I’M STILL IN the parking lot when the steady stream of people entering the arena slows to a trickle. The fights will be starting soon. I planned to leave and go walk around in downtown Nashville, but I’m still staring at the side door that Owen used a few minutes ago.
What kind of fighter is he? Aggressive and always on the offensive—going after his opponent the second he hears the bell? Or is he slow and steady, like a marathon runner, pacing himself and wearing down his opponent in the process?
I slump down in the driver’s seat, annoyed with myself.
Who cares how Owen fights?
He’s a fighter. That’s all I need to know. But I can’t stop wondering.
That’s it. I’m going in.
I’m overthinking this. I’ll go in, watch a little of the fight, and leave. Owen will never know I was there.
I open the car door before I change my mind. The temperature has dropped, and it’s cold. I should’ve brought Dad’s jacket.
Owen’s Black Water High hoodie is balled up on the passenger seat. I pull it over my head, and the salty scent of the ocean envelops me.
Why can’t he smell like blue cheese or old sneakers?
I slam the door and cut across the parking lot to the main entrance. A woman perched on a stool near the door is playing Word Wars, a Scrabble rip-off, on her cell phone. She holds out her hand without taking her eyes off the screen. “Five dollars.”
I dig a crumpled bill out of my pocket and hand it to her.
“Go on in.” She points behind her with her thumb. “Just follow the hollering.”
The moment I walk through the doors, I hear the familiar din—whistling and shouting, foot stomping and cheering.
I forgot how loud it was at these things.
Watching a fight is discount therapy—a way to let out your anger and frustration, while disguising it as enthusiasm for the competitors. I hesitate at the open doorway that leads to the fight floor. Mangled hinges frame the opening, as if someone had ripped the doors off, which sums up the vibe in the arena.
The moment I cross the threshold, it feels like I’ve stepped into a time machine, and it takes me back to one of Reed’s fights.
Folding chairs are arranged around the perimeter of the octagon-shaped cage, but no one is sitting in them. A slim guy wearing red trunks soaked in sweat pummels his opponent with a series of punches to the ribs, following with a knee to the stomach. The guy doubles over, with the wind knocked out of him. This fight won’t last much longer.
His right side is exposed.
Cover up.
Too late. The guy in the red trunks throws a kick, his shin landing hard on his target, and his opponent falls against the mat.
The crowd roars.
Why would anyone subject themselves to this level of physical punishment? I asked Reed that once after a fight.
He looked at me like I was crazy. “For the rush.”
Soccer gives me a rush, too, but I don’t have to get my butt kicked.
I glance at the doorway behind me. I should get out of here. This place reminds me of Reed, and he’s the last person I want in my head. But if I leave, it’s because of him, and that’s worse.
I stay near the wall so I don’t get bumped by someone rushing to the bathroom. I move closer to the cage, but not too close.
The fighters clear the cage, and two new competitors approach. I can’t see them, and there’s no spotlight as they emerge from the locker rooms. Nobody is airing these fights on cable. But they still matter. No one starts at the top.
Maybe Owen fought before I came in and I missed it. It’s the universe’s way of telling me that I should’ve stayed in the car. I’m about to go back out there when I spot Cutter’s orange UT jacket.
“Bring in The Law,” someone shouts.
Owen comes into view, flanked by Cutter and Lazarus, who are both talking to him.
Another thing you don’t see at MMA fights are flashy satin robes. Owen is wearing nothing except a pair of black-and-yellow trunks.
They enter the cage and Owen raises a fist when the ref—doubling as the announcer—calls out his moniker: “Owen the Law.”
Owen’s opponent comes out next—“Rabid” Ricky Dio.
I see his hair before the rest of him—the top gelled and spiked so straight that it actually looks dangerous. Dio’s hair is buzzed down to his scalp everywhere else and he looks rabid. His expression is a lethal mix of anger and anxiety.
Dio lunges at Owen and starts yelling. He’s trying to psych Owen out. It’s a page right out of Reed’s playbook. Owen ignores him.
The ref calls the fighters to the center of the mat and talks to them. Then the trainers and cutmen exit the cage. Mouth guards go in and the bell rings, signaling the start of round one.
Dio goes after Owen like a man possessed. He’s an offensive fighter, like Reed—pointing at Owen and talking smack. He hits Owen with a combination—a jab to the kidney, a flying knee to the stomach, followed by an elbow strike to the jaw.
The elbow lands hard and I flinch.
Owen shakes it off and stays calm. He blocks and weaves, letting Dio wear himself out.
