Maverick
Oz is pacing in the back room of the warehouse like an angel of death, hair sticking up, eyes bloodshot, jaw set in determination. “Okay, kid, you better not dump me for anything new and shiny. I’m sobering up for real now.”
I look at Oz, smiling to myself.
“This better be fucking worth it.” He jabs a finger at my bare chest. “When I get sober, I want to realize I got something good in my life.”
“You do, motherfucker. You got me.”
He nods. “Now go show Riptide he taught you well.”
“I will,” I vow quietly, and I let Oz tape up my hands.
“Nah, fuck, it needs to be perfect,” he grumbles. He unravels one of them and tightens it up.
I’m pumped up and wired after wondering for a hot second whether I’d even make it to the fight. After Oz, after the run, my veins are crackling with testosterone.
Tate wants a big fight, his last fight.
And suddenly I just want to fight.
“He told Brooke this is the best match of his life, and Reese says he means it,” Oz says.
“Hell, it’s the best match of mine.” I look up. “Reese told you that?”
“I talk to Reese sometimes,” he says, smirking. He slaps the back of my head. “You were right. I think she’s with us.”
I exhale, drag my taped hand down my face. Then shove my hands into my gloves.
Because I’m the challenger, I get called out first.
“. . . so please welcome our challenger of the night, the fucking underdog of the season. It’ll be a miracle if the match lasts past the first round. No rookie EVER has survived that long against our champion. But this isn’t just any rookie, ladies and gentlemen, oh no. We give you, here at the Underground, MAVERICK CAGE—THE AVEEEENGER!”
Oz opens the door, and I tap my gloves and head outside, the competitive juices flowing through my veins.
Dozens of lights are trained on the ring. Every single eye in the arena trained on me as I hop inside and jerk off my robe, then wait quietly in my corner as they call Tate.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our defending champion of the Underground, the undefeated KING OF THE RING, we give you, REMINGTON TATE—RIIIIIIPTIDE!”
The crowd comes alive, and Oz cackles in my corner, amused. I scan the crowd for Reese—and my gaze stops on a woman with short dark hair and eyes like mine behind a pair of prim glasses.
Mother.
Her hands are trembling in her lap, and I look at her in apology. This is why I didn’t want you to come before, Mother.
You’re not going to like this one bit.
But she smiles a brave smile, and I cant my head at her in gratitude for coming. Behind her, Ward gives me the finger and Seneca lifts his fingers in a mocking peace sign.
I glare at them, but I’m glad they’re close to my mother. The last thing I want her to feel is alone here, among thousands, with no one cheering for her son.
Tate takes the ring like the king does.
He hits the floor soundlessly.
I stand here. Ready. Waiting.
He turns around. His fans go wild.
I prowl to the other side of the ring as the crowd cheers him. And there, sitting next to Brooke, is the loveliest girl I’ve ever seen.
She’s smiling tremulously, her eyes fixed on nothing—not the ring, not the crowd, not Tate—nothing but me.
My jaw tightens as I try to tame back the wild emotion seeing her here gives me. I put my fist to my chest and her breasts rise a little on a breath, as if she knows what it means.
That’s it, between me and her.
She knows.
That I love her. Adore her.
And she knows that I wanted—needed—her to be with me.
And she’s there, in her seat in the front fucking row on my left, right where Tate said she’d be.
The referee brings Tate and me together. “When I come in, you step back and stop punching, I want a clean fight tonight.”
We both nod in understanding, eyes on each other.
There’s respect between us now.
And I know this second that if I lose tonight, I lose to the best.
It begins.
The count . . .
The testosterone is thick in the air. Neither of us likes to go down. We’re both too stubborn to go down.
We both hunger for victory. Over each other. Over ourselves.
It’s the biggest match the Underground has ever had. My father’s departure made people happy, but the fact that word spread about Tate and me developing a friendship created controversy and curiosity. They want to see us—see it to believe it.
