Page 199 of Repairing the Wreckage

Underhill warned me that in the days leading up to the fight, I’d have to answer more and more questions. The hotel is crawling with bloggers, reporters, podcasters, YouTubers, photographers, and regular fight fans. No one’s given me any training on talking to the media other than Underhill’s warning not to insult any of the money guys paying for all of this. Since I don’t know all the players involved, I’ve kept any complaints to myself and focused on only speaking about the fight and my training. I’m running out of creative ways to say I want to punch Magic’s face into oblivion, though.

I stare at Jeb, waiting for whatever he wants to ask. “Well?”

“Oh! I wanted to know if you had any comment about what Magic said about you this morning on The Warrior Force podcast.”

“I don’t have time to keep up with all the stuff he says. I’m busy training for a fight.” I shrug. “Maybe that’s what he should be doing too.”

Jeb holds out his phone and plays a clip of Magic’s ugly face taking up half the screen. Some guy I don’t recognize fills the other half. “I want to change the arrangement of his actual fucking face.” Magic twists his hands in front of him like he’s unscrewing a jar of pickles. “Just rearrange that pretty boy smirk of his and give him a matching scar over his other eye. His little teenage girlfriend won’t even recognize him when I’m finished.”

A hot flare of rage sparks in my chest. I don’t give a fuck about what Magic wants to do to my face. Referencing Molly, even if he never uses her name, crosses a line. Keenly aware of the guy filming me, I grind my teeth and will my face to stay calm. Give him nothing. Otherwise Magic will know Molly’s a soft spot he can poke whenever he wants a reaction.

“I’m busy prepping for war here.” I roll my shoulders forward and back. “I’ll be disappointed if after all this work, the only thing Magic brings to the cage is plastic surgery tips.” Okay, not my finest comeback but fuck, I’m better at quick punches, not quippy lines.

Jeb snickers and pulls his phone away. “Nice one.”

At least Jeb thinks I’m clever.

“Good luck, Griff.”

“Thanks.”

My watch buzzes and I check the incoming text. Underhill makes us lock up our phones when we’re training but he didn’t say anything about smart watches—a birthday gift from Molly that’s made it easier to keep in touch with her.

Molly: We’re here.

My skin tingles, knowing she’s close. It can’t be healthy to miss someone as much as I’ve missed her. The strict training schedule has been a blessing in more ways than one.

I’d given Molly our room number last night. And the front desk should have key cards for Remy, Eraser, and Jigsaw to get into the four-bedroom suite we’re sharing.

Under the coach’s watchful eye, I slip into the locker room and grab my phone out of my locker.

Me: In the hotel gym. I’ll be here a lil’ longer. You can come visit.

If Underhill is going to let random reporters in to ask me stupid questions, he damn well better let my girlfriend in.

Molly

“I’m ready.” I step out of the bedroom I’ll share with Griff and into the common area of our suite.

Remy’s waiting on a long white couch, scowling at his phone.

“Everything okay?” I ask when he doesn’t lift his head.

“Yeah.” He stands and slips the phone into his pocket. “That fuckweasel Magic was talking more shit this morning,” he growls.

“Oh, you mean the one where he said he wants to rearrange Griff’s face, so his ‘teenage girlfriend’ won’t recognize him? I heard.”

“Stop looking at that stuff. I fucking hate them bringing you into it at all. That’s just not cool.”

“No, but like you said, he’s a fuckweasel.”

Remy snort-laughs.

“Whatever.” I shrug it off like the comment didn’t embarrass the hell out of me. “It’s not a lie. I am nineteen.”

He runs his gaze over my outfit. “Please put something over that.”

“Duh.” I roll my eyes.

---