She doesn’t answer her fucking phone.

I don’t know why I bother calling. She isn’t going to see me, no matter how much I want to see her. Fucking hell. I even used my first paycheck to go all the way home to tell her I love her. I planned to let her know how much she means to me.

To tell her that, if she wanted, when I get back from this tour, we can get married, and I’ll take her with me on the road.

But she didn’t want to see me.

I throw my weight behind my fist and slam it against the punching bag. Almost did it the wrong way, I’m so distracted. Could’ve broken my damn hand, but I don’t give a fuck.

I hit it again. And again. Then a third time, launching all my rage and frustration into the bag until my body is so fucking exhausted I can barely stand anymore.

But I keep going.

Fight.

Fuck.

Sleep.

Repeat.

Just another day in my fucking life.

With Olive, I hadn’t just fucked her. She meant so much more than that to me. Does she believe otherwise? How could she think that night meant anything else?

I grit my teeth so hard my lower lip gets caught. I ignore the bleeding, and punch the bag again. Maybe I can trick myself into thinking violence will solve my problems.

Concentrating on the bag in front of me, I try to stop thinking about her. It doesn’t work. Nothing does.

I should call her again. Her number’s engraved in my head.

Don’t fucking do it, Reign. Don’t be a dumbass.

“Cool it, Reign, you don’t need to be so anxious about your first fight,” Coach Parker comes up behind me and smacks my back a few times for good measure. “You’ll do great.”

That’s not it at all. But if Coach wants to think I’m amped up about the fight and that’ll keep him from asking annoying personal questions, I’ll go with it.

“Doubt it,” I grunt, faking it. My frustration is that Olive Wilson isn’t gonna be Olive Reign.

Goddammit! I punish the bag again.

“Hey.” Coach Parker grabs my fist as I rear back to hit the bag again, and I swear if I didn’t have to work with him, I would have hit him. But he’s older, more experienced, and he might have blocked it anyway. He’s taught me everything I know. Plus he’s my friend, and it wouldn’t be right. I breathe heavily. “You sure this is about your first match?”

“Yeah.” Keep it short, Axel. You’re not going to be able to hide this if you get chatty. “I’m good. Ready to kick ass.” I offer Coach my trademark grin.

“Well, all right, then.” He lifts his hand like he’s going to pat my back again, but thinks better of it.

Good. I don’t want that kind of comfort right now. I just want Olive in my arms, but since that’s not gonna happen, I’m pissed.

Coach proceeds to tape my hands properly and helps me into my fighting gloves.

“Go get ’em, tiger.”

I tuck my chin in a gesture that says I’m all business now.

Axel Reign. The perfect bad boy. Rising from my fighting position on the training mat, I give one last stretch and then without a word, I walk out into the ring.

Crowds don’t make me nervous. I smirk at the people surrounding the ring, wearing a mask of indifference, so opposite of how I feel when I think about Olive.

Do I hide it well from the public the way I think I do? Or do they even give a shit?

A girl who looks a few years older than me winks at me from the front row. Her hair is short and blond. The opposite of my Olive.

I wink back at the chick then turn my attention from specific faces to the whole crowd and wave to everyone as I pass.

No one seems particularly impressed.

But maybe the crowd seems empty because that was the way I felt. Some people are holding up signs for the man I’m here to fight against, and some are rooting for me—the newcomer.

I make my way through the crowd and up the ramp, swing myself inside the ring and wait for my opponent to face me.

He calls himself “The Devil.” Like I care. I size him up, and a rush of adrenaline courses through my veins as I realized I could beat this guy, make him my bitch. We’re about the same height, and he may be a little more muscular than me, but nothing can hold a candle to my rage.

My jaw tightens. I raise my fists, wanting, so damn bad to beat the hell outta this guy.

But first, the pleasantries.

The referee gives us the rules.

“The fight goes for eight rounds, or until someone gets a knockout. If at any time you think you cannot continue, you may bow out.”

Coach had run this through with me thousands of times. I’m ready. I was born ready. I shift my left leg slightly forward to get the advantage, defending myself, attacking this bastard. It won’t solve my problems, but it will sure as shit make me feel better.

Coach tries catching my attention outside the ring, but I don’t look at him. “Bettin’ on you, kid!” he yells. I nod, curtly.

I’m a jackass, not an asshole.

The bell rings to begin the round.

This douche can’t even get the drop on me before I slam my fist into his gut. There are no bonus points for playing around. I go all out. Jab, cross. Jab, jab. Straight punch. This guy is gasping as I rain blow upon blow down on his flesh. I don’t stop.

Round two is harder.

He lands a punch to the left side of my head that dazes me.

For a minute.

Then I rock him with an uppercut that knocks him back off his feet.

The referee doesn’t have a chance to count him out before he’s up again, and he looks pissed.

I work the jab. Then throw a cross, then another. My punches are landing, but it’s not until I go downstairs to the body that I really do some damage.

Finally, in round three I land a punch to his side that injures him because he goes down, and this time he doesn’t get back up.

My breath comes hard, and when the ref takes my arm and raises it to the sky to declare me the winner, all I can think about is how much it reminds me of when Olive and I raised our arms above our head on stage at the concert the night of my birthday.

The crowd erupts in cheers. So they don’t give a shit who wins, just that one guy beats the snot out of another one. Would the girls running toward me now do the same for the sap I just beat?

Olive wouldn’t, but she also won’t take my calls, so why bother?

I can’t think about that now.

I have to get over her. Thankfully, I know just how to do that.

A long-legged hottie with obviously fake red hair waves to me then presses her arms together over her chair so I get a better view of her tits. I eye them then call her over to the ring, and help her through the ropes so she’s next to me.

“Hey, doll,” I say, my eyes roaming her body. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Patricia.” She ogles my biceps and juts out her chest so I can’t possibly miss her ample rack. Those things are barely covered.

She’s just a body.

“Trish, babe.” I grab one of her sleeves and yank it down a little so her tits almost fall out for the crowd’s pleasure. “You want to have some fun?”

She giggles. Of course she does. I don’t even need to ask. My cock grows stiff at the thought of her beneath me. It’s purely physical. But yeah, sex will be the way to get over Olive. And this girl will just be the first.

Fight.

Fuck.

Sleep.

Repeat.