Tyed

“No, that was my girlfriend.”

"Does Shane need an ambulance?" someone interrupts. Maybe my mom. I'm not really present in this situation, everything feels like a bad dream, and like most dreams it's complete chaos. I wish someone would wake me up from this nightmare.

"I'm fine. No hospital," Shane says, but he groans into his hands.

Izzy hurries to his side. Her eyes are welling up, and she sits next to him, lifting his chin between her fingers. She examines the cuts and marks on his skin with furrowed brows, and my heart breaks in two to see just how much it kills her to see him hurt.

"You’ll be okay. You’re strong." Her voice is almost a whisper. "But we need some ice..."

"And a fucking whiskey to go with it," Shane snaps, and there are a few chuckles from my side of the family.

"Do I need to call my lawyer?" Dawson rubs Ty's back in circles, like a dad. “Will this douche press charges?” He is not even remotely annoyed with his fighter.

That confirms my worst fears about Ty. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. Ty is what he is. A violent, volatile guy who'll do anything to get what he wants, even if other people get screwed in the process.

"I’m not pressing charges," Shane blurts from the floor. Izzy is now running her fingers through his tousled blond hair.

"Are you sure that’s wise?" my mom asks. “He’s clearly dangerous.”

It's like being punched in the face. I feel the tears and the pressure in my nose, like I'm going under water. I hate Tyler for what he did, but I also love him enough to know I'll never get over the fact that my parents will under no circumstances ever accept him after this.

"I can handle Wilder,” Shane says. “I just want him out of my face."

"Fine by us. Let's move it." Dawson is only too happy to step out of the situation. I still haven't figured him out. Is he a sinner for putting up with Ty and Jesse's antics, or a saint for tolerating both of these boys?

"Blaire?" Ty asks. I shake my head, unable to look at him. I just can't. Not right now. Not after all he's done, and everything I found out.

"Please just go," I whisper, fat tears chasing each other down my cheeks. I can hear him taking a deep breath.

“She’s right,” Dawson says. “We need to get you cleaned up for the press conference.” He pulls Ty toward the elevator, but Jesse lingers.

The other fighter leans close to my ear “Ty loves you. What do you need to prove it, a naked singing telegram? Don’t crush him a day before a big fight.”

My chest squeezes tight, but I don't waver. “I hope he's crushed. Serves him right for how he bagged this fight in the first place.”

***

I watch the XWL media day on TV from my room. I give myself a mental slap on the wrist for still being interested in Ty's fight—no, scratch that, in Ty in general— and a mental punch in the face for actually watching the press conference. It appears I have zero self-control, despite the fact that this dude totally kicked my best friend's butt. I don't care if Shane was the one to throw the first punch.

On TV, Ty is onstage sitting on a pair of barstools with his opponent, Eoghan Doherty. Behind them there’s a wall of endorsements, and each fighter is circled by their own entourage. Ty holds the mic to his lips. He chews gum, wearing a black designer shirt, fitted cigar pants, high top sneakers and a black baseball cap.

He's so incredibly sexy I want to lick him head to toe, but then I remember a lot of other girls actually did do just that, and paid good money for it too. The thought makes me want to hurl.

It's killing me to see Ty still oozing charisma, while I’m falling apart, struggling to remember how to breathe.

Doherty looks extra douchey in a pair of sunglasses and a three-piece suit. There should be a special section in hell for people who wear sunglasses indoors. He smack talks Ty to oblivion and back. He pushes every single button, starting off by referring to Ty as an “inbred redneck.” I get that they need to sell this fight, and that trash talk is a part of the game, but Doherty seems to have sold his soul, willing to do anything nasty as long as it’s good for his career.

Oh, right. Ty did that too.

Ty gives his indifferent smirk, popping gum and blinking slowly in Doherty’s direction. Dawson is sitting next to his star, his arms folded. Occasionally he whispers something in Ty’s ear.

One of the reporters stands up with an anxious smile and directs a question at Ty, “I have a source that just texted me that you were in an altercation in a Vegas hotel earlier today. Something to do with your girlfriend. Care to elaborate?”