Page 17 of 1 Last Shot

Kane barks out a cruel laugh. "A doctor? Forthis?"

My brow furrows in confusion. "Well, I'm sure the injury to your hand is normal, but you have a cut on your face. Don't you need stitches or something?"

He turns to me with a grin that is a little manic and a lot complicated.

"You have no idea, do you?"

I quirk an eyebrow. "About when I need stitches after I've been punched in the face? No, I don't. But let's not act like I don't know injuries. Your bloody bruises might come from fists and show on your face, but mine come from doing spins eight hours a day and show on my feet."

He takes his time tracking his gaze down my body, clearly taking in my athletic figure. I know he heard Hailey call me a dancer at the gym last week, so it's obvious that there are judgmental thoughts about ballet rolling around in his head right now.

After what feels like forever—and during which I never once allow myself to look away from his ogling—he turns his attention forward again.

"Sure, princess," he drawls. "Your sport is as physically grueling as mine."

I face forward with a sigh. “Are all fighters this stubborn? You might have a few less scars if you weren’t too proud to ask for help.”

The air around us stills. Kane was quiet before, but the quiet that settles between us now is different. It’s stifling in its enormity.

Eventually, I feel him turn away from me.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he says as he walks away.

7

KANE

I’m back in the gym two days later.

When I walk through the front doors, Coach doesn’t seem even a little bit surprised to see me. Even taking a weekend off from the physical activity was hard, but—and I’ll never tell Isabella this—I did have to fix the cut I got. I didn’t go to the hospital, but I did end up using the topical skin glue that I haven’t had to purchase since I was a teenager.

“No sparring for one week,” is all Coach says when he sees me. I grind my teeth in frustration, but I also know I have no grounds for argument. Instead, I force myself over to the heavy bag for some work.

By the time I get the go ahead to start sparring again, I’m walking around with fury in my heart and vengeance in my brain.

Coach calls for me halfway through my warmup. I’ve beaten the bag into a different shape, my shirt already drenched through with sweat.

"Kane, now that you've warmed up, you'll start with a shark tank in the cage," Coach calls from the other side of the gym. “You’ll get a fresh new opponent every minute.”

Despite it being the most hated drill because it’s the most tiring, I don't even think to question the instruction. I just jump in the cage.

My first minute goes fine: they give me one of the newer pro fighters, someone who does well in his division but who's never been tested. But then the bell rings and my second fighter comes in.

It's a pretty back and forth round between Jax and I. We both land some hard shots, and we’re both breathing heavily by the time the bell rings. Jax doesn’t reach for a fist bump at the end of it, and I don’t offer one.

Minute number three is against Tristan. I hold his stare until the bell rings, refusing to admit to myself that I have no shot at winning this round. I know exactly who Tristan West is, and I know how good he is at fighting; I know I'd win a fight to the death, but I also know that his skill got him into the UFC for a reason.

The bell rings and we trade a few punches, but it doesn't escape my notice that he's very obviously playing with me. His expression is lazy, and his combinations are simple, which means he doesn't think of me as much of an opponent.

That thought is enough to make me see red.

A furious growl vibrates through my chest as I dart forward with a vicious combination. He deflects the jab, barely slips the cross, but when I throw the left hook, the only defense he has is to cover the side of his head and take the shot.

Unfortunately, when I throw the punch, I extend my arm way too far and land it on an awkward angle. The second it hits, I feel the muscle twinge in my shoulder.

I pull it back immediately, flattening the wince that wants to show on my face at the pain radiating up my arm.

"Kane, what's up with your shoulder?" I hear Coach yell from the outside of the cage.

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