ears behind his head. The caption reads, “Showing @KillerMC around London is like seeing it for the first time. #luckygirl.”
So that’s it then. He’s moved on.
That’s great. It’s exactly what I wanted for him, a chance to be happy, and from the looks of it, he seems… I hate to even admit it, but he seems happier than he ever seemed here in Vegas. How could he not be? He’s dating a girl who doesn’t need to be held while she cries for days because her father rejected her. He’ll probably never find himself in a situation where he needs to punch her biological father for ambushing her at a hospital. He’ll never have to drag her drunk ass out of a man’s bed to keep her from being molested or raped.
After stalking her IG page, I see she’s also a fighter. So they probably train together, play together, and sit around and talk about fighting until they’re blue in the face.
My God, her real name is Fleur for fuck’s sake. She’s perfect for him. And I’m grateful for the selfies she’s posted of herself in her skin-tight spandex workout clothes, because knowing she has a flawless body to match her model face is as fucking comforting as a habanero enema.
“Dammit!” I toss my phone to my bedside table and bite my quivering lip.
If this is what I wanted for him, why does it hurt so fucking bad?
I want him to be happy. I just wanted him to be happier with me.
Twenty-five
Killian
Another snap sounds.
I glare at Fleur. “Would you stop with the pictures already?”
She cocks a hip and glares right back. “I am documenting your first UFL fight. You should be thanking me.”
I can’t help but grin. Fleur has become my closest friend in London. Sure she has her nipping-puppy-at-my-ankle moments, but it only seems to add to her charm. We’ve spent nearly every weekend together¸ sightseeing, grabbing a meal or two, and catching a film here and there. She’s been a great distraction from the pressure of my first fight.
She’s been a great distraction from a lot of things.
“Back off, Fleur.” Ollie shoves his little sister aside. “Annoying, une petit merde!”
She punches him in the gut, and although I can tell the hit hurt, he smiles.
I hit “play” on my iPod and close my eyes as Eminem’s “Mosh” blasts through my earphones. I move to an unoccupied part of the room and try to forget I’m at Wembley Arena in London, England, prepping for my first fight with the UFL. I pretend this is no different from any other day, that my shorts aren’t covered in sponsor logos, that my entire team who’s been there to support me from the second I got off the plane isn’t huddled together, strategizing.
In this moment, it’s just me and the music.
My muscles tingle with energy, loose from warming up. I throw punches to the air. Left—right—left. Combination. Left—right knee. Opposite. Elbow—knee. With my eyes closed, I imagine Hugo Webb’s game. Dodging, ducking, spinning. I see the entire fight behind my lids and move through it the way I want it to play out in the octagon.
I open my eyes and find Caleb standing in front of me, his arms crossed over his chest. I drop my headphones to around my neck. “Is it time?”
A slow grin pulls his lips. “Depends. You ready?”
I bounce on my toes, keeping my muscles warm. “I’m ready.”
He drops his arms and steps into my space. “You prepared to represent the US, kid?”
I nod, his words igniting my passion even more.
“You ready to get out there and drop Hugo Webb?” He’s yelling now, getting me amped up.
“Fuck yeah.”
“Fuck yeah!” He nods. “Then it’s time, brother.”
I huddle together with my team, Laise at my right, Caleb at my left, Liam, Henry, Jay, Ollie, and Fleur to complete the circle.
“We’ve done all we can to get our boy ready for his first fight,” Caleb says, and the team mumbles in agreement. “Now we let him loose to cause damage.” The team agrees again in strings of curses. “Father God, I pray you’d protect our fighter tonight and give him a warrior spirit to destroy the enemy. Amen!”
Everyone chants, “Amen,” and we break.
“For you.” Caleb holds out his phone to me, as if whoever’s on the line has been listening for a while. I grab it from him, knowing immediately who it might be.
“Yeah?”
“Killian.” Cameron’s growled voice is laced with pride. “Big night, son.”
“Yes, sir.” My heart races faster; somehow hearing