Now he bounces in place as I stretch. He’s wearing his gray hoodie and sweatpants, every inch of him a running boxer you would die for. Kill for. Leave your entire life in Seattle behind for.

“Okay,” I whisper to him, nodding.

“Let’s hit it.” He smacks my butt gently and we start running, but the sleepless night means I don’t really have the speed that I want. Remington looks just a little tired today, quietly running beside me, pumping his fists in the air.

I keep waiting for my endorphins to kick in, but my body isn’t my friend today, and neither are my emotions. I want to sink into a quiet corner and cry again, until I cry it all out and it doesn’t hurt anymore, until I’m not angry at myself anymore, or at him, for saying yes to everything, anything, he could get his hands on while for months he refused to put his hands on me.

I’ve stopped running and put my hands on my knees, sucking in a breath to calm down. Remington slows down and pumps his fists in the air as he comes back. I want to groan in protest over how shitty I feel when he looks more than decent. He stops close to me, and I use my cap to shield my stupid face.

“If we’re running to the gym, we need to get there today,” he whispers in amusement, reaching out and tipping my hat back. I bite down hard on my lip as he surveys me, forcing myself to hold his gaze.

He smiles down at me, his dimples popping as he stands there. A little arrogant, a lot hot, Remington Tate, the man of my dreams. In that gray hoodie. Those blue eyes peering at me. He’s so aerodynamic as he runs; even when tired, he defies gravity. His shoulders, rock hard, stretch the material of his sweatshirt as his feet tap the sidewalk.

Just please somebody kill me now.

“I think I’ll walk there,” I tell him, kneeling down to add another impulsive knot to the laces of my tennis shoe, so I can look at my Nikes instead of him. “Go on without me and I’ll be there.”

I’ve never refused to run with him. This is our time, this is special, but I feel weak and faint and miserable.

Dropping to his haunches to level with me, he pries my cap off and surveys me, no more dimples on his face. “I’ll walk with you,” he tells me easily, putting my cap back on as he straightens.

“You don’t have to. Coach Lupe is waiting.”

He seizes my chin and pins me down with tormented blue eyes. “I. Will walk. With you. Brooke. Now give me your hand and let me help you up.”

He spreads out his hand and I see it, and I want it, and it’s there. I get up on my own and start walking.

He laughs softly as he steps to my side. “I don’t fucking believe this,” he mutters.

He shoves his hands into his sweatshirt, dark head bent as he glares down at the sidewalk and ambles next to me. His hoodie fell when he bent to offer his hand, and his black hair is an adorable mess, and god, I want to rumple it and kiss it and pretend I’m strong like I used to be, but instead I’m nauseous and feel as strong as a little stick.

“How many were there? Do you know?” I hear myself ask.

He makes a low, growling sound and pulls two fistfuls of hair before dropping his hands. “Just tell me what you want me to do. What do you want me to say? You won’t stop crying, you won’t fucking eat, you circle around my touch. Why the fuck are you letting it matter?”

“Because you don’t even remember; you don’t even know what you did to them, who they are. One could be pregnant with your fucking baby as we speak! They could take pictures of you. They could . . . take advantage of you!”

He bursts out laughing and looks at me in tender amusement, as though nobody could ever hurt him, but they can. Fucking smug asshole—they can!

Even when he is the strongest, most powerful human being I’ve ever known, when he’s black, he’s both reckless and vulnerable, and he could hurt himself and he could definitely get hurt. The thought that anyone, especially some tarts, had access to him when he was like that, makes me feel like going nuclear. I wipe an angry tear and keep walking, then he crowds me with his body and purposely brushes the back of his hand to my own. He rubs his thumb over mine. “Just take my hand, little firecracker,” he softly prods.

Dragging in a breath, I force my pinky finger to move, and he hooks our little fingers around each other. I feel the warmth of his touch race up my arm, and I think he notices I can’t suppress a little shudder. He teases me, in a low voice that melts everything in me, “I give you my hand, and you give me your pinky?”

“Remington, I can’t do this right now!”

I start running ahead, and he just joins me at the gym, unzipping his hoodie and slapping his gloves on. He starts pounding his bags without a single glance in my direction and with very, very hard slams. I stand by the sidelines, tense by the way the air crackles between us, like a suddenly haywire electrical circuit about to combust. Coach looks at him, and looks at me, and Riley comes up, equally concerned as he surveys us both.

Nobody talks to him and nobody talks to me.

I go to the bathroom and start throwing up.

* * *

THE HEAT IN the Phoenix Underground arena is oppressive.

