Legend (Real Book 6)

Maverick

I rub my father’s old gloves before the fight so much, I’ve worn them down as much as the years fighting did.

Everyone knows who I am now. Backstage, I’m in a room of my own. All the other fighters are scared shitless of me. If I see a fighter out in the hall, I can stare him down in a second. And I do. I’ve got the staring thing down pat.

I like that they’re afraid.

They should be.

I’m young but I’m fast, I’m strong, and I’ve got more to prove than these assholes ever will.

“She might be coming to your fight. Look good. Chicks don’t like losers,” Oz tells me as we wait to get called.

“That’s all you’ve got for me?” I lift my brows, incredulous.

“Yep. It’s the most effective I’ve got.”

I clench my teeth. Is she coming to the fight?

She can’t come to my fight.

I don’t know what it’d do to me if she ever did. When she walks into a room I’m speechless, thoughtless. High.

She’s different to me.

She’s not afraid of me.

The moment the announcer yells out my name, “Maverick ‘the Avenger’ Cage!” the crowd outside falls deathly quiet. I finish lacing my boots and kick Oz’s ankles to get him to wake up from where he was snoozing big time on a bench.

“Wha—”

“We’re up.”

I slip my fingers into the gloves and the anticipation to hit the ring starts simmering inside me. A black hooded robe covers me as I stalk out and take the aisle, tapping my gloves as I warm up to the idea of kicking some shit.

Inside the ring, my opponent waits. Hector “Hellman.” The fact that he’s up against me makes him an immediate favorite. There are signs floating with his name on them.

No signs for me.

In every video I saw of my father, he gave the crowd the bird as he came up into the ring.

My father was the most loathed fighter in history. But also the most feared.

I can feel the fear in the air, thick as oil.

Oz heads over to his corner while I take the ring, taking my time to climb the ropes. Swear to god, these people don’t even seem to be breathing. I stand in the center and look around. They want to see if I’m going to curse them, spit on the floor, or give them the bird. I smile privately when they keep waiting—and I do none of that.

I’m here to fight.

I’m here to win.

“Booo!” the crowd starts. “Boooooo! ”

“They hate your ass, Maverick,” Oz says, scratching his head as if he’s trying to figure out how to win them over.

Bell rings, gloves touch.

He throws a punch. I duck and throw out my fist, hearing it crack into his gut. The crowd gasps. The boos silence.

Hellman’s stunned. I loop out a left and hit again. The crowd is silent as a morgue. I can hear the sound of flesh pounding flesh as I have a go at him. They’ve got no more cheers. I hope they’re saving them for their golden boy. Because I want a chance to get a hit on that boy. I want a chance to prove to myself I’ve fucking got it. Got more than my father ever did.

I knock Hellman out.

I don’t take my stool as I wait for the next fight.

The moment the bell rings, I go straight for the kill—jab, straight jab, hook. He wraps an arm around me and then slips away. I back him up against the ropes, jabbing, ducking, jabbing, then I hook.

The hook stuns him.

And he’s down.

I start beating them all, a third one, a fourth one, a fifth. My body’s producing heat like nobody’s business. I’m on fire and so are my fists. I’ve got long arms, a far reach. My opponents think they’re in the safe zone away from me, but they’re not. Over and over, I hit. Flesh. Bone. Flesh. Bone. But I’m wearing down. I know it’s because I haven’t been training as I should.

I was at the park, with a kid and a girl who’s driving my head in all kinds of directions, all of them leading to the same end: her.

Her in a bed with me.

Her lips under mine.

Her sweet, round little butt under my hands.

Every second spent with them reminds me of the family that I don’t have and desperately crave.

I take the stool at my corner and let my body recharge when the announcer’s voice flares through the speakers, introducing my next opponent. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen . . .” He trails off mysteriously and lowers his voice. “I know you all have been waiting for this,” he begins.

The crowd shifts restlessly, and as a chorus of gasps and titters sweeps across the crowd, I tiredly roll my shoulders. I twist my sore neck to one side, then the other. Motherfuck me, I need gas right now.

“That’s right, ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer starts to yell. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, our record-holding champion, Remington ‘Riiiiiiiiptide’ Tate!”

I can’t even relish this moment; I’m catching my breath.

