Olive’s hair sprawls over my arms and tickles me awake. It’s so easy to fall asleep with her next to me, but difficult to stay asleep the way her body curls up to mine.

She’s so soft and warm, and I want to protect her, to make her feel as safe with me all the time. She’s made a cocoon of the blankets, and it’s silly. I move a blanket up over her shoulder, careful to keep her comfortable trying not to wake her as I stand.

Last night was the last night.

I need to go. If I don’t Barry will leak those pictures. It has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Olive. If those pictures got out, her life would be ruined. I couldn’t care less about my career. I want to stay with her.

And I will. I will be with her.

But for now, I have to go. I have a flight to catch.

I throw my clothes into my suitcase carelessly. I leave the one hoodie I know Olive loves.

I’m tempted to put it on her—she’s shivering in her sleep and that blanket isn’t enough, but I don’t want to wake her up.

That’s not completely true. Part of me wants her to wake up, so I can tell her how much I love her, so she will beg me to stay. If she does that, there’s no way I can go. But that’s not going to happen.

Plus, all of the torment we’ve been through these past few days would be for nothing, and Barry would leak those photos of us on the beach. I clench my jaw, tensing. I have to get back to the States. Much as I don’t want to, I have to get back in the ring.

Gently, I drape the hoodie over her. I’m about to press my lips to hers for a quick kiss, but I stop myself before I feel her breath on mine. That’d wake her up, surely.

Fuck.

How can I leave? I can’t be the bad boxer who doesn’t give a fuck about anyone anymore. I’ve lost the desire to destroy and punish myself. I need to be here.

For Olive. And for Lark.

Shit.

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the thoughts that live in my head like demons. Then I descend the stairs, knowing that no amount of head shaking will get rid of the pain. Everything about this is wrong.

I’m outside the house and already starting on the road when I turn around to stare at the window to the room where Olive sleeps. Finally, I turn and make my way to the waiting car. It’s still dark out, and this fits my mood just fine.

Goddammit.

Checking into the airport is an entirely different experience than it was checking in with Olive. Still, I can’t help but look for similarities and imagine how Olive would look standing there. I can’t stop myself from thinking about what she would say or do in any situation, and how I would react, and where it would lead us.

Now isn’t the time to be daydreaming about what might have been. It’s time to get back to work. Time to get back to being the Axel Reign the fans know and love. At least on the outside.

I have to be able to pass off the bad boy act I’ve had going for the past few years, and everything will be the same as it was before.

Unfortunately, I don’t want it to be the same. I want Olive. I wonder what advice she’d have about this. She’d either say one of two things—

Okay, no, she’d say one thing. It’s only the Olive in my imagination who would beg me to stay with her. Olive would probably just tell me I need to go. Because I do.

And as I sit here in this uncomfortable plastic airport chair, it hits me …

Olive told me we wouldn’t work out because she’d heard everything Barry said, and she understood.

I had told her I’d tell her in the morning what was going on, even though I’d never intended on it.

But I never told her.

And she never asked.

It never came up because she didn’t want to talk about it and make me feel worse, because she knew I would try to talk her out of it and maybe stay and make things worse.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, I am a horrible person.

I’m about to beat the shit out of the chairs next to me when I hear some people next to me talking. A few guys, maybe one or two girls. They look to be around my age.

I scowl, wondering if they’re about to start shit with me. Believe it or not that happens sometimes. Random tough guy trying to impress a woman, and I’m really not in the mood. But then I start to make out what they’re saying—

“Man, is that who I think it is?”

“Yeah, I think so. He does kind of look different. “

“I don’t know—”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. They’re probably debating whether the gossip they’ve heard about me is true. I’m not in the mood, so I make eye contact with one of the little twats.

I hope he tries to hit me so I have a reason to release some of my anger, even though I have a match coming up in the next few days and getting in a fight with some random civilian isn’t going to help my reputation any.

But I don’t give a fuck about my reputation.

Never did.

I’m not even out of my seat when the guy drops his eyes and says something to his friends. A few of them scatter off, but two of them walk up to me and ask for an autograph.

So they weren’t looking to start shit in the first place. One of them peels off his shirt while the other looks for a security guard, making sure no one sees them. It’s early, though, and the place is pretty empty.