Between rounds, Cutter and Lazarus rush back into the cage. Cutter bends down in front of Owen, who nods as she talks, while Lazarus ices and applies ointment to Owen’s cuts to stop the bleeding.
By round three, Dio’s spiked hair is holding up better than the fighter himself. The guy wasted a lot of energy going after Owen in the first two rounds and now he’s paying for it.
Owen is patient and calculated. He waits for openings, and then he nails the guy with a power hit or combination.
I hold my breath every time Owen hems Dio up against the ropes.
“Come on. Go down already,” I whisper.
Owen sweeps Dio’s legs out from under him. When Dio hits the mat, Owen doesn’t hesitate. In seconds, he’s on the mat in front of Dio. Owen makes a fist and wraps his arm around the back of the other fighter’s neck. Then Owen clamps his free hand around his fist, securing the guillotine chokehold.
It’s over.
Dio must know it too, because he taps out—tapping the mat three times—the MMA version of giving up.
The ref calls the fight. “And the winner is Owen Law.”
I shout and clap, along with the crowd.
Lazarus turns in my direction, and I hold my breath. He’s looking right at me.
No … above me.
A caged clock hangs on the wall over my head. Lazarus checks the time, then turns back to Cutter.
My heart pounds and I duck behind a group of college guys wearing Tennessee State baseball caps who are arguing about the weight cap for welterweights.
“I’m telling you, it’s a hundred sixty-five pounds,” one of them says.
“Middleweight starts at one hundred seventy-five pounds,” his friend counters.
The debate escalates. “Fifty bucks says you’re wrong.”
“You don’t have fifty bucks, or I’d take that bet—and your money.”
“Save your money,” I say. The three college boys look back at me. “Welterweight ends at one hundred seventy pounds, and middleweight is above one-seventy.”
They stare at me dismissively, as if I couldn’t possibly be right.
Losers.
As I walk to the exit, I steal a glance at Owen, sweat-soaked and grinning from ear to ear, like he’s genuinely happy. The rogue butterfly in my stomach flutters its wings.
Damn.
I’ve got to find a way to keep that from happening.
First, I have to get back in the Jeep, before Owen sees me.
I turn around and catch a glimpse of a guy in a red T-shirt coming toward me. I know that logo.
“Peyton?”
I recognize the guy’s voice, but it takes me a minute to process—because his voice shouldn’t be here.
“I thought that was you,” Billy says. “What are you doing here?”
My throat goes dry when I look up and see Reed’s friend and teammate staring at me.
“I came in to use the bathroom,” I stammer. It’s not even a decent lie.
Billy shakes his head, watching me. “You couldn’t stay away, huh?”
“Stay away?”
He gestures at the cage. “From the fights. You miss it, don’t you?”
Is Reed here with Billy?
My pulse races and I scan the room, panicked.
“Reed isn’t here, if that’s who you’re looking for. I came on my own. My cousin is fighting. He lives in Nashville.”
“Your cousin. Right,” I mumble.
“Reed misses you. I know he’d want to hear from you. Hell, he’d take you back in a hot second.”
“I don’t miss him.” My tone turns cold.
Billy gives me a knowing look. “Come on, Peyton. Why else would you be here? Or did you start fighting?”
“This would make it kind of hard.” I point at my RoboCop brace, hoping Billy realizes how ridiculous he sounds.
He looks away. “I feel you. I said the same thing after Jen broke up with me. I used to hang at the football field at lunch, like I was waiting to pick her up from cheer practice.”
“I have to go.” I slip around Billy, desperate to get the hell away from him. I want to beg him not to tell Reed that he ran into me, but it’s pointless. At least we aren’t in Black Water.
I focus on the doorway that leads out of the arena.
“He wants you back, Peyton,” Billy calls out.
My stomach knots, and an image of Reed, standing at the top of the stairs, flashes through my mind. I ignore Billy and keep walking—through the open doorway, down the hall, past the woman collecting tickets, and across the parking lot, until I make it to the Jeep.
I keep looking behind me to make sure no one is following me. When I climb into the car, I drop the keys in the cup holder beside me. I’m not willing to turn it on and risk attracting attention.
I sink lower in the seat, wishing I could disappear.
Running into Billy caught me off guard. All that garbage about Reed missing me and—my favorite part—that he would take me back if I just asked? What kind of sob story is Reed selling? After all the lies he told, I’m surprised he hasn’t been struck by lightning.
What if Billy tells Reed his idiotic theory about me hanging out at an MMA semifinal because I miss him so much? Reed will never stop calling me.
