5. Riggs
Riggs
I lean against the kitchen counter, nursing a lukewarm beer and watching the guys roughhouse in the living room. The hockey house is a shithole, but it's the team’s shithole. There's a suspicious stain on the couch that no one wants to investigate too closely.
Martinez sidles up next to me, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Ready to shed that golden boy image, Rhodes?”
I roll my eyes, but there's no heat behind it. “Fuck off, Martinez. You know I'm always ready.”
Johnson appears on my other side, his usual quiet intensity radiating off him in waves now that Halloween is over. “Ready when you are, boys.”
I drain the last of my beer and toss the can in the general direction of the overflowing recycling bin.
I nod, pushing off from the counter. “Let's go.”
We move through the crowd, dodging drunk teammates and eager puck bunnies. I catch a few questioning glances as we head for the door, but no one stops us.
We pile into my truck, the suspension groaning in protest. The leather seats are cracked and worn, but the engine purrs to life with a satisfying rumble. I pull out of the driveway, tires squealing against the pavement.
Martinez leans over. “You know, Riggs, I never would've pegged you for this shit when we first met. All polite and proper, like butter wouldn't even melt in your mouth.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white. “Yeah, well, people change.”
Martinez fiddles with the radio, settling on some hard rock station that matches the thrumming energy in my veins. Johnson's in the back, quiet as always, but I can feel the anticipation rolling off him in waves.
As we speed down the empty streets, leaving the sleepy college town behind, Martinez pipes up again. “So, golden boy, you gonna tell us what's got you so wound up lately? Or do we have to guess?”
I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles turning white. “Nothing's got me wound up. Just need to blow off some steam.”
Martinez snorts. “Yeah, right. And I'm the fucking tooth fairy. Come on, man. We've known you too long. Something's eating at you.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead, watching the darkness swallow up the headlights. “Drop it, Martinez. I'm fine.”
But even as I say it, I know it's bullshit.
I pull up to the warehouse; the headlights cutting through the fog that's settled over the abandoned industrial park. The place looks like shit, but that's part of its charm. No one looks twice at a bunch of college kids hanging around a dump like this because no one fucking comes out here.
We pile out of the truck, our shoes crunching on the gravel. Martinez stretches, his joints popping loud enough to echo in the empty lot.
“Jesus, Rhodes,” he grumbles, eyeing the guys in their SCU Spartan shit. “All this St. Charles green is giving me hives. You sure we're in the right place?”
I snort, knowing he's just running his mouth. “Quit your bitching.”
I lead the way, shouldering past a couple of meatheads arguing over some bullshit near the entrance. The heavy metal door groans as I yank it open, assaulting us with a wave of heat, sweat, and adrenaline.
I scan the crowd, my eyes automatically seeking out familiar faces.
And there he is—Declan Reed, the man behind this shit.
He's perched on a stack of crates near the ring, surveying his kingdom like a battle-scarred lion.
His eyes lock onto mine, and he nods, a slight tilt of his head that speaks volumes.
Declan Reed is one badass fucking fighter.
The guy's built like a brick shithouse. I've seen him take down guys twice his size without breaking a sweat.
He trains at the gym that straddles the St. Charles campus, the one that looks like it's held together with duct tape and sheer willpower.
I've watched him there a few times. He moves like a predator in the animal kingdom.
Sometimes I wonder why the fuck Declan doesn't go pro and fight for real.
He's got the skills, the strength, the raw talent that could take him places.
But it's none of my fucking business. Maybe he likes the underground scene, the grit and grime of these warehouse brawls.
Or maybe he's got his reasons for staying in the shadows. We've all got our secrets.
I push through the crowd, shouldering past the press of bodies until I reach the sign-up table. The guy manning it looks like he's seen better days, sporting a nasty shiner and a split lip that's barely started to heal.
“Rhodes,” I say, tossing a crumpled wad of bills onto the table. “Put me down for the next available slot.”
He nods, scribbling my name on a worn clipboard. “You're up after this fight. Better start warming up.”
I nod, my muscles already twitching with anticipation. As I turn to find a spot to warm up, I catch a glimpse of a familiar face in the crowd.
Ramsey fucking Blackwood. He’s got his hand resting on the neck of a girl that barely reaches his chest. She’s cute with her short black hair, but something about her seems familiar. Something tugs at the edges of my memory, but I can’t place it.