We’re both aggressive fighters. Though I’ve learned to defend too, because Tate is also great at defense. While training me, it felt like he wanted to create something better than himself. He taught me everything to look for, things nobody’s ever seen because he’s never let them close enough. Things nobody else can find but me. I’ve never been able to beat him. But he’s given me every opportunity to find out how.
We tap gloves, both of us trying to gauge each other’s strategy for the night. Wear me down? No. He’s not playing games with me, and I’m glad he isn’t, because we’re both here to fight.
Ting ting.
The crowd goes wild as I take the first swing.
He blocks, grins.
He follows me, trying to land a big hit. His knuckles land a clean blow to the head. I react when he opens and bury my glove in his gut. It’s like hitting concrete. But I’m strong and, judging by the sound my punch makes, it went deep.
We leap back, then circle.
The crowd alternates between silence and cheers. We’re giving them quite a show. A blow that stuns me. He’s got the most powerful punch I’ve ever felt. He’s got me against the ropes. He doesn’t tell me where I fucked up—hell, I know it already. I put my arms up and block, then lower them and narrow my eyes.
He grins as they stop us and force us apart. I can see it in his eyes—a challenge. Asking me, Do you think you deserve to be world champion? Champions never fuck up twice.
I take position.
The crowd stands and starts chanting, “Remy! Remy! Remy!”
I’m waiting for him to look at his wife and take a hit.
And somehow I wonder if he’s waiting for me to look at Reese.
Achilles is only as strong as his heel.
And we both have heels.
And we both know where they are sitting tonight.
He takes a shot under the heart, then a hook that shoots my head around. I back away as I recover, Tate becoming the aggressor.
I stop backing up and take a left straight jab. He moves his shoulder, evading, but I see that coming and counteract with another right. Knuckles crush into his temple. The hit stuns him.
The bell for the first round rings.
We keep fighting after the bell, suddenly both of us punching, some landing, some missing, ducking, punching.
The referee yells and slips inside. “Stop! HALT!” he demands.
We ease back and take our stools.
We’re back on. The announcer: “Cage is prowling . . . the only fighter this season not in awe of the champion . . . and Tate’s up against the ropes! Cage takes a hit. They’re getting touchy. Referee cannot break them apart. . . .”
“HALT!” the referee calls again.
“Fucker,” Tate says when he steps aside and lets us continue. “Won’t let us have any fun,” he growls.
“Speaking of fun,” I say, chest heaving as I catch my breath. “Checked your wife out yet? She’s not looking at you, she’s looking at me.”
He smacks my face so hard I bounce on the ropes, then I duck and he misses and swings around, frowning and grinning. “Fucker. Reese just left. Said to call her when you got better game, pussy.”
I swing my left, he ducks and shoots his left out. My forehead catches the blow and my brain jerks inside my skull. I back away, listless.
Things get bloody after that.
I feel a high, a complete rush of adrenaline. Boxing, moving, punching, countering, blocking.
Round four, five, and six—he breaks my rib and I give him a swollen eye. He can only see through one, squinting at me as we fight.
The crowd is overwhelmed. Ringside seats splattered with blood. We’re beating each other to a pulp. Throwing punches left and right. We’ve both got gashes above our eyes, Tate on his temple, and my blasted same cut above my eye has opened again. We are breathing hard, getting Vaseline on our faces when we take our stools, and getting patched up, and wearing down the more we fight.
Round seven, he knocks me to the canvas.
I get up, and the fight keeps going. . . .
Three of Tate’s hooks on round eight, and I’m down again.
“Fuck,” I growl under my breath, my cheek flat on the ground as my body convulses from the hits.
The countdown begins.
Reese is on her feet, hands to her mouth, crying.
She’s with me.
My body trembles as I demand more from it than it can give. Everything. I plant my hand down on the ground, and then the other, bring my knees up and stand.
And I look at Tate. One eye is swollen. His coach is cutting it up so the blood can emerge, and he’s taping him back.
I look at my gloves. Every mark there on the leather is from me. Fought for by me. I think of my father’s message and drag a deep breath. Guess I’m a real fighter now.
