Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
“Thank you.” I return to my chair, but Remy and Rooster move into the seats behind us and Ella moves next to me.
Once we’re all seated, a flight attendant takes drink orders and I settle in for the flight, pulling my tablet out of my bag. I quickly send one of the pictures of Shelby and me to Kyla, Darcy, Jenn, and Hayden.
The engines roar to life. A surge of excitement mixed with fear flows through me. We’re really flying to Vegas. On a private jet.
In eight hours or so, I’ll be in Griff’s arms.
“You okay?” Ella asks, raising her voice to be heard above the engines.
“Yes.”
Finally, we take off, hurtling down the runway. My stomach jumps as the jet soars into the sky.
I peer out of my window, watching the landscape get smaller and smaller.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Griff
Fight camp has been a grind. Everything is structured down to the minute. Unlike my time in the Supreme Fighter house, everyone at camp is serious about learning and preparing for battle. Nothing is dramatized for television ratings. There’s a strict nutritional program we have to stick to. Thankfully, I don’t have to cut weight like some of the other fighters.
My reward for all the hard work is finally seeing Molly when she arrives tonight.
For the couple days leading up to the fight, we’ve moved to the hotel next to the arena where the fight’s being held. Training time’s been reduced but not eliminated. It’s supposed to give us time to recover and rest before the big day. But I have a long list of media events I’m supposed to attend. That shit stresses me out way more than the training. Underhill wants me to focus on meditation—sitting still, the one thing I’m not good at.
I’m in the hotel gym, finishing thirty minutes on the treadmill, when I sense someone standing to my left. Guys I trained with at the fight camp are spread throughout the gym. We usually try not to bother each other. Whoever this is on my side feels like an intruder.
I punch the speed down, grab my towel and jump off the machine.
A hotel employee scurries over and wipes down the treadmill and I step back to get out of her way. I haven’t gotten used to that, yet.
I swipe my water bottle off the floor and take a deep sip.
A guy with blond hair and a way too eager expression sticks his hand out. “Sorry to interrupt your training.”
I screw the cap back on my bottle and shake his hand. “You didn’t.”
“Jeb from Skirmish Skeptic.” He introduces himself. Another guy stands behind him with a camera, but Jeb doesn’t give him an introduction.
I recognize the name as one of the smaller YouTube channels. They spend more time roasting fighters than discussing anything meaningful.
Suspicious now, I raise an eyebrow and stare at him. “Who let you in here?”
“Uh, your coach said I could have a minute of your time. You mind if I film it?” He gestures to his buddy standing behind him.
I shrug and hold out my arms. “Yeah, whatever.”
Underhill warned me that in the days leading up to the fight, I’d have to answer more and more questions. The hotel is crawling with bloggers, reporters, podcasters, YouTubers, photographers, and regular fight fans. No one’s given me any training on talking to the media other than Underhill’s warning not to insult any of the money guys paying for all of this. Since I don’t know all the players involved, I’ve kept any complaints to myself and focused on only speaking about the fight and my training. I’m running out of creative ways to say I want to punch Magic’s face into oblivion, though.
I stare at Jeb, waiting for whatever he wants to ask. “Well?”
“Oh! I wanted to know if you had any comment about what Magic said about you this morning on The Warrior Force podcast.”
“I don’t have time to keep up with all the stuff he says. I’m busy training for a fight.” I shrug. “Maybe that’s what he should be doing too.”
Jeb holds out his phone and plays a clip of Magic’s ugly face taking up half the screen. Some guy I don’t recognize fills the other half. “I want to change the arrangement of his actual fucking face.” Magic twists his hands in front of him like he’s unscrewing a jar of pickles. “Just rearrange that pretty boy smirk of his and give him a matching scar over his other eye. His little teenage girlfriend won’t even recognize him when I’m finished.”
A hot flare of rage sparks in my chest. I don’t give a fuck about what Magic wants to do to my face. Referencing Molly, even if he never uses her name, crosses a line. Keenly aware of the guy filming me, I grind my teeth and will my face to stay calm. Give him nothing. Otherwise Magic will know Molly’s a soft spot he can poke whenever he wants a reaction.