I’m an idiot. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m an idiot.

Bridget grinned to herself when she got Nolan’s text message. Then she laughed out loud at the selfie of him with a delicious-looking plate of biscuits and a note card that said “Peace offering?” She began and erased four separate text messages, but nothing seemed to be quite right.

She’d just started a fifth message when Tig called her name.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, the matchmaker from SoPro’s here. He wants to see you.”

Bridget screwed her up face, trying to remember if she was supposed to meet with the matchmaker one-on-one. Her confusion must have been evident because Tig shrugged and said, “I have no idea why he’s here, but he specifically asked to talk to you. Do you want me to hang around?”

She paused a moment. “Nah. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She shrugged off her feeling of unease and went to go meet Tommy Thomas. She stood and watched him in the fishbowl conference room for a moment before she went in. He reminded her so much of someone, but she couldn’t quite place him. But then again, she was notoriously bad with names and faces until they were literally right in front of her. Case in point: the Harper brothers. They looked incredibly similar despite the difference in their ages. She didn’t know how she didn’t see it before.

This is going to bug me. She shook her head to clear it and then pushed her way through the heavy glass door.

Tommy was staring out the window, looking at the rooftops of converted textile mills, much like the building that housed DS Fight Club, and new developments. He started when Bridget knocked on the glass window and said, “Hey, Tommy.”

“Ms. Doherty.” He turned and flashed her a nervous smile. “Getting hyped for camp?”

“Sure. Yeah. This is a big opportunity.” She bobbed her head so hard that she became dizzy. “Tig said you wanted to see me?”

He blew out a breath and shifted his weight from leg to leg. “I don’t know how to say this without coming across like a big psycho, but you need to watch your back.”

Bridget arched an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”

“Oh God, that came out wrong.” He shook his head. “Raptor has it out for you. I saw the tape from your last fight with Kowalczyk. You had that match. There’s no reason it should have been a majority draw.”

Bridget cracked her neck. She’d been trying not to think about that match, about that night, that horrible, horrible night, but she knew the closer the match came, the more unavoidable talking about it would be and the more people would hear about their last fight.

“That was five years ago, Tommy. Ancient history now. Hell, it was ancient history the moment I walked out of the cage.” She sighed. “What’s this really about?”

“Word on the street is that Kowalczyk is going to put you down. Permanently. Maybe inside the octagon . . .”

“But most likely outside.”

“I’m just telling you that’s what I heard. You know how the fighter rumor mill churns.”

“Oh, that I definitely do.” She tapped her fingers on the shiny surface of the conference table. “Thank you, Tommy. I appreciate it.”

“I couldn’t live with myself if I got someone else hurt, you know? Matt’s a good guy, but he pays too much attention to what Jett Raptor has to say. It’s gonna get him into trouble, and I’ll be damned if I end up in the hole with him.”

“I don’t blame you.”

Tommy flashed her that familiar smile. “Take care of yourself, Bridget Doherty.”

“You, too, Tommy Thomas.”

Colin glowered at Bridget from the across the large mahogany desk as she recounted her conversation with Tommy. He had his infant daughter nestled against his upper chest, his freshly shaved cheek resting against her bald head, and Bridget was once again struck by how much baby Nora looked like her father.

“What?” he whisper-growled.

“She looks just like you.”

“She’s my baby girl. Who is she supposed to look like?”

“I just find it humorous.”

Colin made a rude noise and shifted the sleeping baby to his shoulder.

“As much as I don’t like to listen to gossip, there’s usually more truth to it than not. So, given all the information that we’ve got, how do you feel about this fight? I don’t want to put you in a dangerous situation right off the bat.”

“No offense, C, but you know every time we go into the cage, it’s a dangerous situation.”

He rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean, Miss Sassybritches.”

Bridget snorted. Sassybritches. Where the hell does he come up with this shit?

“I’m trying to watch my language. Maude called a kid ‘fartfucker’ last week. Needless to say, her teachers weren’t too thrilled.”

“But was the kid a fartfucker?”

Colin grinned. “Probably. I’ve met the kid’s dad, and he’s a complete tool.” He cleared his throat, and baby Nora stretched and mewled. “Whatever you wanna do, I’ll support you. You know that, right?”

“I know, and I appreciate it. I’m taking the fight. I need this. I have to do this.”

“Okay. Well, Matt called yesterday, and they want to do a presser at the SoPro headquarters. Neutral ground and all that crap. Is ‘crap’ a curse word?”

“It’s scatological, so yeah, technically.”

“You and Tig with your big vocabularies. Good grief.” He narrowed his eyes at Bridget. “What’s that face for?”

“I’ve never done a press conference, C. I mean, I’ve seen them and I’ve been to them, but . . .” Bridget broke out into a cold sweat. Kicking someone in the liver, fine. Having a microphone stuck in her face? Maybe she wasn’t ready to do this fight.

“Whoa, Birdie. Take a deep breath. Now take another one. Okay, tell you what. I want you to watch some tapes of the pressers to see how Kowalczyk handles herself, what sort of trash talk she does. But remember, I’ll be there, Paddy will be there, and Bruce will be there. We’ve got your back. Okay?”

Bridget took some deep breaths and nodded. Yeah. Okay.

Holy fuck, not okay. Not okay at all.

Bridget swiped her hand across her face, mopping away the clammy sweat that had appeared as she watched the press conference. She’d managed to avoid Hanna Kowalczyk’s fights and media junkets after their fight, and now, watching hours upon hours of Hanna smirking and trash-talking proved to be almost too much to handle.

Even worse, though, were the outfits she wore. Generally, the male fighters dressed in suits or business casual. The women? Not so much. “Short, tight, and shiny” was the standard female fighter dress code, and yeah, that was so not Bridget. She had exactly one dress, and that was her funeral dress.

Oh God.

And the makeup. And the hair.

Bridget sprinted out the front door and across the lawn to bang on Annie and Pierce’s front door.

“Hold on a sec,” she heard Pierce yell from somewhere inside the house.

“Put a jock on, big man, this is an emergency. I have to talk to Annie, now!”

Annie flung open the door. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright. “What’s going on, Bridget? Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not. I need to look like a girl on Friday.”

“Oh, shit.” Pierce was buttoning his jeans, but he was still shirtless. Bridget held up her hand and shook her head.

“Just don’t, Pierce. I’m in the middle of a crisis, and I don’t want to have to kick your ass.”

“My bad. I’ll leave you two alone.”

Annie gripped Bridget by the shoulders. “This calls for the big guns.”

“Nanda?”

Annie shook her head. “Charlotte and Ashley.”

Oh, holy fuck.