Page 69 of Ryder: Shadows and Desires
“I am, actually.”
“That’s a good touch—”
The lights dim, and the speeches begin. Every now and again, I glance at Ryder. Half of the time, his gaze will be elsewhere, and then the other half, I’ll catch him already staring me down.
Focus on the presentation.
Warlord is national, with the localized regions taking place on the coasts. For tonight, they have the gyms that attend this event flash their chosen pictures on the screen, along with pictures of their fighters.
I stare at Tiffany when I see myself and Jeremy in front of Rhino. Her red lips firmly press together as she dabs her eyes, and my smile falters. I feel more sorry for her than for myself, honestly. Jeremy was my brother, but Tiffany was planning to make that man her husband.
I’ve never loved someone that much before that wasn’t family. I’m just currently addicted to a wonderfully aggressive, yet gentle fighting machine.
Then Ryder’s face is on the screen, cheers echoing throughout the room.
Ryder hardly moves, just watching with intention. Observing.
The presentation eventually comes to its conclusion, and the room collectively roars with excitement as a picture of the last winner appears—Devon Seymour. It’s an action shot of him screaming once he knew of his victory, his left eye black and swollen, his mouth bloodied. His left arm hangs awkwardly from a dislocation, a sheen of sweat reflecting the arena’s lights.
Andthatis Warlord.
Hell Week gives the fighters little chance to recover, narrowing down the candidates over six months until they have a lineup of fifty men who will all fight a single match every other day for aweek. That istrulywhy a sports therapist is needed, as many will need their injuries heavily nursed before the next fight.
Hell, many will even drop out after suffering major concussions or other grievances.
Ryder leans in to speak with Andrew as we all stand once the lights brighten. I look down at my purse, imagining Ryder fighting in Hell Week. That poised, sleek man will become severely injured and bloodied.
This competition is known for its lasting injuries.
I realize that if we grow closer over the next months, I’ll probably struggle to see him destroyed like that.
One step at a time, Stevens.
As everyone moves about, with Tiffany heading to the bathroom, I notice a blonde woman in the distance, her gaze locked hard on Ryder as we walk away.
J U L I E
* * *
The gala evolvesinto an event of socialization, a local restaurant catering over the next few hours. The fighters all vary on who eats what, considering they’ve already weighed in. I notice Ryder sticks to the staple of chicken and rice.
No time for breaking his rigid program before the fights.
By eight-thirty, I’m too anxious to eat, just wanting to get tomorrow over with and end up lurking in the lobby, waiting on Andrew, wondering if I am needed anymore. Tiffany and I had already grabbed a glass of wine and chatted about life with Jeremy and what he would have thought about everything.
“You haven’t seen my phone, have you?” Tiffany asks at some point.
“No, did you lose it?”
She rummages through her purse, then eyes the bar table. “I know I had it with me in the bathroom.”
“Let’s tell someone, just in case. And I can help you look for it.”
We never find her phone. She’s nervous about traveling without it, but she has a tablet that she can use for texting when connected to Wi-Fi. “I can’t believe I lost my damn phone,” she rants as she hugs me bye.
“Text me on your tablet when you’re at the hotel and when you’re heading to the center tomorrow for the fights. Let’s just plan to meet at the front doors. I’d go with you, but Andrew was strict about not leaving until he said otherwise.”
“It’s alright. I just hope they find it here. I seriously can’t remember where I left it last!”
