Cole
The bottle sitting on my bedside table beckoned me, but I knew if I gave in, that’d be it for the night. I wanted it, though, almost more than life itself. Almost more than Eva.
Almost. I pulled on my hair, letting out a silent scream at her betrayal, then crawled out of bed to pace, waiting for Declan to call me back. When he finally did, I answered. “Wait.”
I knocked on Tristan’s door, surprised when he answered right away. Guess he hadn’t been sleeping either.
“This information comes with a price,” Declan said quietly.
Tristan’s eyes widened, the gold practically glowing in the moonlight, but I slashed my finger across my throat, telling him to remain silent.
“I want you back at Friday Night Fights,” he said. “Three nights.”
“It’s the middle of the hockey season,” I said. “If I get hurt…”
“Do you want to know where your girlfriend is or not?”
Tristan’s pleading expression did me in. Fuck. Fuck! That goddamned bitch had left me with only bad choices, and I hated her for it.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
“There was a pile-up on I-95 yesterday with multiple injuries. A red-haired woman in her early twenties was pulled from a rental car. They took her to Mount Sinai Regional, just outside of New York City. My contact there thinks it’s her, but I don’t have anyone who can actually look at the files and confirm her name. ”
The world tilted sideways. Eva was in an accident. Hurt. Maybe dying.
My heart stopped, then exploded back to life, hammering so hard, I thought it might burst. Blood roared in my ears, drowning out everything except the image of Eva broken and bleeding in some hospital bed.
No. I didn’t fucking care. She was a lying, manipulative bitch who’d gotten exactly what she deserved for betraying me.
Tristan was already pulling on a sweatshirt and looking for his sneakers. “Let’s go.”
“The fuck I will,” I snarled at him. “We have practice in,” I checked the time on my phone, “less than five hours.” Like training matters when Eva might be dying.
Tristan looked at me with such profound pity, I wanted to disappear, to crawl into the bottle and never come out. That look—gentle and heartbroken and utterly disgusted—told me everything I needed to know about the man I’d become.
“You think practice is more important than making sure Eva’s okay?”
Yes. No. I don’t know.
“Eva walked out on us. After betraying me, you, and the whole fucking team to my father. Yeah, I do fucking think practice is more important than making sure Eva’s okay.” He slid a hat on over the durag he wore to protect his cornrows and nodded sharply. “I’d like to borrow your car then.”
I swallowed. Shit. Was this the end of our friendship? “Keys are by the door. And for the record? I think you’re a fucking fool.”
Tristan sighed, his shoulders slumped with the weight of his disappointment in me. “Yeah, I know.” He looked up at me, golden eyes piercing straight into my blackened, shriveled soul. “That’s what everyone said when I stuck with you too.”
He brushed by me and jogged down the stairs before I could think of an equally cutting retort.
I returned to my room and slumped onto my bed, staring at the bottle of cheap tequila. I hadn’t sprung for the good stuff. Why bother, when I was just going to chug it down until I couldn’t remember anything anyway?
My phone buzzed.
Declan
There’s a fight tonight, if you want to start working off your debt.
Fuck it. What did I have to lose?
Eva had already taken everything from me.
I waded my way through the throngs of enthusiastic clubbers, writhing and grinding to the pounding bass and strobe lights that lit up the legal side of Declan’s club. The less legal side was through thick doors, guarded by two men in suits who looked like they’d seen plenty of fights themselves.
“Cole Carter,” I said. They looked me up and down, in my designer jeans, leather jacket, and sneakers that cost more than my rent at the hockey house, then opened the door.
One stepped through and held his hand out for my bag.
I didn’t mention that the bouncers had already searched it, or that the only things they’d find in there were shorts to fight in, tape for my fists, and pomade to slick back my hair once I braided it out of my face.
It’d been a long fucking time since I’d been in here—not since I’d OD’d, not since Alek and Tristan had saved my life.
Was Eva worth it? My head told me no, that she was a liar, that she was a bitch, that she’d betrayed me. Too fucking bad my heart still beat for her, no matter how much I fought it.
Tristan was worth it, for sure. He was the best man I knew, and far better than I deserved.
When I reached the locker room, I hesitated then shoved the door open.
A few fighters raised their eyebrows but said nothing.
I found an empty locker and changed quickly.
I’d wear nothing but boxers, shorts, and tape.
I French braided my hair down the top of my head, slicking back any errant strands.