He’s got the same fucking smirk on his face he always had when we play SCU.
“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice carrying over the din of the crowd. “If it isn't the St. James boys. Careful, Rhodes. Wouldn't want to mess up that pretty face of yours.”
I feel my jaw clench, but I force myself to stay cool. Ramsey's got an aura about him—quiet and ruthless, with just a hint of something unhinged lurking beneath the surface. But what else can you expect from a fucking Blackwood? The whole family's batshit crazy.
“Blackwood,” I nod, keeping my voice neutral. “Didn't expect to see St. Charles' star player in a dump like this. Daddy know you're out past curfew?”
Ramsey's smirk doesn't falter, but something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “Oh, you know my family. We've got a taste for the finer things in life. Blood, bruises, broken bones.”
“Yea, I’m sure you do.”
“Word of advice, Rhodes,” he says, his voice low and menacing. “Watch your back in there. Never know when someone might get…carried away.”
I meet his gaze, refusing to back down. “I can handle myself, Blackwood. But thanks for the concern.”
He chuckles, the sound devoid of any real humor. “Oh, I'm sure you can. Just remember, some of us fight for more than just the thrill.”
With that cryptic warning, he melts back into the crowd, leaving me with a gnawing sense of unease in my gut.
“Fuck, man,” Martinez mutters beside me. “That guy gives me the creeps.”
I nod, my eyes still tracking Ramsey's movement through the warehouse.
I lean against a grimy support beam, my eyes locked on the makeshift ring. Two guys are going at it. Blood sprays as a wild haymaker connects, and the crowd roars its approval.
Martinez and Johnson drift away, drawn to a cluster of girls near the back. I catch snippets of their bullshit—“Yeah, we play for St. James” and “Nah, these bruises? Just from practice.” I roll my eyes.
My gaze sweeps the warehouse, taking in the motley crew of adrenaline junkies and desperate souls. There's the usual mix of college kids looking for a thrill, washed-up fighters chasing their glory days, and shady fuckers with hollow eyes and twitchy fingers.
I spot Ramsey again, still with that petite dark-haired girl. She's pressed against him now, whispering something in his ear. His hand slides down her back possessively.
A deafening roar snaps my attention back to the ring. One of the fighters is down, sprawled on the blood-stained canvas like a broken doll. His opponent stands over him, chest heaving, fists raised in triumph. The ref calls it, and just like that, it's over.
My pulse quickens as I realize what this means. I'm up next.
I push off from the beam, rolling my shoulders as I make my way to the ring. The crowd parts before me, their hungry eyes raking over my body. They can smell the violence simmering beneath my skin.
As I duck between the ropes, I catch Ramsey's eye. He's watching me intently, that same smirk playing on his lips.
I strip off my shoes, tossing them carelessly to the side. My shirt follows, landing in a crumpled heap.
A girl with a mess of blue hair piled on top of her head and tattoos peeking out from it feels like everywhere climbs into the ring. Her eyes are lined with thick black liner, giving her a haunted, dangerous look. She's carrying a roll of hand wraps and moves towards me with purpose.
“Hands,” she barks, holding up a roll of hand wraps.
I start to protest, “I've got it?—”
She cuts me off with a look that could freeze hell. “Yeah, I'm sure you do, but I work for Reed, so let me do my fucking job, mkay?”
I raise an eyebrow but extend my hands. No point in pissing off Declan's people. She works quickly, her fingers deft and practiced as she wraps my hands with precision.
My opponent climbs into the ring, a hulking mass of muscle and scars. He's got at least fifty pounds on me. He sneers, revealing a mouth guard that does little to hide his missing teeth.
The blue-haired girl finishes with my hands and steps back, giving me a once-over. “Try not to die out there, pretty boy,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Reed hates cleaning up messes.”
I flex my fingers, testing the wraps. Perfect. “Don't worry, sweetheart,” I drawl, matching her tone. “I'll try to keep the killing to a minimum.”
She rolls her eyes and hops out of the ring, disappearing into the crowd. I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline flooding my system. The noise of the crowd fades to a dull roar in my ears, my focus narrowing to the man across from me and the space between us.
The ref steps into the center of the ring. He looks between us, his eyes hard. “You know the rules,” he growls. “No rules. Fight's over when one of you can't get up or taps out. Try to kill each other, and I’ll kill you myself. Clear?”