“Strict no shirt no service rule,” one of them explains.

I grunt and give them a quick scribble that’s nowhere near clear enough to be my name. Not that it matters. Some days I really hate being Axel Reign.

But when the flight announces it’s time to board, it doesn’t matter who I am. I’m just another one of the cattle they herd onto the six-thirty flight departing Santorini, Greece.

Leaving behind everything I’ve ever loved.

As soon as I’m back in the States, I’m swarmed by people. Mobs of people with cameras and reporters with questions. I almost forgot how crazy it could get.

But it all comes back to me rather quickly. It’s hard to forget people intruding in your business and asking you questions you’d never consider asking yourself.

I try as hard as I can to ignore all of the questions, but the ones about Olive slip through. I turn my head to the sky instead of down, so these vampires won’t think I’m afraid of them. I could send them all crying back to their mothers if I wanted to, but since going to jail isn’t likely to improve my situation, I hold back. At the same time, I’m not putting up with any of their shit.

One of them, a scrawny guy in an ugly plaid shirt, tries to block my path. This is a mistake, and I pop my hand out like I’m about to shove him.

He jumps out of the way immediately. Good.

Autograph requests which I ignore.

Questions, again which I ignore.

More questions I ignore.

It goes on and on, and Coach Parker is by my side walking me through it—not for emotional support, but to make sure I don’t beat the shit out of anyone. I’m glad for it, because if he weren’t here with his hand steering me forward, I probably would have lost my shit on someone by now.

We get to the car and the ride is bumpy, but surprisingly silent. Coach takes out a water bottle and offers it to me. When I don’t take it, he throws it at my lap. I catch it before it hits my junk, and I glare at him.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Coach asks.

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t, so I guess it’s my turn.

“I was thinking that I was doing something that was actually good for me, for once in my life.”

“I get that.” He nods, and his voice goes softer. The words changed from would-be pissed to just … Coach. He’s supportive, like the father mine never was, even when my father was the one who forced me into boxing to go and meet this man. It’s ironic, in a way.

“She’s that special?”

“More than I can say.” My voice catches, and pretending I’m thirsty, I open the bottle he tossed me and drink from it. In the back of my mind I plan that, as soon as we get out of this limo, I’m searching for beer. Fuck this water. I need something stronger.

“If it was meant to, it will all work out,” Coach says, and he claps my back again as if we’re back in the ring. Then it’s back to boxing talk. “So we’re going to get you into some training before the fight. You’ve gone soft.”

“I could never go soft.” I scowl at him.

“Sure,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

In a few minutes we arrive back to my old gym. I exit the limo, and push past the front doors, and inhale the familiar scent of violence, pain, and sweat.

And as soon as I’m in front of the bag with the gloves on my hands, I know I’m in my element.

There are cheers and screams as I make my way to the ring, but they aren’t as loud as usual. I’m so charged up, it’s all I can do to wait for the bell before I hit my opponent.

The instant I hear the signal that the fight has begun, my glove connect with his flesh.

After that it’s just one punch after another.

My knuckles bleed even through the tape and gloves, that’s how hard I am hitting.

I dodge as he tries to hit me back then jab, jab, jab before he can land a cross. I lose myself in the battle, paying attention to strategy even though I just really want to fucking hurt someone.

All my pent up frustration comes barreling out of my fists. Sweat pours down my body from the exertion, and the fans start to cheer for me now.

The bout ends when I knock down my opponent, and the ref and a few corner men have to pull me off him at the end of round three.

I push them away, raise my arms in victory, and stand angrily waiting for the audience to erupt. They stand and cheer as I rip my gloves from my hands and toss them into the crowd.

They reach for them, desperate to be the person to catch the gloves Axel Reign just won with.

And none of it fulfills me. I’m too tired for any of it.

Not that anyone in the crowd notices, or cares. I wave to the crowd and try to let their adoration sink in. I need something to sustain me.

Next thing I need is booze, and maybe a woman. The bad boy is back, and I’m ready to lose myself in a haze of drunken bad behavior. It sounds good in theory, but in reality, I merely feel exhausted.

It’s how I got over Olive in the past, but I’m not so sure it will work for me now.