On The Ropes (Tapped Out 3)

I liked it. Or I had, before. Before seemed like a lifetime ago.

“You ready?” Bufort waited for my nod before shoving a mouthguard in my mouth. “Timmins has been working him hard. He’s been in the gym mornings, afternoons, nights.” He nodded at Fox across the ring.

Unlike me, Fox had a goddamn crowd in his corner, and I knew some of his vital pieces were missing. Like Slater. That rift evidently hadn’t healed.

He had plenty of people surrounding him to make up for it. Timmins, Emerson, Mia. Even that wild-haired chick, Kizzy, who was friends with Mia and Carly and apparently was a trainer at Mark’s Gym. She poked Fox’s chest every few minutes, instructing him in a commanding way that made him roll his eyes and finally give her the finger.

It made me grin.

“What’re you grinning at? Were you listening to me at all?” Bufort demanded. “Fox is probably in the best shape of his life right now.”

I shrugged. I wasn’t that worried about it. I trusted my own skills, and I’d use them to the best of my ability.

Crushing him was my intention. But intentions often didn’t mean shit.

“We’ll see,” I mumbled around the mouthguard, holding out my hands so one of my other corner guys could wrap them.

Five minutes later, Kim, tonight’s ring card girl, sashayed into the octagon with her sign.

Fight’s about to begin. Place your final bets now.

The crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch, with boots stomping and posters being waved. I judged the crowd as roughly fifty-fifty, maybe sixty-forty due to the sentiment going on regarding Fox’s return.

Kim flashed me a smile and a wink, then shook her long dark hair back and climbed out of the ring. We’d hooked up a couple of times shortly after I started fighting.

That seemed like a lifetime ago.

The ref told us to tap gloves, and I met Fox in the center of the octagon. He waggled his eyebrows at me, and it made me fucking laugh.

Before a fight, for fuck’s sake. What the hell was happening to me?

That I could find even a moment’s humor in any of this disturbed me. Carly thought the company I kept was dangerous? Falling in love was almost as much.

The bell went off and I went into my stance, intending to let him come to me. I did my best work on the mat, and all it would take to get him off-balance was one punch that didn’t connect.

And oh, fuck, did he come to me. He didn’t try the usual jab-jab-jab to get past my guard as he had in our first fight. He swung hard an

d up, smashing my head backward. The crowd gasped and blood exploded in my mouth. The tang of it choked me momentarily, but I ducked low and broke through his guard, driving him back. Fuck a few testing punches.

Friend or not, this shit was on.

But he swept my leg out, bringing me down and slamming me in the jaw again. Pain exploded through my skull. It felt like he’d taken a torch to my goddamn bone. Christ.

I rolled over and spat out a mouthful of blood, then timed it so when he went to grab me by the hair, I scissored my legs and got him down on the mat. Just where I wanted. We rolled and grappled, straight old school wrestling style, until I got his legs tied up beneath me and I straddled him. I looked down in his already bloody face—whether it was his or mine, it was hard to tell—saw that cocky ass grin, and pulled my punch.

My mouth was bleeding like a bitch, and I pulled my motherfucking punch.

He bucked me off him and bounced to his feet, so fast that I had no chance of guarding my face before he aimed a short-armed punch at my temple. The stars that sparked in my head this time were red and pulsing. Then he followed it up with the low blow of a kick right to the nuts, and I was done.

Round one in the can, and he’d owned me like a damn chump.

I hauled myself back to my corner and held up a hand to Bufort as I yanked out my mouth guard. “Don’t say it.”

“I told you he was going to bring it,” he said almost smugly.

“Vaffanculo,” I muttered, knowing he had no idea what it meant.

Round two started much different than round one. He’d gotten me out of my rhythm. I didn’t like being in attack mode, because I preferred to see what my opponent would bring to the table. But I already knew. He’d bitched and whined how dirty I’d fought in our first match, so he was determined to out-dirty me.