Page 18 of Strike Zone

I head for the bathroom and switch on the shower, letting the cool tiles beneath my feet ground me as I grapple with the ghost of boyfriends past and an opportunity missed. The thought of going to bed with the smell of Linc on my skin is too enticing, and that’s exactly why I need to wash away the evidence and erase what just happened. I’m not sure how denial will work when I see him at the fight tomorrow, but I’ll be so focused in the cage, he’ll be just another speck in the crowd—at least that’s what I’m going to tell myself.

By the time I’ve washed all traces of Linc from my skin, I’m exhausted, mortified, and ready to crawl under the covers and forget tonight ever happened. Before I can settle my mind, I reach for my phone and type a quick message.

Me: I’m sorry.

Linc: No means no. Never apologize to me or any other man for saying it.

I wasn’t prepared for a response, much less an understanding one.

Linc: Go to sleep. You have a big day ahead.

Me: Good night, Lincoln.

Laying on my back, I stare up at the ceiling, trying like hell to forget about tonight and focus on tomorrow. This is the biggest fight of my life. I need to be rested, and with every hour that ticks by, I wave goodbye to any meaningful sleep.

In the end, I get up and throw on some training gear before heading down to the gym at the arena. I may as well do a short workout and attempt to wear myself out.

The thing I love about Vegas is that no matter what time it is, the city is alive. It never sleeps or slows down. It’s a constant, whirring, living, breathing entity, and I’m invigorated as I make my way to the gym, passing drunken gamblers having the time of their lives while they lose the shirt off their back.

My breath hitches at the sight of a familiar face across the casino floor. Linc is throwing back a drink while some pretty little redheaded bartender hangs on his every word. If she gets any closer, she’ll be up on the bar with her tits in his face. A pang of jealousy courses through me—unwarranted and unwanted. Thankfully, he doesn’t see me, so I drop my head and blend into the crowd before taking a sharp left toward the gym.

Swaddled in the bosom of an empty workout space, I can clear my mind. This is where I’m in control of everything. When I step inside the cage, I can’t control what my opponent will do or how they’ve trained up until that moment. There are so many variables. But here, with a speed bag and thick red workout mats, I’m the queen of my domain.

I push myself, my muscles burning as I work them longer and harder than I should until I’m breathless, boneless, and laying starfish on the gym floor. As my eyes drift closed, my lids are heavy in the knowledge of what this fight means.

My brain carries me away to a place where life isn’t measured in fights—in wins and losses. In that place, I’m not judged by my physique or left hook. No one cares that I’m a southpaw, and men aren’t intimidated by my ability to hold my own in any situation life throws my way. Wherever I am, no man has deceived me or convinced me to make myself smaller to feed their own ego.

I don’t know how long I’m out, but I dream of Prince Charming lifting me into his arms, cradling me like a delicate flower to be cherished. I can’t see his face, but there’s something familiar in his touch, and it soothes me in ways I find uncomfortable and unsettling. There’s no prince for me, and even if there were, I wouldn’t want him—wouldn’t need him.

It’s not until shards of light splinter through the drapes in my hotel suite that I realize I must have made my way back up here during the night. I could’ve sworn I slept soundly on that mat. I don’t even remember getting up or navigating through the hotel, back to my room.

Every sinew and muscle fight a scorching ache as the alarm rings, and I grapple with my phone to shut it off. Last night was the worst scenario for fight preparation. Anvils hang where my fists should be, and the signature dance of my feet is hindered by concrete blocks instead of shoes. It takes everything I have to drag my ass out of bed and into the shower.

Standing under the water for what feels like hours, I let the heat and pressure massage my aches and pains until I feel somewhat human. Gray will be expecting me for our ritual pre-weigh-in pep talk in thirty minutes before we sit down for promo and interviews ahead of tonight. I guess there’s no point worrying about aesthetics today. I could have a team of stylists this morning, but no amount of magic can turn this sow’s ear into a silk purse. It’s a sad day when I’m quoting my mom and her unconventional outlook on the world.

By the time I’ve tamed my hair into Dutch braids and made myself presentable, it’s time to start this horse and pony show. The last thing I want to do on fight day is sit down with a bunch of journalists who are thirsty for blood. They want Dee Lex, the ruthless fighter, and I have the elevator ride down to the lobby to get into the right headspace.

Tonight could change the course of my life, and I won’t squander that chance. Brands are lining up to endorse me if I pull this off. It’s life-changing dollar amounts, and a chance to prove to my mom and dad that their support hasn’t been misplaced all these years.

Winning a title is one thing, defending it cements my place in UFC history.

Chapter Five

DIANA

Bantamweight requires me to be anywhere from 125-135 pounds, but I know I’m comfortably within range, so this weigh-in is just a formality to get out of the way. For most women, it’s equivalent to the naked dream—a room full of people with cameras taking your photo as you stand on a set of scales. For me, it’s par for the course.

As I step into a different kind of cage, my opponent is ready and waiting to get this over and done with. Kayla Dobrev and I go way back. We started out around the same time, but there’s no room for friendship today. The crowd wants adversaries, and that’s what they’ll get.

Kayla is on the high side of our category, so she’s probably going into today hungry. That’s a small advantage for me, but at the same time, being the lighter of two fighters isn’t historically the best if you’re talking statistics. I know how to use my body and weight to my advantage, but she’s an excellent fighter.

I’m up first, and as expected, I am right on target, pumping my fists in the air for the camera before stepping aside for my opponent. Brooke and Anders are standing at the back of the room, a small oasis of friendly faces in a sea of bloodthirsty strangers. There’s no sign of Linc, which I’m thankful for. I can’t face him after last night. Making an ass of myself in front of him is made so much worse by the fact that he’ll be a prick about it the next time I see him.

“No!”

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd as all eyes are on Kayla, her head in her hands, cursing like a sailor who just stepped on an anchor, pointy side up.

I turn to Gray, whose name is an accurate description of his face right now. All color has drained, and his eyes are bugging out of his head. Following his gaze, the penny drops, and heat spews out from my core, winding its way up and down my limbs before tightening its grasp, making it hard for me to move.

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