Page 225 of Repairing the Wreckage

“More than okay. It feels good.”

She resumes the gentle probing and massaging, slowly working her way down and along my shoulder blades. I could almost fall back asleep like this.

I reach behind me, capturing one of her hands and bring it to my mouth, kissing her fingertips. “Let me run to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.”

When I return to the bedroom, she’s standing by the dresser with her hand curled around the handle of my half-gallon water bottle.

Thirst slams into me and she holds out the bottle.

“You need to drink some water.” Her tone’s a mixture of stern and sweet.

“On it.” I grab the bottle and flip the top. “Thank you.”

The water’s ice cold, the way I like it, soothing as it slides down my throat. I finish more than half, then set it on the dresser and stumble back to the bed.

“What were you reading when I woke up?” I glance at the nightstand. “Where’s my phone?”

“Here.” She picks my phone up off her nightstand and climbs into bed. Kneeling next to me, she holds it out for me.

Now that I have it, I don’t want to look at anything.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“Nothing.” She shrugs, then sighs. “Magic is a mega-douche. All the headlines are about your win. But he’s already doing interviews about how he wants a rematch because he wasn’t at ‘his best’ and he’s still a better fighter than you.”

Laughter bubbles and rushes out of me. “He can’t even lose with dignity, huh? Fuck him. Everyone saw that KO.”

A little smile twitches at the corners of her mouth. She scoops her phone off the bed and flicks it on. “This is one of the photos they’re running with the story about his whining.”

She turns the phone my way. The screen’s filled with a stunning image of my fist smashing into Magic’s jaw. His head tilted to the side, eyes already rolling back in his head, sweat flying. Pure, vicious fury stretching my face into something I barely recognize. “God damn. That’s an impressive photo.”

“There are dozens of them like it. But that’s probably my favorite one of the fight.” She wrinkles her nose. “There’s one of you smashing your knee in his face, but it’s a little bloody.”

I definitely need to see that one.

I pat the bed next to me and, for the next hour or so, we scroll through all the different write-ups about the fight together. More than half of the articles also feature an image of me lifting Molly in the air in the middle of the cage.

The caption reads: Biggest Night of His Life and Girlfriend is Still the Prize. “This is my favorite.” I turn the screen toward her.

She sighs and stares at the image. “Mine too.”

“The caption’s true, you know. Whoever this Brynn Banner is who wrote it, is a fucking genius.”

She stares at the picture for a few more seconds, then rolls her eyes. “Remy’s so mad about that one.” She taps the screen where her dress got pulled up a little and my arms are the only thing stopping the camera from capturing a much racier picture.

“Tell him to unclench. I got you.” I glance at the photo again. “You’re hot as hell.”

“A bunch of creeps in the comment section would agree. That’s what Remy’s annoyed about.”

“What? Where?” I scroll farther down.

Molly’s hand closes around my phone and she pulls it from my grasp. “That’s enough.”

I don’t have the energy to argue. “Come here.”

She squeezes in close, and I pull her against my side. She rests her head on my chest and one leg over mine.

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