I nod, locking eyes with my opponent. The ref steps back, and for a moment, everything goes quiet.
Then all hell breaks loose.
The big bastard charges at me like a freight train, meaty fists swinging. I duck under the first punch, feeling the air whoosh past my ear. But I'm not fast enough to dodge the second.
His fist slams into my ribs with the force of a sledgehammer. Pain explodes through my side, sharp and immediate. It steals my breath, makes my vision blur for a split second.
I exhale slowly, tasting copper on my tongue. A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. Good. This is exactly what I need.
Something in me snaps. The world narrows down to nothing but flesh and bone and the primal need to hurt.
I move fast, faster than I thought possible with bruised ribs screaming in protest.
I feint left, then drive my right fist into his solar plexus. He grunts, doubling over, and I seize the opportunity.
My knee comes up, catching him square in the face. There's a sickening crunch as his nose gives way. Blood sprays, painting both of us in crimson. The crowd roars its approval, but it sounds distant, muffled.
I don't let up. Can't let up. My fist connects with his jaw, snapping his head back. Another punch follows, then another. Each impact sends shockwaves up my arm, but I barely feel it. I'm riding a wave of adrenaline and rage.
A prickle on the back of my neck, like someone's walked over my grave snaps me back to reality a bit. My instincts scream at me to look up, and when I do, the world stops spinning.
Maren.
She's there, leaning against the far wall, a smirk playing on those full lips.
Some asshole is pressed up against her, his hands roaming places they have no right to be.
I watch, my blood turning to ice as her fingers trail lazily over his chest. But her eyes?
They're locked on me, stormy and intense, like she's staring straight into my soul.
My vision narrows, tunneling until all I can see is Maren and that fucker's hands on her.
A primal rage surges through me, hot and violent.
My blood boils, every cell in my body screaming that she's mine.
Mine to touch, mine to protect, mine to possess.
The fact that I've never so much as brushed against her doesn't matter. She belongs to me, and only me.
I turn back to my opponent, a snarl ripping from my throat. He's still reeling from my last blow, blood streaming from his broken nose. Good. I want him to hurt. I need him to hurt.
I launch myself at him. My fist connects with his jaw, and I feel something give way beneath my knuckles. He staggers, spitting blood and teeth onto the mat. I don't let up. I can’t. Every cell in my body is screaming for more violence, more pain.
I risk another glance at Maren. She's watching me intently, her eyes dark with something I can't quite name.
Excitement? Lust? The guy next to her is whispering in her ear, but she doesn't seem to hear him.
Her gaze is fixed on me, on the blood coating my wrapped knuckles, on the wild fury etched into every line of my body.
A feral grin spreads across my face. This is for her. All of it. Every punch, every drop of blood spilled. It's my offering, my sacrifice laid at her feet.
My opponent manages to land a glancing blow to my ribs, but I barely feel it. The pain is nothing compared to the agony of seeing another man's hands on Maren. I retaliate with a vicious uppercut that snaps his head back. He crumples to the canvas, dazed and gasping.
The ref moves to step in, but I'm not done. Not even close. I drop to my knees, straddling my fallen opponent. My fists rise and fall in a brutal rhythm, pummeling his already battered face. Blood sprays with each impact, coating my chest and arms in a warm, sticky sheen.
I'm dimly aware of voices shouting, of hands trying to pull me off. But they feel distant, unimportant. All that matters is the man beneath me, and the woman watching from across the room.
“That's enough!” Someone roars, but I ignore them. It'll never be enough. Not while she's here, not while she's letting someone else touch her.
Finally, strong arms wrap around my chest, yanking me off my unconscious opponent.
Declan's face fills my vision, his eyes blazing with anger. “You're fucking done,” he snarls, spittle flying. “Get the fuck out of my ring before I kill you in it.”
I blink, reality crashing back like a bucket of ice water. The roar of the crowd comes rushing in. The taste of copper floods my mouth, and I realize I've bitten my tongue. My knuckles throb, skin split and weeping.
I stumble backwards, nearly tripping over the ropes. As I duck out of the ring, my eyes frantically search the warehouse for Maren.
Finally, I see her as her lithe body and that fucking punk she’s with disappear out of the warehouse doors.
I don’t fucking think so, my little nightmare. You’re fucking mine. You wrote it in blood a year ago.