Page 18 of My Little Secret

Chapter 8

SADIE

Time barreledtoward the press conference like a high-speed chase. Of course, since I was desperate to avoid it. I liked the sweet bubble of fantasy I’d built with Hawk, even if dishonesty had figured in. Okay, so that part of the bubble of fantasy was more like an oil slick. But still, it was a romantic oil slick.

Brute wore his Sunday best for the press conference. Crisp, ironed button-up shirt, dark slacks that I knew had cost several hundred dollars. Forget business casual—he looked business lethal.

“You’re gonna kill it,” I said to him as I sauntered into the lobby, my laptop case slung over my shoulder. I had a BRUTE ballcap pulled low over my forehead, all my hair tucked up into it. A different parka than my normal winter coat hid the baggy BRUTE sweatshirt I’d stolen from his room and my own dark sweats. I was the definition of his personal, shabbily dressed cheerleader.

“Thanks. You sick or something?” Brute squeezed my shoulder as we headed toward Mom and Dad by the front door.

I shrugged. “That time of the month.”

“Oh.” Brute nodded too fast. He knew better than to pry further.

Outside, the wintry air bit into my cheeks and neck. Tucking up all of my hair had been a poor choice. A black SUV waited for us, and we piled inside. The ride to the studio was short but boisterous. Brute talked on the phone while my mom updated friends back home. Dad tried to talk to the driver about the fight stats, while I stared miserably out the window.

Each foot closer to the press conference doubled my anxiety. When we rolled up to the studio, a throng of fans crowded the door. A small red carpet stretched to the doorway, lined with gold-flaked rope. As soon as Brute opened the door, cheers erupted. He hurried toward the building, me and the ’rents in his wake. I kept my head down.

Inside, the air was cool and dry. A set manager hustled Brute away; we were told to follow. As we passed the doors to the filming studio, I could see that most of the press seats were full, maybe about seventy-five people. Two tables separated by a podium stared back at the audience; Brute would be on one side, Hawk on the other.

I knew how these things worked. I could navigate them like the back of my hand. Press coverage had no doubt already begun on the national channels—commentators chit-chatting about history and projections. Once the fighters were introduced, they’d have about twenty minutes of media time, pose for pictures, and then they’d be done. I’d be off the hook.

I only had to last a half hour. Sweat prickled my palms as we were led to the sidelines, off-camera. The seats on stage were empty, but someone had just stepped out to make an announcement. It would begin soon. An enormous backdrop filled the wall behind the tables. On one side: Brute’s scowling face. On the other: a glaring Hawk, his brows a dark ridge.

A shiver went through me. Hawk was near. I could feel it.

The man at the podium droned on, plugging sponsors and giving information about the fight. Two sexy models slinked out from the other side, each one standing behind where the fighters would be. Lithe, blonde girls, typical for MMA events. I glanced across the stage area, catching a glimpse of Hawk. My belly twisted. He looked fucking killer. A black-on-black pinstripe suit with a silver gray tie. Fuck, I’d peel that off of him in a heartbeat. He was the hottest fighter in the league—and the best-dressed.

“You ready?” My dad’s voice pulled me back to reality. He squeezed my brother’s shoulder. Brute’s gaze was soldered on the table.

“Readier than ever.”

The fighters were introduced suddenly, receiving a round of applause from the media in the audience. Brute strutted out, as did Hawk from the other side. Cameras flashed. Brute waved, instantly cheesing for the crowd. Hawk sat stoic in his spot.

I couldn’t look away from Hawk as the press conference began. Brute was invited up to the podium to give his opening remarks first. He thanked his family, the pay-per-view channel sponsoring the fight, his coach, and all his fans.

“And I’d like to say that this fight will have the ending that’s been long overdue,” he said, his words coming out measured and strong. “The ending that will show the true champion. Me. Not this weak excuse of a fighter to my right.”

Hawk sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Brute said a few more things, lobbed a few more insults, and then thanked everyone for coming. Hawk replaced him a moment later, glaring down at him before he began.

“Some fighters are judged by their words,” he said, his voice coming through sultry and cool. “And others are judged by their wins.” He paused, gripping the edges of the podium. “The man to my left better hope he gets judged by his words, because he’ll certainly never have this win.”

Cackles echoed through the studio, and Brute’s jaw tensed. I laughed inwardly. God, that was good. I couldn’t have written better myself.

Hawk made a similar round of thanks—family, manager, coach, the hotel putting him up, some guy from his past who pushed him—and then talked for a bit about his technical skills and the training he’d gone through. After a few questions for both fighters from the crowd, it was time for pictures.

Hawk adjusted his pinstripe suit, his gaze sweeping past me as he stepped out from behind his chair. My skin prickled everywhere. Did he see me? But no, he couldn’t have recognized me. I relaxed a little.

The models led the way, each one grabbing a fighter’s hand. My chest tightened when I saw that pretty blonde flash Hawk a smile. Hawk didn’t seem to return it, but Brute seemed pleased enough about the processional. He always ate up the pretty-girl perks. They stood in front of the tables, while someone brought the disputed MMA belt around to hold up behind the fighters. Brute and Hawk stared at each other, creeping closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose.

My breath shriveled, tension skyrocketing. Brute’s fists balled and I could see him saying something to Hawk. Probably goading him. Hawk responded, sneered a moment later, and then Brute pushed him. Something fearsome flashed over Hawk’s face, and he swung a punch. Guards from the sides descended immediately, pulling the two apart. People shouted, warning the fighters to keep it civil.

Hawk turned toward the sidelines, gesturing about something. His heated gaze swept my way again, and I froze. Total deer in headlights. I couldn’t hear what the hell they were saying. They both withstood pictures for a few more moments and then bolted. Safe. Brute appeared in the sidelines, his jaw flexing.

“What the fuck was that?” I demanded, grabbing at his arm. “You know you’re not supposed to start shit.”

“Guy’s a douchebag,” Brute said, brushing past me. “He deserved it.”

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