Fight Me, Break Me (Off the Mat #1)

Prologue

Keaton

“Next up is the middleweight bout between Keaton Stafford and Rowan Cross,” the announcer boomed. “The first fighter to the stage is Keaton Stafford.”

Earlier that morning, we’d done the official weigh-in, medical evaluations, paperwork, and drug test. Now we were giving fans a show and hyping the fight.

I rolled my shoulders and walked through the curtain with Phil, my head coach, and two security guards close behind. Peeling off my hoodie, I handed it to Coach, then stepped onto the scale in nothing but my low-slung sweats. Flashes went off from the media pit as I faced forward, my arms flexed.

“One hundred eighty-five pounds,” the announcer called. “Official weight for Keaton Stafford.”

The fans roared as I moved to the side, joining the officials and ring girls standing near the backdrop. I draped a towel around my neck as I took my place.

“Next up is Rowan Cross.”

My gaze didn’t move from him as he walked out.

He crossed the stage shirtless and barefoot, that calm vibe of his firmly intact.

His brown hair was longer than it had been the last time I’d seen him.

The dog tags he always wore rested against the massive tattoo on his chest. I hated that no matter how much we hurt each other, it wasn’t enough to kill whatever feelings I still had for him.

“Official weight is one hundred eighty-five and a half.” The announcer’s words snapped me back into the moment as Rowan got off the scale and headed straight toward me.

We stood toe to toe. The noise of the crowd faded as we stared each other down.

“Hope you’re ready to get your ass kicked,” he growled.

“Oh, I’ve been waiting for this moment.” I closed the space between us, stopping just short of my nose touching his. “We can finally settle everything once and for all.”

Something dark flashed across his face. “Your mouth always seems to get you into trouble.”

I angled closer, my lips brushing his ear. “Keep thinking about my mouth. I’m sure it’ll help you focus tomorrow.”

He came forward another inch, and our chests collided as tension filled the air around us.

The crowd erupted. “Fuck you,” he spat as two officials wedged themselves between us, pushing us apart before the photo op could turn into a physical altercation.

He didn’t look away as we were held back from each other.

Neither did I.

During our fight, no one would be standing between us.

No trash talk.

No rules beyond those inside the cage.

Finally, everything would be settled.