One month later . . .
Cameron
“You ready, old man?” Blake calls from his spot propped up behind me, elbows on the top of the octagon.
“You got this, Cam.” Jonah’s next to Blake, same position, and Caleb, Rex, Mason, and Wade are there too.
Owen’s down, standing stoic with his arms crossed at his chest, game face on.
I nod to the fighters and bounce on my toes as Rusty Faulkner enters the cage.
The stadium is packed with thousands of screaming UFL fans. They chant my name and electrify the air with the intensity of their thirst for battle. An over-a-decade rivalry will be settled in five-minute rounds, or less if I have my way.
This is it. What I’ve lived for since the day I landed my first punch. Everything I’ve been scrambling to get back after I lost my chance at the title. Here, standing in the octagon with the heat of the lights on my skin and the fire of a challenge in my gut.
But this time is different. This time, my life is no longer inside the cage, but sits outside, hands locked together in support. Ryder and Eve, and the thought of Rosie, who’s been showing subtle signs of improvement every day. Even D’lilah decided to show her support and is sitting in my corner, holding hands with a pretty decent dude she’s dating.
“You’re going down, Prez.” Faulkner’s attempt at shit-talk doesn’t faze me.
I knew after seeing him at weigh-in that he doesn’t stand a chance. He’s sloppy, undertrained, and overconfident. But this isn’t about me beating him; it’s always been about proving myself to me. In a lifetime of unintentional failures, I’m ready for intentional success. I need to prove to myself that my career wasn’t a total waste.
The ref talks, brings us together for a rundown of the rules, but I’m waiting on the word. That one word that signals it’s time to throw down.
The ref’s voice cuts off, and the speakers shriek as feedback, loud and piercing, slices through the air. What the fuck? The crowd screeches, and I fight the urge to cover my ears.
Everyone looks around in question; shock plays across the faces of the ref, the judges, and the commentators. The arena comes alive in a flurry of confusion as the jumbo screens go from shots of the octagon to static.
I glare across the cage to a very smug-looking Rusty Faulkner. Something tells me whatever this is the dickbag has something to do with it.
The sound of my own voice spills from the speakers and calls my attention to the screen.
“If you don’t like it, get the fuck out!”
A video plays of me talking to my fighters the day of Rex’s and Blake’s fights. Who the hell is responsible for this?
“You spoiled little jackoffs!”
That’s me again from the same meeting. My gaze swings to Rusty, who is now surrounded by his crew, and fuck if Reece isn’t standing right there with him. Fucking snake. Reece was working for him this whole time? That’s what Killer walked in on and why he’s been catching hell ever since.
More video plays on the big screen for a crowd of over ten thousand fans. I don’t need to look to know my own fighters have formed a barrier of support at my back. I can feel the heat of their anger.
The voices of my fighters questioning my ability to run the UFL filter in through the area, and I’m sure there’s video to go with them, but I wouldn’t know as my eyes are fixed on the traitorous bastards standing across from me.
“Man with brain damage isn’t fit to run this organization.”
“Once he fucks it all up, we’re all out of a job.”
“The dude can’t remember to wipe his own ass let alone run the UFL.”
“Did you hear what happened to his daughter?”
“Enough!” In two long strides, I’m nose to nose with the slimy fuck. “So this is what you were after?” I shove him hard, but his crew holds him up. “You want to publicly humiliate me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Kyle.” Faulkner’s lips curl back over his teeth. “This is about giving the fans a good show, something the UFL has neglected to do for years.”
“Fans aren’t stupid. They’ll see right through this.” I jerk a thumb toward the screens. “And you’re fucking high if you think this bullshit will ever sell.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. Between Reece, Lopez, and me, we’ve got enough footage to splice together a pretty interesting show. Internet fans around the world will pay big bucks to be let in on the UFL’s secrets.”
“Got some good locker-room conversations recorded.” Reece high-fives another fighter on Faulkner’s crew. “Ever wonder what people are saying about you behind your back?”
“You dirty little shit.” Mason rushes Reece but is held back by Caleb and Rex.
I step into Rusty’s face, and the weight of angry fighters surrounds me. “No one fucks with my organization or its fighters. You hear me, you weaselly prick?”
My pulse pounds in my ears, and adrenaline powers my muscles. I didn’t get the fight I trained for, but it’s not too late. I shove Rusty again, sending him back. His crew surges forward, and my fighters press in from behind.
“No! Wait!” A feminine but powerful voice cuts through the group, and Eve squeezes in between us.
“Slade,” I growl. “Get her out of here.”
Jonah grabs her arm, but she knocks him off with a few girlie slaps to his hand. “Don’t you dare, Jonah Slade.” She presses against my chest, demanding my eyes. “There are cameras on you right now.” She jerks her head to Rusty. “His cameras. This is exactly what he wants. Don’t give it to him.”
“Yeah, Cameron.” Rusty nods to Eve. “Listen to the little girl. Walk away in front of a stadium packed with UFL fans. Show them what a pussy you are.”
“Slade. Now.”
“Fuck.” Jonah moves to grab her again.
“Yeah, Jonah. Get the little bitch—”
“Whoa!” Eve holds her hands up, and I’m seconds away from throwing her to Jonah so I can fuck this guy up. She scratches her chin. “On second thought”—she pushes up to her tiptoes and presses a long closed-mouthed kiss against my lips—“I think it’s about time you get your fight.” She looks between Rusty and me then brings her eyes back to mine. “Kick his ass.”
Finally, I get my fight with Rusty Faulkner. No judges. No commentators. In less than three minutes, it’s over by knockout.
Victory.
Without a single hit to my head.