everyone’s mind is if he has it in him to stay there and make semifinals and win against the experienced fighters he’ll be facing.

But the main question is if he has it in him to beat Riptide.

“I’m telling you, he does. You need to stop training with him,” Coach said that night after the fight.

“The more you tell him not to, the more he’s going to do it,” Pete advised Coach Lupe when Remy stayed mum.

“Why, Rem?” Coach demanded.

“Because he’s unstoppable, and I’m challenged to see if he’ll stop . . . or not. I’m hoping not.” He lifted his fist and looked at his bruised knuckles that reminded me exactly of Maverick’s bruised knuckles.