Bridget woke up disoriented and stiff, the sun streaming through the windows and the phone beep-beep-beeping on the coffee table. She hated falling asleep on the couch because it reminded her of long nights waiting up for Kevin to come home.

“Jaysus, shut the fuck up,” she told the alarm that screamed in her ear. She fumbled off the alarm and flopped back on the couch. She put her hands to her lips and giggled.

Nolan kissed me last night. And I liked it. A lot.

And he might have touched her butt a little. That was A-OK with her, too.

She lay on the couch, grinning like an idiot, until her phone beeped again. She grabbed her phone to turn the alarm off and caught a glimpse of the time.

“Holy crap! Shit! Shit, shit, shit.” She sprang up from the couch and pulled off her date clothes as she sprinted to the bedroom. “Fuck!”

She brushed her teeth and cleaned the smeared eye makeup away from her eyes so that she didn’t look as much like a raccoon, and then she scrambled into a fresh tank top and a pair of track pants before grabbing her gym bag and rushing across the street to the fight club.

She was just skidding around the corner when she saw Junior and Paddy coming out of Junior’s office, their heads bent low in conversation.

“Good, you’re here. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to track you down.” Paddy motioned her to fall in beside them. “Colin’s not joining us as the babby and his missus are poorly. I figure we can handle anything that fuck Raptor can throw at us, right?”

“Sure,” Bridget huffed. “Sorry I was almost late.”

Bridget, Paddy, and Junior arrived at the front of the fight club to see Nanda talking to two men whom she did not recognize. One of the men grinned and stuck his hand out to Paddy.

“Paddy Doyle, good to see you.” Matt shook Paddy’s hand and then turned and greeted Junior and Bridget. “Paddy, Junior, this is my matchmaker, Tommy Thomas.”

Tommy stepped forward and said, “Nice to meet you after all these months of talking on the phone.” He shook Paddy’s and Junior’s hands, and then he turned to Bridget. “And you must be Bridget Doherty. Tommy Thomas.”

“Pleased to meet you.” She shook his hand and suppressed the urge to snicker.

“Yeah, my parents were assholes,” Tommy said by way of explanation.

Paddy clapped his hands together. “Okay, let’s get this started, shall we?”

And the group made their way to the DS Fight Club conference room to discuss the details of Bridget’s next fight.

After three hours of meetings, two separate conference calls, and one shouting match between Jett Raptor and Paddy, Bridget was finally officially on board for a catchweight match on the local card scheduled for ten weeks out. Junior and Paddy looked expectantly at her as she sat, still somewhat stunned, in a leather club chair in Paddy’s office.

“Well, girlie, what say you?” Paddy threw up his hands and shook his head. “You canna be that shocked.”

“Well, no, not really, but yes, kinda, yeah?” Bridget stammered, flustered and somewhat dazed. “This is really happening, isn’t it? I mean, C told me to be ready to go on Monday, but I . . . really didn’t think it would happen, you know? I don’t have that kind of luck.”

“Looks like C knew what he was talking about, huh?” Junior grinned at her. “And it’s more than luck, all right? I’ll tell you now that it’s done—C’s been talking to Tommy since you first decided to come on, since the rumors of this women’s featherweight class started up.”

“Hell, I dinna even know that.” Paddy scratched his chin, a thoughtful look on his face. “Colin’s a tight-lipped bastard when he wants to be. Wonder if he has any other surprises?”

“Well . . . what did you think about Tommy?” Junior leaned back in his chair. Bridget narrowed her eyes at him. He was up to something.

Paddy shrugged. “Seems to be a good fellow. The fighters he’s putting together make sense. Yeah. Why?”

“What about you, Bridg?” Junior turned to Bridget, and she was suddenly tongue-tied.

“Uh.” Junior quirked an eyebrow at her. “I think he’s great . . .” Bridget stalled, attempting to collect her thoughts so she didn’t sound like a blathering, scattered idiot.

“But?”

“Does he remind you of someone? I don’t know—there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on. Nothing sinister or anything, but there’s something . . .”

Junior snorted. “It’s probably that Raptor stink. He worked with Raptor for years. Apparently, he was one of Raptor’s charity cases, like Pierce was, like Tig was. Notice how none of the smaller bookings made any sense starting about eighteen months or so ago?”

Bridget leaned in, her elbows on her knees. She’d only been at DS Fight Club about six months, but she’d been watching regionals, and things had gotten weird in the past two years. And Jett Raptor seemed to always be in the thick of things. She’d assumed the change in consistency was due to Raptor’s partner, Bruce Pryde, abandoning him for his biggest rival, DS Fight Club, but if Tig, Dig, Pierce, and Pryde had all moved to DS Fight Club and Tommy had gone to Southland Promotions . . .

She whistled long and low. “Holy shit. Raptor’s team . . .”

“Is basically gutted.”

“I just assumed the team was turning to crap because Pryde abandoned ship and he was the only decent trainer there.” Her back hit the leather of the chair with a thump. “No wonder he fucking hates C.”

“Nah, he hates C for a lot of reasons. These are just the latest.”

Paddy rolled his eyes. “We’re going to try to get Tommy to come on board. He needs to be in a fight club, not a promotion company. He’s good. He’d look out for our fighters. Part of Raptor’s issue is that he caused most of this. He canned Tig and Tommy. It was Raptor who was such a raving arsehole that Bruce left. He has no one to blame but himself.”

“And I bet that gets all the fuck over him.” Bridget shook her head. This fight was going to be ugly, no doubt about it, even without the personal baggage that she brought to the octagon.

But she was ready. From the moment they sat down at the conference table, Bridget’s excitement grew. The negotiations seemed to falter during the second conference call, and by the time Paddy threw his fit, Bridget was ready to scream and throw things, teeming with frustration to just let her fucking fight, let her meet Hanna Kowalczyk in the cage and thoroughly humiliate her, break her.

“Whoa, there, Birdie.” Junior huffed a nervous laugh, and Bridget chuckled when she realized that her expression must have made her look like a lunatic. “Training starts Monday. I, uh, think you need to go out tonight and blow off some steam. Maybe a girls’ night out or something.”

“Did I hear Bridget needs a GNO?” Nanda appeared in the door.

“Uh . . . um . . . ,” Bridget stammered.

“Yes, she does. Good. That’s decided. Get out. I got my own stuff to blow.” Junior waved them out of the office. “Go.”

“I’m not even going to make a com—” Nanda started, but then the door slammed shut in her face.

Paddy walked down the hall, cackling at Nanda’s shocked expression.

“Rude. What the hell is his problem?” Nanda snorted, and then with a dismissive shrug, turned to Bridget. “What say you, Birdie girl? Foley’s again?”

“You know what? Let’s go to Pickett & Spence for a change.”

“That swanky hipster place?”

“Yeah. Uh, Nolan’s brother is the bartender there. He’s mixed up some great cocktails. And this is my next to last night, so I’m having dessert. They have insane cakes.”

“Sold. I’ll make calls. You be ready to rock at eight o’clock sharp.” Nanda’s head jerked up suddenly. “Oh, excuse me? Mr. I’m Too Good to Wipe the Bench Off? Yeah, you, Peach Tank Top, I’m talking to you. See that stack of towels right there by you?” Nanda stalked off to deal with errant gym patrons, and Bridget blew all her breath out. Yes, a girls’ night out, a good camp, and a fight: that’s everything she ever hoped for.