I stretch my arms to loosen up and catch a glimpse of my opponent out of the corner of my eye. She’s focused on some fancy footwork, probably to stay warmed up.

She’s big and she’s skilled, but I can take her.

I’ve seen her fight a few times.

Her moves are predictable.

Mentally going through my sparring techniques, I prepare myself.

Tate crosses my mind. It’s kind of cute that he’s so protective, but my anxiety about Jett doesn’t mean that I’m weak. Stepping into the ring to face a fighter is in a different ballpark from watching over my back in case some crazy ex who’s fucked up in the head shows up and tries to slice me up into little pieces.

I wish I could’ve gotten that across to Tate, but he’s in a state of panic. I take a second to look for him. He’s not back yet.

He should know I’m determined. Stubborn. Tenacious. At the same time, he’s bold enough to follow through on his promise to eventually step into the ring and cart me off.

But I need this. A win within this roped off square means more to me than the prize money. It’d be a win for my busted-up psyche, victory over my fear, triumph over the months of psychological intimidation that Jett put me through.

I picture Tate’s face from a few minutes ago. He’s terrified for me, but I know this girl. I understand her moves inside and out. I can do this. I have a shot, and there’s a heck of a lot of money on the line. Money that I can say I earned, as opposed to what my mother inherited from her family and what she was given after my father died.

I’m doing this.

Pain isn’t a factor. I’ve never been scared of physical pain. If anything, it’s a damn good motivator for this fight. This chick is mine. That’s the pep talk I give to myself after the girl with the clipboard steps into the ring and puts a mouth guard over my teeth.

The bell rings twice.

I put my hands up to guard my face. Time to kick some ass. The world narrows to nothing and everything. My opponent does her usual. Within seconds, she’s thrown three jabs toward my face, kidneys, and stomach.

Dip, duck, dodge.

I stay a step ahead, playing good defense as my heart beats hard and high in my throat. My opponent is known for coming on strong at the beginning and waning in the later rounds. It’s just a matter of wearing the woman down and conserving energy.

That’s what I think, but apparently not tonight.

I’m sure I pivoted to the left enough to avoid her next blow, but as I throw out a right hand and deliver a good hit to her cheek, her long arm catches me beside my mouth. I lift up my hand up to cover my face and watch as she stumbles back. The steady roar of the crowd makes my head pound, and my fists shake inside my gloves. My vision warps and wobbles as I swallow down a mouthful of blood from the shot to my face.

I decide it’s time to take a risk. I can’t let her gain the upper hand so fast. Not with strength and speed obviously in her corner. I duck behind her, pivot, and try to play follow the leader to get the girl back on the ropes. She plays along. But I’m not strong enough. Even when I succeed at getting in a hit, the impact of my blow does more damage to me than it does to her. Every punch rocks all the way past my wrist and up my arm. And when she gets me, I’m lucky to stay on my feet. She catches me in the ribs. This one knocks the wind out of me and demolishes my balance.

At this rate, making it to the end of round one will be enough for me to feel like a win.

My opponent smiles as I stumble. Her bright show of teeth and all the confidence in her eyes cause my knees to go weak at first, but I start to hate that smug look on her face. I strike with a blind blow and catch her jaw. It isn’t a solid hit, but she staggers backward, giving me a few seconds of breathing room. I’m going on adrenaline alone.

So close. So damn close.

I’m praying for the end of round one buzzer to go off when she strikes me out of nowhere. My world tilts sideways as sharp, excruciating pain licks up my face. Shit, that’s going to leave a bad bruise tomorrow. I can barely think past the fire spreading across my whole head. All the air goes out of my lungs in a whoosh that hurts as much as the fist flinging past my head. Another blow catches me in the stomach and knocks me back a few steps. Panic fills me when I feel the ropes hit my back. If she corners me here, I’m done for. I might as well tap out and avoid the hospital stay.

But I don’t give up.

It’s not an option.

I need to get it together and fast.

Except I’m too late.

The other woman doles out a sharp uppercut that sends me sprawling into the ropes, which bounce me back into her awaiting fist. It feels like my whole jaw is broken. Tears burn hot behind my shut eyelids. I struggle to stand, but my knees buckle under me. My vision swims. Nausea rips through my torso.

I hear the bell go off. Once. Twice. I muscle my way up to straighten my legs, shakily drawing my hands back up to my face.

“I’m…not…done,” I say, but no sound comes out from my mouth.

I hear a deafening shout from my right. The voice doesn’t belong to the referee or my opponent.

“Touch her again and I’ll rip out your throat.”

Tate.

He grabs me by the waist and carries me fighting and screaming from the ring.

“Jesus, Tate. I got this! Get out of the ring!”

I idly wonder what the referee will say to announce that I’m disqualified. All that prize money, gone. I mean, I was losing already, but Tate’s move is a big, fat dent on my record, a stain on my reputation.

“We’re leaving right now.” Tate carries me as we pass through the opening in the crowd. He doesn’t let me down until we’re in front of the first aid room. Rage pools in my belly and all I can think of is to push him into the bank of lockers against the wall and wail on him until I have no energy left.

“Who the hell do you think you are!” I scream. “You had no right to do that!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, and takes a seat on the nearby bench meant for injured fighters.

My jaw clenches. “It’s none of your business if I choose to get in that ring.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I’m sorry if I didn’t tell you about Jett, but hiring you to protect me from him isn’t the same thing as deciding not to fight.”

“Moll…” His face drains of all color. “I’m not asking you about that fucker. Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“About what? That I fight at all? That I get hurt sometimes? Of course, I get banged up a bit. That was a serious fight for serious money.”

“No. Not that…I saw something just now. The bag you asked me to get for you…it tipped over and this fell out.”

He pulls something out of his back pocket and thrusts it into my hand.

Oh. This.

Fuck.

“You’re…Jesus, I saw the fucking pregnancy test, Molly. You’re pregnant, and you never told me?” He chokes out the words as if they physically hurt as they pass his lips.

I stare at him in disbelief. There’s no way he can know that. Even I don’t know that. I bought a test a couple of weeks back as a spur of the moment thing, but only because I felt ill. I peed on the stick but got called in to take care of a fighter, and I honestly forgot all about it. The thing must’ve fallen to the bottom of my bag. And I felt better the next day and didn’t give it a second thought.

I take a closer look at the indicator section.

Two pink lines.

It’s positive?

Jesus.

My mind is numb enough as it is, dealing with the possible concussion I just got in the ring. I’m just learning that I. May. Be. Fucking. Pregnant? And he wants me to explain the results? He saw the results before I did, for Christ’s sake. But hell, I don’t want to confess that. It doesn’t sound believable. Not even to me.

“Um, no. This has to be a mistake. A false positive,” I sputter, licking my lips and wincing as I taste blood.

“The test says your pregnant.”

“It has to be contaminated. Look, I’ll prove it. We can buy another test on the way to the clubhouse. And once you see for yourself, you’d better have a proper apology for taking me out of that fight!”

I’m mad all over again.

“Forget the damn fight. You had enough doubt in your mind to take the fucking test. And now you’re questioning the results?”

“This is bullshit. I’m on the pill… I can’t be knocked up. I’ll buy another test.”

“Fine. You’ll have to believe it then.”

“Fine, but as soon as this is over with and you see I’m not pregnant, I want you to admit you’re out of your fucking mind. I would know if I was carrying a kid around. I would know!”

I would…right?