Billy probably texted him the minute I walked away.
I spend the next hour sulking in the Jeep. The fights ended a while ago, and the flood of testosterone-pumped guys doing bad side kicks in the parking lot has cleared out. The fighters leave through the side door with their trainers, but there’s no sign of Owen, Cutter, or Lazarus.
Maybe there’s another exit, and I’m sitting here like an idiot while they’re halfway to Black Water. The side door finally opens. Lazarus and Cutter come out and head straight for the parking lot. I watch the door, expecting Owen to follow them.
Where is he?
Cutter’s truck drives by and turns onto the street.
There’s still no sign of Owen.
Did he catch a ride with someone else?
I’m sure one of the MMA groupies in the arena offered to give him a ride. But Owen wouldn’t ditch me. Would he?
I start the Jeep and back out of the parking space. The lot is deserted, except for a few cars that probably belong to employees. I flip a U-turn and circle around to the back of the building to check for another way out. There’s an emergency exit door, with a dumpster blocking half of it. Only the Incredible Hulk could get out this way—not a reassuring thought after I was in there earlier.
As I circle back to the front of the arena, a nagging feeling tugs at me. Owen didn’t leave the building with the other fighters—or Cutter and Lazarus. Either he lost track of time and he’s taking the world’s longest shower, or something happened.
I park near the side door. If I go through the main entrance, I might run into someone who works at the arena, and I’ll get stuck explaining why I’m sneaking around.
I’m just looking for a guy I drove here—who isn’t my boyfriend, and probably left already, while I sat in the parking lot, freezing my ass off.
That doesn’t sound pathetic at all.
I stare at the dented red door. If it’s locked, I’m leaving, and Owen will have to find his own way home. One hard pull and the door swings open.
Inside, the hallway is wallpapered with fight cards and posters for pro MMA fights, like the UFC matches Reed loved watching on TV. Fluorescent ceiling panels bathe everything in pale orange light. I pass the restrooms, where a woman is smoking a cigarette and mopping the floor in front of the ladies’ room. Other people wearing staff T-shirts dart in and out of the hallway, pushing stacks of chairs or carrying huge trash bags over their shoulders. I don’t see any trainers or fighters.
Come on, Owen. Where are you?
A man leaves the arena with a bag of garbage slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing earbuds and singing along with the music.
I wave to get his attention. “Excuse me?”
“Need some help?” he asks, removing one of his earbuds.
“I’m looking for my friend. He fought here tonight. Are any of the fighters still around?”
“Not sure. They usually clear out fast. You can check the locker room.” He points toward the end of the hallway. “Straight down.”
“Thanks.”
He notices my leg brace. “Are you a fighter?”
“Soccer player.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t know soccer was such a rough sport.”
“Thanks again.” I head down the hall, feeling less optimistic about finding Owen. It’s probably a result of the Reed Effect—the way Reed turns everything to shit.
The locker room is dark and quiet. Locker rooms aren’t quiet unless they’re empty. Conversations, showers running, doors closing, and footsteps echo inside. But I still don’t want to chance it and walk in on a half-naked stranger.
I take a step inside and whisper-shout Owen’s name. When no one responds, I take another step. This time I call his name loud enough for a person without supersonic senses to hear. “Owen? Are you in here?”
“Give me a minute,” a muffled voice calls out.
“Owen? Is that you?”
A moment later, I hear what sounds like “Hold on.”
There’s something weird about his voice. I’m not waiting.
I storm into the locker room, my steps echoing to announce my arrival.
Owen must hear them, too, because he calls out to me again. “Just give me a minute.” He sounds strange.
“You’ve already had over an hour. That’s how long I’ve been waiting in the parking lot for you.”
“Peyton, don’t come in here. Please…” He coughs and then sucks in a deep breath.
I stop at the corner where a bank of lockers begins. Owen is just on the other side. Why doesn’t he want me in here? And why does he sound so strange? Did the fight take a bigger toll on him than I thought?
Owen coughs again, and I round the corner. “You’d better have clothes on, because I’m—”
The moment I see him, I lose my train of thought. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the lockers behind him, still in his trunks. His hands are still wrapped, the white cloth stained red from the fight.
Why hasn’t he showered or changed?
Owen sees me and takes a labored breath. “I told you not to—” he gasps, then sucks in a sharp breath. Even in the dim light, he looks pale.
My heart stalls.
“I’m okay,” Owen mumbles, struggling to keep his eyes open. I rush over to him just as he loses the battle and they flutter shut.