Thank god for learning how to help Tristan with his hair.
I’d have to get mine cut if I were going to keep fighting.
I checked my phone one final time before locking it up—no news. I hated the worry that had settled in my gut. She didn’t deserve it.
I made my way out of the changing room and into the small, concrete gym the fighters used to warm up. A bouncer stood along the wall in black slacks and a black button-down, gun in a shoulder holster, his arms crossed, making sure nobody got excited and decided to start early.
One fighter was on a chair with a beautiful woman on her knees between his thighs, wrapping his hands. Another was punching the air in a corner.
I grabbed a jump rope to start warming up my muscles.
I had no idea where I was in the lineup, no idea who I was fighting, and I didn’t give a shit.
The alcohol made me slow, fuzzed the edges of my vision, and the thought of getting the shit beat out of me so bad that I could stop thinking about Eva was a sweet fucking dream, just out of reach.
By the time a blonde woman poked her head in to call my name, I was steady on my feet and ready to fight.
The crowd cheered—they weren’t stupid, they knew who I was. My father never cared about the fights. To him, it was one more way for me to prove my toughness. The irony that I fought for the oblivion it offered didn’t escape me.
My opponent was already in the ring, bloodied from a previous fight. My eyes narrowed. He was thick with muscle, quick on his feet as he swung his arms, working out the kinks between fights.
I climbed under the ropes. I hadn’t brought a coach or anyone else to second me, and fuck, I probably should have.
Not that anyone would understand.
Declan sat in the front row, his face impassive. With a thick, muscled build, blond hair, and stark blue eyes, he looked every inch the pissed-off Irish-American he was. He made a motion with two fingers, and one of the men beside him got up and climbed to perch outside the ropes in my corner.
“Carter,” the man said.
“Cole,” I corrected. “Carter’s my father.”
“Whatever the fuck your name is,” the man snarled. “Are you sober?”
“Nope.”
He sighed deeply then made some sort of hand signal in Declan’s general direction. Declan shrugged.
“If the boss doesn’t care, I don’t care,” he said. “I’m your cornerman for the fight.”
“Thanks.”
A stunning brunette in a sequined jumpsuit climbed through the ropes. “Fighters?”
I walked forward to shake my opponent’s hand. His grip was firm, and he grinned, ignoring the blood on his face. “First fight?”
I shrugged. “Something like that.” It wasn’t, but it’d been over a year, and I was in hockey shape, not fighting shape.
The woman stepped back then rang a bell.
We circled each other, sizing each other up. He struck first. I dodged, following up with a jab at his ribs. It hit, just barely. We leapt back from one another. Another jab, a right hook, and then he kicked me backward, his heel slamming into my solar plexus.
Fuck!
“Idiot,” my cornerman muttered. “He’s stronger than you. Your advantage is stamina, not strength. Wear him out.”
Right. Use your fucking brain, Cole. I danced back, keeping light on my feet. My opponent lunged forward with another heavy right hook. It was too slow, too predictable. I slipped under it and hammered two quick jabs into his ribs, then a third. He grunted, stumbling back.
“There you go,” my cornerman called. “Keep moving.”
We circled again. He feinted left then came in hard with an uppercut. I twisted away, felt the air rush past my jaw, then drove my knee into his thigh. He buckled but caught himself before he went down.
Blood dripped from his nose onto the mat. His breathing was ragged, his guard dropping with each passing second. I waited, patient, letting him burn through whatever fuel he had left.
He charged—sloppy, desperate. I sidestepped and caught him with a hook to the temple. His eyes went glassy. I caught him under the jaw, fast and clean, and his knees gave out. He hit the canvas hard.
The ref stepped in, waving his arms.
The crowd exploded. People were on their feet, screaming, money changing hands. I stood there in the center of the ring, sweat and blood dripping down my chest, my lungs burning as I waited for the relief to hit.
It didn’t come.
Eva’s face was still there—haunting even this victory with her betrayal, her lies, the way she’d looked at me when I told her exactly what I’d thought of her. My knuckles throbbed, split open and raw.
Declan caught my eye from the front row. He gave a single, approving nod then turned back to the man beside him, as if I didn’t exist now that my usefulness had ended.
The cornerman, who’d never even introduced himself, climbed down from the ropes without a word and strode back to Declan, irritation in every stiff line of his body. I grabbed my shit from the locker room, shoved my bloody hands into my jacket pockets, and walked out through the back exit.