Page 26 of Last Round

“Seriously.” Luke smiles and puffs out his chest, before he deflates again, attempting to appear concerned. As much as he can anyway. There’s still a hint of a grin there.

“Yup, it only takes a split-second for you to lose your focus, then BAM—lights out.” The object of my distraction stands just outside the ring. Molly’s green eyes are wide, and her hand is covering her mouth.

“Proof that the great old Killian Murphy is just that…” Sean thankfully pulls my focus. “…old!” He, along with the other guys, breaks out into a fit of laughter. Luke covers his chuckle with a cough.

“Sure thing, pot,” I toss back at him. “You’re no spring chicken either.”

“Nope, I’ve long accepted that as my thirties come to an end, I’m not the fit bastard I used to be.”

“Age is nothing but a number,” I grumble. Yes, my fighting days may be over. But I’m not about ready to look into nursing homes.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself. Come on, let’s go back to the office and get you patched up. We have some business to discuss anyway.”

I wince when I reach up to determine what needs to bepatched. My finger is coated in a small amount of blood. “Dude!”

“You said I did good!” Luke shrugs and looks to Declan, who’s laughing instead of offering any form of reassurance.

“Now the girls won’t think I’m sexy,” I say sarcastically.

Sean punches me in the shoulder, and I make a show of wincing. “Chicks dig scars. Now, come on.”

“Oh yeah. That’s right. Thanks, man,” I say to Luke before following Sean into my office.

I admire the kid’s handiwork in the mirror as Sean tosses me a first aid kit. He’s leaning over my desk, looking a little too happy with himself. My curiosity outweighs my need to wipe the blood off my face. The cut is minor anyway. If it were that bad, our medical staff would’ve addressed it already.

“What’s going on?” Sean is usually a happy-go-lucky kind of guy. But he’s a littletoochipper at the moment. Suspiciously so.

“Guess who I got off the phone with before watching you get your ass handed to you?”

I ignore the verbal jab. I’d rather him not ask what caught my eye and then be forced to lie. Or, at a minimum, evade the truth. “Avril Lavigne got the letter you wrote her sophomore year. She agrees you two are soul mates. So you’ve dumped Jessica and are moving to Canada to be with your true love?”

“I never wrote a love letter to Avril.”

Crossing my arms, I arch a brow at him and wince—fucking bastard got me good.

“You see? This is why I have a three-drink limit around you. More than that, and I know you’re gonna walk away with something juicy.”

“Jose is great at getting you to share all your dirty little secrets. So when’s the big day?Aye?”

Sean shakes his head at my terrible Canadian accent. “We’re still working out the details.”

Bile rises and burns my throat at the thought of him marrying Jessica.

“But back to the point.”

For once, I agree with him. I don’t want to spend any more time with my dark thoughts.

“I just hung up with…” He looks around before leaning in to whisper, “Gideon Gold.”

“No fucking shit.”

Gideon is a manager. But not just any manager. He only represents the elites or those fighters believed to be the next big thing. He approached me early in my career. While I was honored, I already signed with Mick. He might not have been on Gideon’s level. But I was rising to the top and Mick was a unicorn. There are many people in the industry who use up and spit out fighters like sunflower seeds. Mick, he cared. That level of genuine compassion is rare in this world.

“Yeah, he’s got this fighter, Il Duce. Fucking killer instinct. Talk is… he’s got a title fight coming up in a couple of months.”

“Good for him.” Why would Gideon call us to gloat about one of his clients? That makes zero fucking sense.

“No, good forus.”

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