Page 57 of Jump

“Wh—”

But I don’t get to finish before he strikes out and smacks my jaw, snapping my head around.

Dots float in my vision, and my world turns a little dark for a moment.

“Bare knuckle or not, we’re gonna fight.” He circles to my left, forcing me to come around or risk him knocking me the fuck out.

When I slip my hands into the gloves and fix the Velcro straps, he grins in approval.

“I don’t blame anyone but me for my spiral, Ruiz. That was all on me. But I wonder if maybe it would’ve been less severe if people stopped feeling sorry for me a little sooner.”

He swings out again, but I move this time—barely, so I still feel leather glance off my chin, and, right behind that, the breeze from his strike.

“Good.” He claps his fists together and skips to the left. “It’s good for my ego to spar with someone who was never a world champion. Sometimes, I wanna get better at this. But sometimes,” he slaps the side of my face with his glove and laughs. “I just want to be the better fighter.”

That’s what some might consider a cheap shot. But I guess he shares my opinion of those.

So now I focus and try not to get my ass knocked out.

I won’t beat the champion. But I’d like not to be sent to sleep wrapped in his arms.

“So, Steph died in a car accident,” he starts, like this is a story he long ago learned to recite. “We’d been dating since we were kids. She was in my corner during my first couple of title fights. She was everything to me. And then,” he swings out, only to smirk when I skip out of reach and bring my hands up. “She died. In a car I was driving.” He drops his hands and circles. “Yes, it sucked. Yes, I became an alcoholic. Yes, my family kicked my ass for it. But no, I don’t advocate finding someone else to fix your world, because women are not a fuckin’ rehabilitation center for badly behaving men. Still, I was fortunate enough to meet Britt—and luckier still that she put up with my bullshit.”

He jabs so his glove glides off my chin and sends a bolt of adrenaline pulsing through my veins.

I’m one inspirational speech away from getting my ass beat.

“She’s my everything now, and she gave me a reason to get better.”

“All anyone ever wants to talk about is Ainsley.” I jab a fist forward, and bounce when I actually tag his jaw.

Hell, I can add that to my list of Cool Shit for life.

Jumped out of a plane? Check.

Went a round with a world champion fighter and actually landed a punch? Hell yeah.

“It’s like folks are morbidly obsessed with tragedy,” I pant, my body not used to circling with a pro fighter.

“And you wanna move on,” he assumes. “That’s not to say you didn’t love or don’t miss her. But fuck, you want to live without your heart bleeding outside of your body.”

“Moving on seems so harsh.” I duck faster than I ever would have thought myself capable of, and barely avoid Jack’s fist barreling toward my face. “I don’t wanna forget her. But I’d like to go out sometimes and not have people ask where I’m at in my ten steps of grieving.”

“They’re stages,” he chuckles. He swoops in closer and jams a fist against my ribs so I fear them piercing my lungs. “And there are five of them. Seems you’ve done denial and anger.”

I grunt and charge forward, but he only taunts me and steps to the side.

I’m no pro. I’m not all that fast or skilled. But I’ve got a fuckload of fire to work with.

“Of course, the anger is known to pop up from time to time,” he says dryly. “Then you did the bargaining. If Axel was working that night, he’d be dead and she’d have lived, right?”

He strikes out, but slows his punch when it’s just an inch from my face.

That would have been a knockout, if he wanted to put me to sleep.

“If Nixon hadn’t pulled her in as Feeney’s replacement, she’d be alive,” he presses, “and someone else would’ve bit it instead.”

I didn’t realize that was my bargaining stage. All that rage I felt toward Axel. All those times I tried to convince myself, and him, that he was supposed to be working that night.

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