Page 216 of Repairing the Wreckage

Griff punches his fists in the air and bounces down the walkway, pumping himself up for the fight.

A few people scream “Stonewall!” as we pass.

Someone yells, “Fuck Naptime!” and I laugh.

A man pushes his way to the edge of the entourage but Remy’s quick to shove him back.

He screams, “Marry me, Molly!” almost in my face.

Startled, I turn to see who he is, but Wrath’s already at my side, blocking the crowd from even seeing me as we pass.

But as we draw closer to the center, fans hurl curses and insults at Griff. Most of them are the same trite, homophobic slurs that knuckle-draggers always seem to favor.

Griff’s either too keyed up to hear what’s being said or he’s able to block out the noise.

I want to punch every single one of them.

We finally reach the mat outside the cage where Griff’s supposed to stop for inspection. For a moment or two no one seems to know where to stand. No one seems to be in charge or offer any direction. Everything’s so much more chaotic than what gets shown on television.

The circle of people around us grows wider, but Wrath, Remy, Eraser, Dawson, and Remy’s coach form a ring around Griff, the officials, and me.

Once he’s on the mat, he has to strip down quickly. In front of twenty thousand people and probably as many cameras, he has zero privacy. He toes off his shoes and kicks them toward Eraser, then shimmies out of his track pants, unzips his hoodie and shrugs it off. Eraser ducks and collects the clothes, leaving Griff in nothing but his tight-fitting athletic shorts.

“Off.” The official touches Griff’s sunglasses.

He slips them off and passes them to me and I tuck them back in my purse.

While the official smears Vaseline on Griff’s face, he stands with his eyes closed but his fingers keep restlessly wiggling.

Underhill hands Griff his mouth guard and he pops it in, working his jaw from side to side to put it in place.

In front of the entire arena, the official practically performs a full-body cavity search, running his rubber-gloved hands all over Griff’s body. Griff stands straight, staring ahead, unfazed by the thorough pat down. Where on earth would he be able to hide a weapon—in between his toes?

I glance inside the cage. It’s full of people. A ref, an announcer, camera crews, and a lot of other guys hanging out, like the canvas floor hasn’t been soaked in blood all day long from the earlier matches. And might be again in the next few minutes.

My stomach churns. Maybe I should’ve watched from the locker room.

Then my gaze lands on Magic. That arrogant dickwad, with more muscles than brain cells, who’s been taunting Griff with trashy insults all week. And poking fun at Griff for dating me. After he all but begged Griff to fight him. Jackass. I hope Griff really does punch a hole through his skull. He runs back and forth on his side of the cage, reminding me of a lion in a zoo. Nah, that’s insulting to lions.

“All right.” The official pats Griff’s shoulder and steps aside. “You’re all set.”

“Show him how New York does it,” Remy says, tapping his fist against Griff’s glove.

“Get in there and crush him, bro!” Eraser pounds his fists together.

Griff turns toward me and tilts his head, silently asking for a kiss for luck. I reach up and brush my lips against his cheek. “Skull punch that wankhammer into next Tuesday,” I say against his ear.

His eyes widen with amusement and surprise.

“I wuf ooo.” The mouth guard gets in his way, but I get the message.

“I love you too.”

My stomach ripples with unease as he skips up the steps like he’s not stepping into a death cage.

“Come on.” Remy presses his hand between my shoulder blades. “There’ll be ten more minutes of yammering before it starts. Let’s grab our seats. Show our support.”

Eraser’s staying with Griff’s coaches in the corner. He stops and taps his knuckles against mine as we pass him.

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