Worn out. I’ve taken a few hits, my eye has swelled up, and my cut is about to bust open and bleed again.

My jaw aches like a bitch. I open my jaw and flex it, rubbing my arm across the sting as Tate takes the ring.

The crowd goes wild. I glance at Oz while I wait. Oz looks as fucked-up as I am, snoozing in my corner. He really needs to back off the booze.

“Hey. At least pretend you give a shit.” I nudge him. “Put some Vaseline on my face or something.”

He lifts his head and does as I tell him, then he looks at Tate as he climbs into the ring and his eyes widen.

“WHAT THE LIVING FUCK?! How many have you knocked out?”

I shrug, eyeing Tate’s size from up close. He’s an inch taller, two or three wider. And he looks fresh as spring compared to my sweaty, bloodied, beat-up self. I’m not as big as him, but I bet I’ll look pretty big from the ground.

We go to center. Touch gloves. The bell rings.

The screams take over the arena. “REMY . . . REMY . . . REMY . . .”

I take a hit: a blow straight to my ribs.

I ease back, shake my head.

He comes in with a hook that knocks me off-balance.

I hit the ground.

The counting begins. “Stay down,” Oz says.

But I can’t stay down, I’m leaping to my feet. I’m fighting this guy. I’m beating this guy.

Dizzy.

I should’ve stayed down.

I take another hit, then three. This guy comes at me like a bulldozer, from all directions. My brain is already swimming in my skull.

We get a break.

I take my stool.

“Dude, you’re getting creamed out there,” Oz says.

“Really? That you’re awake for? Got something for my jaw?”

“Think not. Maybe.” He checks his materials and slaps something on. “There.”

This time, I block better. I’m braced for his force and catch a few hits, then start swinging. I open up my side when I hook, and he takes it.

I fall splat on the floor, winded.

The girls out in the arena scream his name. They quiet down when I stand. Sweat dripping down my forehead along with blood and a whole shit-ton of frustration.

Tate leans to me. “Your hook’s off.” Then he jabs and hooks and knocks me to the ground.

The announcer’s voice cuts through the speakers as the ringmaster raises his arm. “Ladies and gentlemen. Once again . . . Riptide! Riiiiiptiiiiiide! UNDEFEATED FOR THREE CONSECUTIVE YEARS. The most unstoppable beast this ring has ever seen. RIPTIDE!”

The crowd’s sudden, wild roar pulses in my eardrums. I plant my glove on the ground and come to my feet. The crowd quiets. Riptide lowers his arm, his grin fading.

Neither of us looks away from the other as we climb the ropes to get off the ring.

We head down the walkway, side by side, silent.

Oz is wide awake now—and he’s pissed. “Why the fuck are you giving my fighter pointers? You want him to beat you?” he demands.

Tate shoots me a look when he speaks. “I want him to try.”

“You can fucking count on it!” Oz replies.

Tate stops by his door and turns to face me, waiting for me to say something.

I don’t.

I just look him directly in the eye while our teams try to shuffle us into our rooms.

“You have something to say to me?” Tate asks.

“Not yet,” I say.

His team piles up on him to usher him inside. It takes Oz a lot more effort to move me.

“You’re the only fighter I’ve ever met who’s not intimidated by the current champion, Maverick, I swear . . .” He shakes his head in consternation as he pulls off my gloves.

I look at my fists, curl my fingers in slowly, then squeeze and release them.

It’s my first time in the ring with Tate, but it’s not going to be my last.

♥   ♥   ♥

I’M BACK IN my hotel room an hour later, my body in a tub of ice. I’ve got an ice pack on my temple. Oz sewed up my cut and just dropped dead on my couch. I’m bouncing a tennis ball against the wall of the bathroom, catching and throwing it back. I used it to lay my back on and release any knots, but I just like the rhythmic sound of it now. Helps me think as I replay what Tate said.

I’m getting madder and madder, throwing the ball faster and harder.

Something to say to him?

I might have something to say to the asshole.

Hell, I have a lot to say.

I would prefer my fists did the talking, but those will have to wait for another day.

Catching the ball, I toss it into my duffel, then swing to my feet.

“Oz,” I call into the room, tightening a towel around my hips as I storm out of the bathroom. “Oz.” I nudge his prostrate form. “Where’s he staying?”

“Huh?”

