Page 212 of Repairing the Wreckage

“Let’s get those hands taped,” Underhill snaps. He hadn’t been thrilled I wanted Molly backstage with me. Or that she’d walk out with us. But I really don’t care. He’s a good coach and we clicked during training, but my personal life isn’t open for commentary. You’d think he would’ve learned that during all the pressers.

Remy, Eraser, Underhill, and, weirdly, Dawson Roads, are also walking out with me into the area. Since he sponsored some of my training and flew my friends here on his private jet, he can walk with me anywhere he damn well pleases.

Molly holds up her phone. “Am I allowed to take pictures and video?”

“Baby, you can do anything you want.” I lean in and kiss her cheek.

I stand and approach Underhill and the fight official who will sign the tape after my hands are wrapped. I hold my hands out palms-down. So much energy’s coursing through me my legs won’t stop moving, but I try to contain it and hold still while each knuckle and joint is carefully wrapped. Molly moves a few feet away and aims her phone at me. I throw her a cocky wink and she flashes a quick thumbs-up. Remy stands next to her, watching everything like a fuckin’ hawk.

The hands take a while. Molly has time to do a 360 walk around me, filming every angle.

When the hands are done and signed, Underhill pulls out his black-and-purple focus pads. “Let’s warm up.”

He barks numbers for the combinations of punches, and I throw. He doesn’t push into my punches as much as he did during training, this is just to get the blood flowing.

“Good, good. Keep moving. One, two, three. Right.”

We repeat the sequence a few times.

“All right,” Underhill says. “Break.”

I grab a bottle of water from the fridge in the corner and take a few quick sips.

I pace the four corners of the mat laid in the center of the locker room, then up and down the middle.

The flat-screen television on the wall has a live feed from the fights out in the arena right now. Eraser’s standing in front of it with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the men’s featherweight match.

“Who’s good?” I ask, stopping next to him.

“Both of them, really.”

“Hey,” I tap his arm, “after this, are you and Ella gonna take some time and do like a second honeymoon or something while you’re here?”

“Yeah.” A wide grin stretches across his face. “I booked a helicopter ride over the Strip to surprise her.”

“She’s going to love that.”

“I know.” His whole face scrunches up into a pleased with himself smile.

I clap him on the back and resume pacing, stopping in front of Remy. “What’d you think?” I hold up my hands and pretend to throw some jabs.

He stares at me for a few seconds. “I’m really fuckin’ proud of you. That’s what I think, brother.”

It’ll go to his head if I let him know how much that means to me. “I’m happy you’re here with me.”

“Me too.”

“This is the kinda shit we talked about in high school.” Before my life took a few detours and Remy’s did too.

“Ruling the fight world? Yeah, I remember,” he says. “You’re doing it.”

I lean in, not wanting to be overheard. “I’m here. I’m ready to go.” I throw my fists a few times. “I can collect my bag, no matter what. After I get in the ring, everything’s gravy.”

“You best believe I put some money on you to win,” he says.

“You did?”

He stares at me like I’m crazy. “Fuck yeah.”

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