Tate approaches. He’s angry now. Is he disappointed? He looks mad that I haven’t given him more. Did he think he wasted his time with me? Is he thinking I wasn’t worth it? Like my own fucking father?
Don’t want to think he’s bigger. More experienced.
He thought I’d give him the better fight.
And I will.
I don’t fight for my father.
I fight for me.
I’m the phoenix rising.
I brace my legs, lift my arms, and keep on fighting.
Hungry for victory.
His nose crunches.
He hooks back and busts my face open. I hit the ground and immediately leap up.
My vision’s blurred. Legs, arms, nothing responds. I blink and taste blood in my mouth. Pain slowly streaking through me, I force myself forward.
I picture my father. His face. Him fighting me. You’re not good enough. . . .
Him fighting dirty.
Him fighting Tate.
Him soiling me.
Him letting my mother scrape until her hands were weary.
And I roar and swing out so hard, Tate hits the canvas.
The next seconds are a blur.
Time drains away. The countdown stops, and Tate is still getting his bearings.
My eye’s so swollen it’s all a blur, but I see something shiny fly at me—and focus on the penny landing at my feet.
The penny I gave Reese when it was all I had. When I had nothing but me.
I scoop up the penny and lift my eyes to Reese. Tears stream down her cheeks, and I inhale and it hurts to breathe, and it hurts to lift my fist and put the penny to my chest, and when she cries harder, and I can’t breathe anymore, I look away so she doesn’t see the burn in my eyes as the ringmaster grabs my wrist and lifts my arm.
“Your VICTOR, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! The first rookie ever to win the season championship, to shoot to the top of the fucking stratosphere!”
And for the first time in my life, I hear the crowd. I hear the crowd. And the crowd is yelling at the top of its lungs:
“MAVERICK! MAVERICK! MAVERICK!”
Tate comes to his feet and he looks like shit, and so do I, as he locks his hands behind my neck and bumps his forehead to mine and squeezes the back of my head, grinning until his bloodied dimples pop out. “How do you feel, motherfucker? Is this real enough for you? Huh?”
And the crowd goes, “REMY! REMY! REMY!”
The ringmaster stands between us, lifting each of our arms, and fucking crazy Remington Tate is grinning over the top of his head at me.
The crowd is yelling after him as he leaves the ring for the last time, a legend. Eternal.
But I can’t move yet.
For the last few seconds, I stand alone in the ring, bloodied and broken, a winner, the world opening up to me.
But I’m still clutching Reese’s penny in my fist like the most precious thing I’ve got.
♥ ♥ ♥
I’M ALONE IN the back room.
Hearing the crowd cheer outside.
Oz is patching me up, trembling with adrenaline, sniffing quietly. I stare at the wall. Processing.
There’s a knock, and Tate stands at the door. All patched up too. Tape along his temple, his jaw, a lot of swelling spots like my own.
Oz looks at him, reverently pats his back, and whispers something like, “Best fight I’ve ever seen in my life,” and he steps outside.
“Hey.” Tate drops on the bench before me. “First time I was up in the ring, I got beat up so hard, I got two ribs broken and my spirit. They both healed though. If it comes to that, yours will too.”
I hold my jaw tight as I nod. I want to talk, but I have no words for this guy. My father’s greatest enemy, who gave me more attention than my father ever did. My father’s greatest enemy, who believed in me more than my own father ever did.
More father to me than my own blood. My mentor. My brother.
“When I started training you,” he says, smirking in pride, “I thought you could be great. Hell, I knew you could be great. I knew you could be better than me. And I was right.” He jerks his chin toward the door. “Ring’s all yours. Own it and never hand it off unless you’re stepping down.”
“I won’t,” I vow with conviction, my hands fisting instinctively.
“Good.”
He puts his fist out, like his son does. “It’s an honor to have fought with you.”
I don’t know how I can get up. How I can talk. I do both. I meet his gaze with pride and gratitude and admiration and more respect than I’ve ever felt in my life. I press my knuckles to his, just like I do with his son. And say what I mean. I always say what I mean. “The honor was mine.”
