“Hands up! Chin down! Hands up, Doherty! You’re not protecting your head!”

Bridget grunted as her sparring partner’s fist connected with her chin, proving that she was not indeed protecting her face.

Fuck.

She swung wildly, and Tig snuck in another tap, this one to her eye, and this time, his hit rocked her on her feet.

“Stop.”

Both fighters stopped cold at the voice of DS Fight Club’s co-owner and namesake, Paddy Doyle. Paddy stepped between the two of them and peered first at Tig and then at Bridget.

“What the fuck do you eejits not understand about light sparring? Light sparring, as in no concussions!” The Irishman grunted and shook his head. “That’s enough for today. Tig, nice moves, quick, but you still need to work on your combinations. Bridget, good pressure today, but you’ve got to keep those hands up. I don’t care if you’re taller than most of the other fighters in your class or that you’re never going to face a fighter with the reach of this rangy bastard.” Paddy jerked his head at Tig, who grinned around his mouthpiece. “All it takes is one well-placed strike, and it’s lights out for you and any chance at a belt.”

With a heavy sigh, Bridget spit out her mouthpiece and headed to the break room, grumbling to herself while she stripped off her sparring gloves.

“Bridget, wait up.” Tig caught up with her, his long legs quickly cutting the distance between them. The slight cowboy kickboxer bumped her shoulder with his before falling into step with her. “Talk to me, Doherty.”

“Nothing to say. You clocked me fair and square, and that shouldn’t have happened.” Bridget shook her head, disappointed in herself. “I don’t know what my problem is lately.”

“You gotta get your head back in the game, but not live in your head. I know you’ve been going through something. I’m just saying, if you need to blow off some steam or even just talk, I’m here.”

“Thanks, Tig. I don’t know when this started—” she began, but Tig interrupted her.

“It started when you got that letter from the law firm.” Bridget blinked at him. “Yeah, I know a legal envelope when I see one.”

Bridget sighed again and nodded her head once but didn’t elaborate, and Tig seemed to take the hint. He jabbered about kickboxing moves and combinations, and Bridget was thankful for her sparring partner’s intuitiveness.

Bridget and Tig walked into the break room, where two members of the DS Fight Club heavyweight class stood in front of a television, paying rapt attention to the talking head on the screen.

“Hey, Bridget, you’re gonna be interested in this,” Dominic “Dig” DiGiacomo called over his shoulder, his eyes still riveted to the screen.

“Real interested,” Damon Pierce added.

Tig and Bridget stepped up beside the two larger fighters to watch the sports news show.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tig said with a low whistle. “What the hell are they thinking?”

“They’re thinking money fight, is what they’re thinking, but there’s no way Estes is going to be able to make one thirty-five safely.” Bridget snorted. “She could barely do it three years ago before she retired.”

“That’s the thing,” Dig nodded at the screen. “Hold up and listen, Bridget.”

Bridget rolled her eyes but listened. “Yes! An official women’s featherweight class!” She whooped but then shook her head. “It’ll never happen. They talk a good talk, but I bet nothing comes of it.”

“Why so negative? It seems like it’s a done deal. I thought you’d be pleased and stoked.” Pierce side-eyed her.

Bridget stalled giving her response while the four fighters listened to the news report. The commentators bandied about a potential debut date for the new women’s fighting class and were already pairing up potential fighters. Bridget was pretty sure she knew who was number one for the matchup, and it made her sick to her stomach.

“Who do you think it’s going to be, Bridget?” Dig peered at her. “Whoa—you all right?”

Bridget nodded, her attention still on the news. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just need to—” She grinned as Tig shoved a protein drink into her hand. “Thanks, Tig.” She drank deeply and willed herself to answer as unemotionally as possible. “Yeah, I think it’s going to be Hanna Kowalczyk.”

“Whoa—she’s the top contender at one thirty-five. You think she’ll jump?”

“Oh yeah, she’ll jump. She’s met Marisa Estes three times, and Estes has put her down, three times. No one wants to see Estes-Kowalczyk IV, most of all Kowalczyk. Besides, Estes is six months pregnant. She’s gridlocked the division for three years; what are six more months? She’s going to hold on to that belt until they make her give it up. Plus, both Estes’s and Kowalczyk’s competition weight was one forty-five when they were in the Olympics. Why wouldn’t Kowalczyk jump at the chance at a belt in a brand-new division where her only real competition has been out for three years? It’s a no-brainer to me.” The male fighters gawked at Bridget, who just shrugged. “Yeah, I play fantasy matchmaker a lot in my head.”

Dig narrowed his eyes at Bridget. “You ever face either of them in regionals or anything?”

She chuckled. “Yep.”

“And?”

Bridget blew out a breath. “And I beat both of them.” But then I was an idiot and let myself get sidetracked and lost my momentum.

“Man, it would be sweet if that fight was in Atlanta, right? ‘Pressure Drop’ Doherty could get on the undercard and kick some ass. Whoo!” Tig whooped and jabbed at her, and Bridget couldn’t help but grin at his enthusiasm. The grin stretched the abraded skin of her cheek, and she winced.

“Oh man, you need to let Ryan or Junior take a look at that cut, Bridget.” Tig sucked air through his teeth as he peered at her face. “Dang, I’m sorry.”

Bridget waved him off. “I’ll get it looked at, but it’s a good lesson to keep my hands up, right?” She swallowed the rest of her shake and cleared her throat. “Yeah, I gotta get ready for C’s client. Thanks for the heads-up about the new division, guys.”

Bridget hurriedly rinsed out her cup, and before the men could say anything else, she fled the break room and dashed into the women’s locker room so she could have peace and quiet to have a mini-breakdown.

She swallowed hard, the shake turning to concrete in her belly as she thought about how she’d blown the biggest opportunity she’d ever had, and for what? Nothing. She should have left Kevin the moment he balked about them moving to the Southwest to train, but she didn’t. And now, seven years later, she was essentially starting over at thirty-two years old. Not ideal at all, but hell, she’d gotten a second chance, so she was going to do everything she could to make the most of it.

There were some days when she still couldn’t quite believe that Junior Maldonado agreed to take her on after she blindsided him in Buffalo. He’d been preoccupied when she’d shoved a stat sheet in his hand and told him she’d call him in three days. She had, and he’d actually remembered her. It had taken another four months of false starts for her to actually come to DS Fight Club, but in the end, she knew it was the right move at the right time. Was it perfect? No. But it was a hell of a lot better than working as a bartender and sleeping in her high school bedroom and seeing the disappointment in her mother’s eyes. Just about anything was better than that.

Bridget splashed water on her face and neck and looked in the mirror.

“Okay, Birdie. This is a marathon, not a sprint. You got this.”

She dried her face and set off to find Nolan Harper.