Page 176 of Finding Hope

Worth it.

I log in to the pay-per-view provider exclusively showing tonight’s fights, and I wait for the buffering to complete so I can at least watch him fight, even if he’ll never know it.

Kit came by my house this week with an envelope full of tickets; plane,first class,hotel,penthouse suite, fight,front row.She said Jack wanted me there. She said Ineededto be there.

Proudly – so fucking proud – I said no thanks and walked back inside my house. The envelope sat on my front porch, perched against the front door, an hour later when I was brave enough to venture outside again.

I slapped five stamps on the envelope and sent it return to sender. Ihadto return it, I needed him to know I wouldn’t be there, I needed him to not waste time looking for me.

My absence will mess with him enough. Him not knowing would be so much worse.

Finally, as the creepy tickles of wind on my spine send tingles and goosebumps skittering along my flesh, my phone loads and the sportscasters shout into the cameras. Lights and music roar behind them. The energy is palpable as they, and millions of spectators, prepare for the fight they’ve been waiting two years for.

The heartbroken Romeo is back; bigger and more determined than ever.

The octagon stands empty, the earlier fights done and dusted, victors and losers already decided.

The side of my tiny screen shows the fight stats in tiny, fuzzy detail.

Two fighters.

Thecurrentchampion… and Jack, theformer. Both men sit at two-hundred and fifty pounds, both over six and a half feet tall. Jack has a half inch height advantage on his opponent, and another inch advantage in reach.

Both men have impressive fight records.

Both have one loss by KO.

I prop my phone up so I can see it, but silly as it may be, I sit it so Steph can see it, too. I feel like she’d want to watch. I know I would. Despite my earlier freak out, I lay on my stomach with my feet lifted and crossed at the ankles, and I watch with a soft smile as pictures of Jack flash across the screen.

It’s not even his fault he’s so fucking sexy.

“So, it looks like you and I both made it to the fight, anyway.” Biting my lip, I watch the screen; I watch the cameras pan the crowd and the six trillion signs with Steph’s or my hashtag.

I should be flattered that so many people know who I am. And that so many people care about Jack and Steph. She won’t ever be forgotten, and instead of being jealous, I should be happy for her. She’s going down in history as the Jackhammer’s Juliet.

A girl’s legacy could be worse.

“Here he comes!”

Smiling, I watch my screen turn black as the arena lights blink out. Cameras flash, and tiny screens, thousands of them, illuminate smiling faces in the crowd.

As soon as the music begins, the lights flash on.

I laugh at how ridiculous he is.

Not Linkin Park, not Eminem or Jay Z or anyone else you’d expect.

Jack walks out toPink,and he rocks it in his black robe with purple lettering. His face is already sweaty, like he’s already had a fight tonight, and his hair sticks to his sweaty brow.

“Well, this is different,”the sportscaster announces.“Who is this?”

“That’s Pink!”the other guy answers on a laugh.“I’m a little behind on pop, though. I don’t know what it’s called.”

“It’s called True Love,” I answer no one.

“I’m not sure where the Jackhammer’s going with this, but even his sister feels more badass right now.”

The other guy laughs the way Santa does in the Christmas TV specials.“You can tell him that, Greg. Be brave. Get your head smacked around. Meanwhile, I’m staying on my side of the cage andnotragging on the dude in love.”

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