Page 40 of Repairing the Wreckage

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.

To our left, there’s another long hallway, leading into the opening to the arena. I stand in the shadows, studying what I can see of the seats and cage. It’s not completely full but people have been crowded into the seats in the immediate area around the cage. With some clever camera work—which I know these guys are more than capable of—they’ll make it look like a packed house.

If the show brought Molly down here to see my final fight, or Remy or Vapor, they would’ve let them come see me backstage, right? Not blindside me when I’m about to go in the cage.

“Where’d they find all these people to come see this?” I ask Venom.

He stares at me for a few beats. “Probably people who work for the company or friends of the execs? Or paid actors. Who knows. It fucking sucks, though. They wouldn’t let me bring Kelly, but they let in all these strangers.”

Whatever hope that Molly, Remy, or any of my friends from home might be in the crowd as some sort of last minute “surprise” by the show dies a quick, painful death.

My disappointment seems to be misinterpreted by Venom. He grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “Hey, you’ve got this. Seriously. You were already good when you came to the house. But you trained like a beast. You were more focused. More driven. And improved the most out of anyone else there.”

My throat’s too tight to respond but I nod vigorously.

All this waiting is fucking with my head.

The opening tones of DMX’s Ruff Ryders’ Anthem pound through the building. What sounds like a cannon explodes. Sparks shoot straight up to the ceiling. Venom squints toward the hallway.

An announcer says a bunch of stuff that just sounds like gibberish from all the way back here.

“Naaaaaptiiiimee!”

“Christ, is that what he picked?” Venom shakes his head. “How does a guy with the ring name Naptime not go with Enter Sandman for his walkout song?”

I chuckle and throw my hood over my head. It has to be close to go time.

“Ruff Ryders always makes me think of the brand of condoms,” Bear Trap shouts. “Which is appropriate since Naptime’s dad definitely shoulda worn a rubber.”

I burst out laughing. “Fuck. Stop making me laugh. I’m trying to focus,” I scold.

Bear Trap grins at me.

Shaking my head, I roll my shoulders and bounce on my feet. My stomach twists with the need to purge my last ten meals.

Christ, I’ve never been this nervous before a fight. Is this what turning pro would be like? Or is it the pressure of all the people watching?

The usual detachment I find in the minutes leading up to stepping into the cage keeps escaping my grasp.

You’ve done this hundreds of times. This is just a bigger audience. That’s it.

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