Page 75 of Captivating

“What the hell?” I ask as the lights go down in the arena, and music starts pumping through the speakers. “Crazy Train” plays as the announcer introduces Victor “The Dominator” Domingo.

Maverick takes their money with a smile. “Don’t be pissy, Tinker Bell. We made a bet in high school, and I just won. You two are engaged before you’re twenty-eight. Jamie had thirty, and Noah had thirty-five.”

“You fuckers bet on how old I’d be when I got engaged?” I ask, shocked and maybe a little annoyed. But maybe not.

“In all fairness, Tink. We bet on when you and Killer would get engaged. So we always knew it would be you two. The whole fucking world knew it would be the two of you.” Jamie shrugs like he’s imparting wisdom, and the lights in the arena flash as the song and the vibes of the entire arena change.

A single piano chord plays before Jay-Z’s voice shouts out, followed by Rhianna’s. Killian’s entrance song is such a powerfully cool version of “Run This Town,”spliced with “Posthumus Zone,” and the entire arena jumps to its feet.

The lights flash purple in time to the beat as the announcer hypes the crowd.

Chills cover my body as I hear the deep voice announce, “And that’s the sound of Killian ‘The Killer’ St. James making his way to the cage he calledhis cageyesterday at weigh-ins. The Killer knows this is his fight to make it or break it. Win, and he keeps his title. Win, and he becomes the most successful champion the legendary Crucible MMA gym has ever produced. The Dominator is here to win the title. The Killer wants to secure his legacy and step out of the shadows of his father and uncle. Which man is going to go home a winner?”

The crowd roars, and I grab Maverick’s hand. “Oh God, I don’t think I can watch this.”

“I’m telling you, it’s gonna be over fast, Tink,” Rome promises, and I hold my breath.

Killian

“And for the final fight of the night, the heavyweight championship.”

The ref drops his arm, and I tune everything out.

Hearing nothing but the buzzing white noise I’ve trained to drown out the rest.

My coaches’ voices, the only ones I let in.

I see nothing but Victor.

Not the ref. Not my team or his.

Not my girl in the seats who I’ve entrusted to my friends.

Just my enemy and me.

“Let’s go to war,” Dad yells.

“With your shield,” Hudson adds.

“Or on your shield,” I growl back in response.

I step to the left, my body instinctively knowing Victor is going to attack out of the gate. He’s scared and wants to get the first blow. But I’ve studied him longer, better, and closer. He goes right and misses me by a mile, getting nothing but air.

Anger is pushing him.

He’s got something to prove, and it’s going to make him faster to act. Slower to plan. Slower to think. Slower to observe. Nerves are ruling his actions.

He swings his leg out and misses. Again.

That’s it, fuckface. Wear yourself out. Make this easier for me.

Even the best fighters—elite athletes—let nerves rule their fight.

Those fighters lose.

He has two more missed hits when I spin on fast feet with a jab, jab, jab.

I catch the corner of his jaw with an uppercut and grin when his head snaps hard to the side from the impact. Spit and sweat flying across the cage.

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