Page 202 of Repairing the Wreckage

Eraser pulls me in for a big bear hug. “Jesus, you’re huge.”

“You say that every time you see me.” I squeeze him extra hard. “How was the flight? Where’s Ella?”

“She went shopping with Shelby and Molly.”

I shift my gaze to Remy who holds up one hand. “Jigsaw and Rooster are with them,” he explains.

My eyebrows shoot up. “Jigsaw went shopping with them?”

“I think he saw it as an opportunity to terrorize anyone who gives the girls a hard time.” Remy shrugs. “So, really it’s entertainment for him too.”

Can’t argue with that logic.

Underhill’s thrilled to have not one, but two new people to put to work, helping me perfect some grappling skills. And since Remy knows my style, strengths, and weaknesses probably better than I do, we end up working on strategy together.

A couple hours later someone from the fight organization runs in and informs me I need to be downstairs in Conference Room A for a press meeting in fifteen minutes.

“Just go like this.” He circles his hand in front of my face. “We want to show everyone how hard you’re grinding in here.”

As if I was going to run upstairs and change into a fucking suit.

“This wasn’t on the schedule,” Underhill snaps. “We have training to finish. And he needs to rest.”

The guy gives Underhill a tough shit shrug and leaves.

“Assholes.” Underhill pulls out his phone and starts checking his messages. “Go clean up and get ready,” he mutters.

“We’re going with you, right?” Remy asks.

“It’ll probably be boring. They ask the same dumb questions over and over.”

“Not this time,” Underhill says, waving his phone in the air. “That pixie dick opponent of yours is finally coming off his high horse to do a joint Q & A.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Eraser asks. “He’s been doing all his interviews from whatever house he’s staying at, right?”

“We’ll see,” Underhill grumbles. “He’s gonna trash-talk your buddy, though. So behave.”

“Whatever.” I shake my head. “Let’s see if he has the balls to say to my face all the shit he’s been talking online.”

* * *

Mike “Magic” Everson is every bit the asshole Diane warned me he would be. I already knew that from the videos I’ve watched but seeing it in person is a whole new experience.

I sit at a table next to Underhill on a stage. Someone handed me a microphone when we arrived, but I set it down. Magic never shuts the fuck up, so I haven’t needed to use it much. He’s on the other side of the stage at a different table answering questions about some shitty sneakers he’s endorsing. A moderator stands at a podium between us. Several bouncers dressed in black standing shoulder-to-shoulder behind us in case Magic and I want to start the fight early.

“Next.” The moderator recognizes a man in the third row with his hand in the air. The first five or six rows are only half full of press waiting to ask questions. The rest of the giant conference room is empty.

“Will from Warrior Force podcast. My question is for Magic. You lost to Captain Biscuit in your last fight. Griff is the same age. Similar skill set. Same wingspan. He put on an impressive performance week after week on Supreme Underground Fighter.”

Why, thank you. About time some recognize that.

“So, after your recent loss, are you concerned at all?” Will asks.

“I’m eleven wins and one loss,” Magic growls into the mic. “I ain’t worried about no one.” He waves his hand vaguely in my direction. “He’s a nobody. Didn’t even win that shit contest. I’m not even sure how we got here.”

Oh, fuck that. I snatch the microphone off the table and switch it on. “You sure seemed to know who I was when your people were begging me to come out to Vegas and fight you. I didn’t even know who the fuck you were.”

Magic cackles into his mic. “You didn’t know who I was? You didn’t know? Are you serious right now?”

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