Page 50 of Fight for Forever

Truth is, we met about Marris’ bullshit. He’s ramping things up, and the press is eating out of his hand. Everyone wants me to make a statement, to fight back, but that isn’t my style and Sam knows it. We went round in circles for what felt like hours with the publicist who represents me.

That isn’t in my head space. I don’t need to get caught up in his shit to know I’m a good fighter. Hell, he might beat me. No one knows going into a fight what will happen, but I’m confident enough that every time I step into the ring, my goal is to win. To be the better fighter.

If Marris wants to work himself up into a frenzy, have at it, I couldn’t care less. I made it pretty clear last night that I will not be responding and my publicist won’t be doing it on my behalf either, even if the press is beating down his door.

Luckily, no one has got close enough to me to shove a microphone in my face. The fighting world is big, but it’s mostly insular. If you’re not into it, then you will not hear about it. It’s not like football or hockey, where the players are revered as super celebrities. Especially when they hook up with other famous people and draw a spotlight onto the sport.

That isn’t me. I’ve never been a press whore and I don’t intend to do it now.

Let Marris sweat, let him work himself up. It’ll fuck with his concentration and that will only benefit me in the ring. Where it matters.

He hasn’t mentioned Megan in any of his shit. I have watched it to make sure. Maybe that whole thing was a fluke, because Megan was right there. If he brings her into this, I might lose my cool. He’s just an irritant.

I’m more bothered by my team hassling me to respond, than the shit he’s spewing out.

We arrive at my friend’s inn a little after midday. He’s busy getting everything set up at the restaurant but comes out for a brief introduction and then his wife, Kelsey, shows us to our rooms. They’re adjoining. Meg didn’t comment, so I presume I made the right move.

After leaving our things, I suggest we head to the beach because the weather is nice. Megan agrees with a big smile and asks if I’m okay with her getting changed and grabbing some things.

“Of course, you don’t need to ask,” I say.

She bites her lip, then nods and goes into her room. I hate she feels she needs to ask permission to do anything. I want to help her get out of that habit. Especially over something as simple as changing into beach attire.

Speaking of, I dip inside my room and change out of my jeans into swim shorts and a t-shirt, then slip my feet into a pair of sliders.

Picking up my sunglasses, wallet and keys, I head out into the hallway to wait.

I’ve always loved this place. Sag Harbor is a charming, small town with plenty of stores, restaurants and beaches to choose from. Evan’s place is right by Haven’s Beach so it’s easy to walk to.

When the door behind me opens, I push off the wall and turn. I can’t help but run my eyes up and down her body. She’s wearing a new dress, a shorter one, more appropriate for walking in the sand. Her hair is still tied up, letting me see the straps of what I assume is a bikini tied around the back of her neck. She’s changed into flat sandals and has a big beach purse on her arm.

My eyes trail over her legs. They’re lean and toned from all the work she’s done over the last couple of months.

When my eyes lift, she’s giving me a knowing look, but I just wink and reach for her hand. I feel like a million bucks when she takes it and lets me lead her out of the inn.

We explore the town and she goes into a few stores, her eyes wide with excitement at the quirky places we come across. I can’t help but watch her, wondering if she has ever done anything like this in her life. It saddens me to think she hasn’t, but I’m also buoyed by the fact I’m the one who is giving her this first.

After grabbing a quick bite to eat, we make it to the beach. I’m not surprised when she pulls a beach towel out of that bag of hers. When I offered to carry it, she said I’d look silly carrying a bag with a giant embroidered flower on it. My reply was to shrug and take it, anyway. I don’t care what people think. It isn’t heavy, but it is stuffed with everything you need for the beach.

She offers the sunscreen, saying she already applied hers, which is disappointing. But I let that go when she kneels behind me after she’s instructed me to take off my shirt, and rubs the coconut smelling lotion all over me. She even dips her hand into the top of my waistband at my lower back, to make sure she gets every inch of exposed skin covered. That’s what she says when I arch a brow.

We talk about childhood vacations. I went to Europe a few times when I was younger and Dixon has relatives in Florida, so spent a few weeks each summer down there before I left for college.

Hers were mostly to local campsites near where she grew up. That is when I find out she is from Pittsburgh. She came to New York when she got away from Michael.

Meg doesn’t elaborate, but I get the impression she ran away and hid. I want to ask how that went down, how he found her again. I want to know everything, but until she’s ready, I hold my tongue.

We take a walk and grab some ice-cream from one of the trucks, then she suggests trying the water. I take her hand as we walk down together. The beach isn’t busy, but there are families around, a few couples sunbathing and some just wandering along.

Megan squeaks when she dips her toes in the water.

“Come on, it’s not that bad.” I step in up to mid-calf, coaxing her in after me. “It takes a few minutes, but you get used to it.”

I’m still shirtless and ready to dive in, but she’s wearing her dress. Around us people are swimming and splashing about in the shallows, some swimming further out. It’s a calm day, nothing to be worried about.

“Have you ever done this before?” I ask, aware that she might not have. She’d been in awe of the sand between her toes, and the smell of the sea air. I just figured it was because we’re out in the gorgeous weather.

“Nope, but I can swim.”

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