Maverick
“There must be at least three hundred people packed in this ballroom,” Ryker mutters as he stands next to me on Monday afternoon, surveying the milling crowd. “And they’re all rich assholes.”
I tighten the fingerless leather gloves on my hands and focus on taking deep breaths. Instead of being at Waylon today, we both skipped class to drive to Tunica, Mississippi, for the fight. We’re standing in the corner of a ring underneath a glittering chandelier inside a riverboat casino owned by Leslie.
Standing in my corner as we wait, Ryker grimaces. “This place reeks of cigarette smoke. God, I hate casinos.”
I force a laugh, shaking off my nerves as I do a few air punches and bounce around on my feet. “Isn’t this the first time you’ve been to one?”
He shrugs. “Still don’t like them. This place is trouble.”
Hell yeah it is, yet here we are.
I look around the room, taking in the high-dollar crowd sporting tailored suits and tailored gowns. Just to get in the door, the crowd had to get Leslie’s personal approval as well as put up several grand. The kicker is I have to win to get the fifty grand I negotiated.
My stomach feels like it’s filled with lead, and I’m doing my damnedest to keep my eyes averted from the stares of the women and men who have their eyes on me as they sip from champagne flutes.
“Don’t look at them,” Ryker says firmly. His mouth is a thin straight line, and his face is harder than I’ve ever seen it. He hates that I’ve made this decision and he doesn’t approve, but he’s the kind of friend who’s not going to leave my side.
“I just want it over with.”
He swivels his head as the competition stalks into the ballroom from a side door. It’s a showoff of an entrance by a monster of a man. He’s around my age, flanked by two girls in low-cut dresses. He stops in the middle of the aisle, letting the spotlight dance over his broad chest as he puffs up and does a strut up to the ring.
He’s massive, at least a couple of inches taller than me, which puts him around six-six. Swirls of brightly colored tattoos cover nearly every inch of his thickly muscled skin. Appearing to be of Polynesian descent with a wide chiseled face and a braid of long hair, he smirks at the crowd, shaking hands with some of the attendees.
I hear a sharp inhalation from Ryker. “Is that Kai Willis, the linebacker from Ole Miss? Goddamn, he’s huge.”
I exhale, the lead in my stomach getting heavier. “Shit.” Ole Miss is our biggest rival in the SEC and “Killer” Kai is their star linebacker, so it makes sense that Leslie would want us to fight.
Ryker shakes his head and whistles as his gaze sweeps over the crowd. “What a bunch of sick bastards.”
I nod. “People get off on this. They like seeing blood.”
That hard look settles back on his face as he focuses on me. “Yeah, but you’re jeopardizing everything.”
Maybe.
He grimaces. “And why are there no cell phones? Why did we have to get patted down before we entered the room?”
“Leslie’s protecting his fighters. He assured me this won’t get out to the press.”
He exhales. “The entire state of Mississippi will tear him apart piece by piece if he screws with their hometown Magnolia boy.”
A muscle flexes in my jaw. Yeah, I’m a hometown boy with nothing but the clothes on my back.
Kai’s face is impassive as he studies me from across the ring. Big, mean, and full of vitriol, he’s one of the most formidable offensive players in the country. He stalks over to us, his eyes low as they take in every facet of my physique.
He stops in front of me and just stands there, a curl to his lip. “Never seen you without all the padding,” he tells me, a sly tone to his voice. “Not impressed.”
I shrug. “Impressive is when I kick your ass back to Oxford.”
He tosses his head back and lets loose with a booming laugh before quickly sobering and leveling me with a cold stare. “You’re going back to Waylon in a body bag. I’ve been doing this a long time, and you’re the perfect little pretty boy for me to toss around today.” He flexes his arms, bending his elbows and flexing his muscles in a strong man-style showoff as he does a little pirouette in front of me. “You can’t beat this, pretty boy. I’m gonna kill you.” There’s a wild glint to his eyes, and part of me believes he wants to.
I force a shrug, playing it cool. He’s trying to rile me up, and I can’t let him. “We beat you on the field this year, Kai, and I’m going to beat you in that ring.” I tap my head. “See, you may have those big steroid muscles going on, but I’m smarter.”
He sneers at me as he gets up in my face. Someone from the crowd gasps as we catch the attention of the betters.
I arch a brow, not flinching. “Scary. Now fuck off and wait for the bell to ring.”
He barks out that bellowing laugh, flips around, and stomps away.
I study him, trying to figure out what his strengths and weaknesses are. He has me on size, but that could be an advantage if I’m faster.
I stretch out and begin my routine of small punches. I flick my eyes over to Ryker, who has a deep scowl on his face. “I got this, Mama Ryker. Just be here when I’m done.”
He lets out a long exhalation as he studies me, his hand sliding over his jaw. “Always, man. I’m not going anywhere until this shit is done.”
