Page 19 of Fighting Jacob

His cool, calm demeanor isn't fooling anyone. Sweat is beading on his temples, and his pupils are massive. He's more than eager. He's shitting bricks.

Happy for him to sweat it out a little longer, I murmur, “I don’t know... it’s risky. She seems like a real nice girl.” When his nostrils flare like he’s seconds from decking me, I put him out of his misery. “Alright, I’ll ask Lola for her number.”

He drops his eyes to my jean pocket, encouraging me to hurry the fuck up.

“Jesus, calm down; no need to get your panties in a twist.” Laughing, I yank my cell from my pocket and text Lola.

Me: Noah wants Emily’s number

She must be waiting by her phone because her reply is quick.

Lola: I friggin knew it! It’s 555 315 4558

Me: See ya on Tuesday?

Lola: Yep!

Noah stores Emily’s number in his phone when I recite it to him.

Now that I’ve done him a favor, it’s time for him to help me out. “Do you have any plans next week?”

He places his phone in his pocket before raising his wide eyes to me. “Nope, why?”

“Remember that prank we’ve done a couple of times? Lola needs driving lessons, so I thought I’d conduct them at the State Forest, you know, for safety and all.” I waggle my brows, hoping he’ll get the drift without me needing to spell it out for him.

He catches on rather quickly. “Name the time and the place. Just don’t do it on a Friday.”

After slapping my shoulder, he climbs the stairs of our home. I enjoy the cool night for a couple of seconds longer, praying my ruse will work its magic on Lola, because I can't stop thinking about the one and only time we've slept together.

Chapter Nine

Jacob

After Hank finishes taping my knuckles, he steps back. “You’re good to go.”

I jump up from my seat to warm up my muscles for my debut fight. Tonight’s event is being held in a rundown gym on the outskirts of town. Hank said I have to start at the bottom rung before working my way up. Once I get a few wins under my belt, the locations and prize money should improve—I hope.

I haven’t told anyone about my match tonight. I don’t know why. I think it’s because fighting is the only thing I do for myself, so I’m not willing to share my passion just yet. That or I’m afraid of getting my ass kicked in front of my friends. With how hard nerves pummel me during my confession, I’d say it is the latter.

Tonight, my competitor is a local fighter who goes by the name "The Terminator." He's been fighting the past year professionally. Hank isn't concerned about my lack of experience. He wouldn't have put me in the octagon if he didn't believe I was ready.

When a middle-aged man announces it’s time for my fight, I yank my long-sleeve shirt over my head before shadowing Hank into the hub of the old gym. The tangy scent of blood filters into my nose when we break through the corridor. A cage sits in the middle of the abandoned space with numerous black steel chairs lining its edges. The early fight time means people are just starting to flow into the cobweb-filled area.

When I enter the cage, butterflies tap dance in my stomach. Out of all the careers in the world, I picked one that requires my fists. Picking up on my uneasiness, Hank tries to settle it from the sidelines. “You’ve got this, Jacob.”

His reply ends just as my opponent enters the cage. He’s as built as me but a head shorter. His red shorts are so skin-tight, I’m not convinced they aren’t underwear, and he’s wearing brand name shoes. A chuckle rumbles in my chest, amused by his outfit selection. Upon hearing my laughter, Hank’s eyes slit as he motions for me to quit chuckling. I give it my best shot, but nothing works. I’m fighting a fucking tool.

My humor is set aside when my opponent glares at me. He’s not here for a good time. He wants to kick my ass.

Let’s see if he can.

After tapping gloves, the ref steps back, indicating it’s time to fight. The Terminator bounces around on the mat, prancing like the women in skimpy bikinis did before he arrived. I watch him closely as he throws jabs into the air. Sweat is beading on my brow, but my stance is firm. I just need him to make the first move, then I won’t feel bad when I knock him out.

With me paying attention to his top half, I’m left blinded when he swoops for my legs. He wraps his hands around my ankles and yanks, making me plummet onto the mat with a winding oomph.

When he straddles my waist, I protect my face like Hank has taught me the past four months. He throws a left and right combination against my arms, but none of his swings hit my face. Adrenaline-thick blood races through my veins, making me hot with anger. Feeding off the rage, I curl my legs around his torso and pull back with force. The Terminator’s back bends harshly before he gives in to the strain.

I move in to execute my revenge when he flops onto his back. I straddle his hips like he did mine before unleashing a triple set of hits to his unprotected face. When a jab to my ribs leaves me breathless, I roll off him.

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