Page 177 of Repairing the Wreckage

“How much longer are you planning to fight?” She waves one hand in the air between us. “Besides Vegas. After that…how much longer do you think you can keep doing this?”

This? I feel like I’ve been fighting my entire life. I never wanted to. I didn’t have a choice. “Today wasn’t a fight. Just a sparring match that got a little out of control.”

She tilts her head and levels me with who are you kidding glare. “A little?”

“We had some issues and aggression to work out,” I concede.

“About what?”

“Fighter confidentiality.” I run my fingers over my lips.

She rolls her eyes. “That doesn’t exist.” She stares at me for a few beats, more questions brewing in her beautiful blue eyes. “Was it about me?”

I blow out a long breath. “Not exactly.”

She seems to accept my non-answer. “Did you sort it out?”

“I think so.” I nod once and return to her original question. “Vegas is a lot of money.”

“So when you win and you’re offered another fight for even more money, what then?”

Shit, she’s dead serious.

So, I crack a joke. “I appreciate your assumption that I’ll win.”

No laughter. Just her unwavering, concerned stare. “All the money in the world can’t cure you if you end up with Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy,” she continues.

The full medical term rolls off her tongue easily. Someone’s been doing her research. “I’ve never been knocked out,” I say, knowing full well plenty of concussions don’t result in loss of consciousness.

She tilts her head, silently calling bullshit on me. “Yeah, and athletes who’ve never been diagnosed with concussions still get CTE. Strange, huh?”

All right. I need to cut the bullshit. “You’re not saying anything I haven’t thought of. At the house, a couple of the guys were so hard to understand, I wondered if they already had brain damage.”

“Yeah, I remember in the beginning of the show, they kind of mocked Bull.” She frowns. “Seemed shitty under the circumstances.”

“I’m not surprised.” I rest my hand over hers. “Do you want me to pull out of the Vegas fight?”

She’s shaking her head before I fully get out the question. “No. Don’t put that decision on me. I support you no matter what. But you keep talking about money for our future, and I want there to be a future for us, period.”

“I hear you.” I run my hand over the top of my head. What will I do if I get offered another fight after Vegas? How much is enough to keep us comfortable for the rest of our lives? “I don’t need stacks of cash. I don’t have any desire to go dropping a fortune on diamond-encrusted watches or Lamborghinis and yachts.” I tilt my head and give her a crooked smile. “Although, you’d look fantastic in a bikini on one of those things.”

She flicks her gaze to the ceiling. “You don’t need a boat for that. I’ll wear one for you wherever you want.”

“That so?” We’re getting off track. I reluctantly file mental images of Molly in a skimpy two piece to the back of mind to examine later. “I want to work with my hands.” I hold them out and flex my fingers, pain flaring through each knuckle. “Building things instead of tearing them apart. My plan’s still to buy Jerry’s garage and work on cars.”

She blows out a relieved breath.

“Fighter wife life, not for you?” I ask.

“Like I said, I want to support you no matter what. But I also want you to take care of yourself.” She cuddles closer, allowing me to wrap my arm around her shoulders. “So we can grow old together.”

That’s exactly what I want too. I kiss the top of her head. “Sounds like a plan.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Molly

Griff’s “welcome back” party has so far been a success. The bar’s full of people. No customers, just friends from all the different social circles Remy and Griff navigate.

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