Kai is killing me.
I take a punch straight to the jaw and it sends me reeling. I hit the ground on my ass and blink up at the chandelier, the bright lights competing with the birds that are flying around my head.
Get up, I hear Ryker say.
I look over at him with one eye because the other is completely shut from a hit I took in the last round. Blood runs down and clouds my vision as I swipe at it.
Kai is standing over me and delivers a kick straight to my ribcage.
I choke out a gasp and focus. Fuck. I’m drifting, my mind wandering because I’ve been hit one too many times.
I scramble up and dart away from Kai’s massive legs to rest against the ropes. He approaches with his gloves up, his mouthpiece filled with saliva mixed with blood. I’ve gotten in a couple of good hits to his wide face, but it’s like banging my hand against concrete.
His fist connects with my hip and I stumble back again.
Ryker is yelling at me from the sidelines, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. The crowd cheers and shakes their fists, some for me and some for Kai. Loud rock music blares from the speakers, and all the lights are out except for the spotlight that’s narrowed in on the ring.
Panting through the mouthpiece, I bounce around on the ropes, moving away from Kai. God dammit. I need a fucking minute to get myself together.
Raven.
Pineview.
Fifty thousand dollars.
I shake myself off and roll my neck, barely pausing before I rush at him, my first strike clipping his shoulder, not the chest like I wanted, but the hit has enough force that he stumbles a bit. He barrels back at me, his legs maneuvering a roundhouse kick that plants right into my side.
He bounces away. “Second-degree black belt, asshole. Anything goes in this fight—didn’t you know that?”
I narrow my good eye at him, my fists curling. “Mississippi boys learn how to fight for real in their fucking sleep. Karate isn’t going to help you.”
I wipe sweat out of my eyes, square off again, and eye him, looking for chinks in his armor. He’s proficient in MMA, but boxing is where my strengths lie, and that’s what I focus on.
Bobbing around him, my fists are up as I dart sideways, moving in and out, teasing him then popping just out of reach. I land a small right uppercut to his jaw, and he comes right back at me with a quick two-handed jab. I block it with my forearms and retaliate with an uppercut to his gut.
Whoosh. He grunts and bends over to catch his breath but pops right back up.
He maneuvers behind me, and this time I’m ready before he kicks, managing to block him with a punch to his thigh.
He growls out a curse and backs up, a slight limp to his normal swagger, and my fist aches inside the glove—it was a good solid blow.
He shifts around, eyeing me. He thinks I should be down by now.
I force a grin, knowing I probably look maniacal.
He comes at me again, his swipe a hair too wide, and I duck. He breathes heavily as he chases after me.
“Stop playing and take him down!” one of the men from Kai’s corner calls out.
“Go back to Ole Miss!” Ryker yells back.
Kai runs at me head down, in football mode, and I anchor myself, waiting. He gets a second from knocking me on my ass, I sidestep like a good boxer, and he misses completely, lurching into the ropes.
I rush at him, landing a punch to his lower back.
Score.
Using my shoulder, I pop him in the chest and send him reeling.
Stay down, asshole, my face is telling him.
But he gets back up, his eyes glazed.
“You done?” I pant.
“Pussy,” he calls at me as he slings blood out of his face.
“Your funeral,” I say and raise my fists up.
My words spur him into action and he rushes at me again. He lands a strike to my spleen, and I thrash away to get my breath back. Fuck.
“Killer! Killer! Killer!” some of the Ole Miss fans chant.
It’s like he brought his own cheering section.
I spare a glance at Ryker, and he screams out that there’s a minute left in the round.
I’m not sure I can last sixty more seconds without a breather.
Kai advances again, on the offense, and I skirt around him, my feet skipping on purpose. If I can’t take him down, maybe I can distract him. I make my way over to the crowd of people who’ve congregated in Kai’s corner, cross my left arm into my inner right elbow, and pull it up—the universal sign for fuck you. The crowd roars its approval while Kai’s fans shake their fists at me. I prance off, forcing my body to move like it isn’t screaming in pain.
He runs at me, more sluggish than before, and I square off and wait. I suspect he’s going to throw more fancy karate moves at me, and he does, his legs kicking at me as his fist aims for my face. I turn my body sideways and he misses, the inertia of his movement making him stumble. Before he recovers, I hit him in the head and he pops back with a dazed expression.
Down he goes like a rock off the side of a cliff.
“Hell yeah!” Ryker screams from the side, and I look around for Leslie, who motions for the ref standing off to the side. He jumps in and checks on Kai, who hasn’t even twitched. His chest is rising and falling so at least I know he’s breathing—I don’t want anything serious to be wrong with him.
“Winner!” the ref yells as he holds up my hand.
I take a walk around the ring, eyeing the people in the audience. Some are cheering—thank you, fellow Waylon fans—while some are surly and sneer at me. Whatever.
It’s fucking over.