“Motherfucking Riptide. Where’s he staying?”

He grumbles a hotel, and I shove my legs into my jeans, slip on a T-shirt, and head over there.

♥   ♥   ♥

THERE’S A CROWD outside the Tates’ hotel. I shoulder my way past and through the revolving doors just as Tate and his wife step off the elevators. Gritting my teeth, I stalk across the hotel lobby. “Why are you giving me pointers?”

His brows lift. “Because you need them.”

I laugh mockingly. “I don’t need your help. Fight me. Privately, you and me.”

“I don’t fight puppies.”

He narrows his eyes when I stay in place and cut him a dark, unflinching look.

“Armor’s gym tomorrow. Five a.m. Be there,” he says.

He takes his wife by the elbow and leads her across the lobby when the elevator opens and feet shuffle out.

“Mavewick!” I hear.

My eyes fall down to a familiar little grin and there’s Racer, looking up at me. He’s dressed in tiny shorts and a Batman T-shirt and someone is holding his hand. A female hand with neatly trimmed, soft-pink nails. My chest feels tight, and I lift my gaze.

Reese.

And it dawns on me.

She is with them.

I look at her and search her face to see if she knows who I am.

She knows.

I fought with Tate tonight and he can’t not know. Everybody knows by now.

I can see wariness and concern in her eyes, concern for what, I don’t know.

It’s not concern about me. Can’t be.

She glances past my shoulder at Tate and his wife, and I realize, it’s concern about them knowing she knows me.

Loss.

You can’t lose shit you don’t have.

But in my mind I had some sort of . . . attachment to looking for her every day. I feel like I just lost a fight I didn’t even know I fought.

And I lost it to Tate.

“Mavewick!” I hear again, and I feel a tap on my thigh.

I look down again. “Hey, little buddy.” I fist-bump him before I can catch myself. I look at Reese, and she’s amused and surprised seeing that. I edge my hand back. A tight black top covers her upper body, and dark-wash jeans cover her legs. It’s hard to breathe right.

There’s something about this girl. What the fuck is it about this girl? I can smell her, a sweet flower scent, and feel her. She’s under my skin. I’m boiling in jealousy that she’s with Tate. Jealous she’s living with him, holding the hand of his kid. Rooting for him.

Jesus, how come my body always knows when she’s in my space?

Her purse slides down her shoulder and I impulsively grab it.

“Oh, it’s fine,” she flusters.

I sling it over my shoulder reluctantly and signal for her to walk past me. “After you.”

“Mavewick, come celebwate.”

“Can’t, buddy.”

I watch her as they walk next to me.

Every inch of my body is beat-up but the pain is gone now. The pain is gone except the new one in my crotch.

I’m attracted to her round little face, her heart-shaped mouth, her firm little legs, the softness she has going on in all the right places. The shade of blue in her eyes. She calls to me on the most primitive level. She’s in my fucking veins. This girl.

I grab her waist and keep her close to me as we shuffle out into the crowd.

Her breasts press into my chest. I inhale for control, but my mind’s fucking running a thousand miles an hour. The blood rushes south. Impossible to get enough blood supply to my brain. Her hard little nipples press against the flat of my chest. It’s impossible to stop thinking of those firm, round breasts and how great they feel. I’m getting all lathered up just thinking of getting my hands on them, squeezing and teasing them with my fingers, tasting them. I’m betting her nipples are as pink as her lips, and I want to softly smother them with my mouth and suck on the tips until my jaw hurts.

My dick is in pain and my balls hurt big time. The fact that she smells great and that I seem to lately be replaying our conversations in my head doesn’t help.

The crowd clears and Racer starts running for his dad, who’s watching us narrowly. Reese starts after Racer, but I catch her wrist.

“Wait,” I softly command.

She looks down at my hand, and I force my fingers to uncurl and let the fuck go. My jaw aches when I clench it but I can’t loosen it up, not my jaw, not my fists at my sides, ready to crush something. I don’t know what frustrates me more. Who Reese is, or who I am.

I want to say something, but I can’t seem to know what. It’s Reese who speaks first.

“You’re not Parker the Terror’s son.”

Our eyes meet and hold. “No.”

“Your father is Scorpion.”

“Yes.”

She says nothing after that. As if there’s no more to say.