The costly seats are crammed together, one after the other, and about five hundred people are now wildly screaming as Butcher and Hammer have a go up in the ring. Then wham! Smack! And Hammer ends up bloody and motionless on the floor.

“Wow, that was unfortunate for Hammer,” Pete says.

Kirk “the Hammer” Dirkwood hasn’t even twitched since he dropped splat on the canvas.

Butcher, though, is an enormous fighter. So meaty he’s double or triple the size of any other fighter, his fists look like iron balls, and his knuckles look like spikes. He’s just been announced the victor, and now he yells out a string of curses to the crowd, tells them he’s the “greatest motherfucker this ring has ever seen!” and suddenly, the canvas shudders under his feet as he angrily starts marching in the ring, yelling even louder, “BRING ME RIPTIDE! Let me have a fucking go at Riptide!!!!”

They’re dragging an unconscious Hammer out of the ring, and my stomach is knotting up by the second as Butcher bangs his chest like a gorilla and keeps yelling in a voice that is frighteningly craggy and monster-like. “RIPTIDE!! You hear me? Come out, pussy! Come face me like you did Benny!”

“He’s chums with you-know-who,” Pete tells me with a roll of his eyes. “And now, thanks to last year’s final, he thinks he can beat Rip too.”

The crowd gets restless. I notice that the Butcher’s hunger has only aroused the public. They heard the name, and it spreads like wildfire across the stands, starting with murmurs and rising to a crescendo: Riptide! Riptide! RIPTIDE!

Immediately I know, with every fiber in me, that they’re going to bring him out. He’s wanted, not only by Butcher, but by the entire screaming arena.

“Riptide! Riptide! RIPTIDE!” they chant.

I feel like a ginormous fist is squeezing the contents out of my stomach as I wait for a glimpse of him. He’s angry at me. He’s angry at me because I’m being ridiculous and I hate that I can’t stop being ridiculous and then I’m angry at myself.

“Riptide, Riptide!!” the crowd continues screaming for him.

There’s a commotion as the organizers seem to scramble to comply as the crowd’s demands get even louder.

“RIPTIDE! RIPTIDE!”

“Give us fucking RIPTIDE!”

The speakers flare to life, and the announcer sounds breathless. “You asked for him, ladies and gentlemen! You asked for him! Now, let’s bring out tonight the one you are all here to see! The one, the only, RRRRRRRiiiiiiippppppppppptiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide!”

The crowd roars in delight and my body screams in silence as all my systems kick into overdrive. My heart pumps, my lungs expand, and my eyes hurt as I pin them fixedly on the walkway. All the vessels and capillaries in my body dilate to accommodate blood flow, and my leg muscles feel ready to run, even though all I can do is squirm uneasily in my chair. I can’t ever seem to make my body realize that Remy is not in danger. Nor am I. My brain cannot comprehend that the man I love does this for sport, for a living. For his mental well-being. So I sit here while my body unleashes all the same hormones it would if I were being cornered by three raving bears ready to eat me.

And then I see him enter the arena—strong, magnificent, in control.

He takes the stage quickly and removes his robe while Butcher keeps pounding his chest as the crowd receives Remington with all their love and devotion. Like they always do.

I hold my breath and my hands fist in my lap as I wait for him to look at me.

It kills me. First, I watch in anticipation, then in dread, then in disbelief, as he makes his turn, unsmiling, then drops his arms at his sides and gets into place. The bell rings.

The men charge. I wince when Remy’s head flies to the side from the impact.

“Oh, no!” My stomach drops, my eyes blurring when I see blood.

The awful sounds of bone cracking against flesh follow, one after the other, as Butcher delivers three more consecutive blows, all to Remy’s face.

“Oh, god, Pete,” I gasp, covering my face.

“Shit,” Pete tells me. “Why didn’t he fucking look at you?”

“He hates me.”

“Brooke, come on.”

“We . . . he’s . . . I’m having trouble coping with the women, all right?”

Pete looks at me with a conflicted expression, and his stare bores into my profile, as if he wants to say something but can’t.

Remington growls angrily and lifts his guard as he shakes his head, easing back. His face is bloodied from the nose, the lips, the little scar on his eyebrow, and I don’t even know where else.

Butcher swings again, but Remy blocks, and they exchange jabs for about a minute until the round break is called and they go to their corners. Riley puts something on the wounds, and Coach is yelling stuff to him. He nods, shakes his arms out, flexes his fingers, and comes back, angry now, as he goes toe-to-toe with that burly awful beast and his spiked knuckles.

They go at it again. Swinging and slamming.

Remington feints to the side and Butcher throws his fist into the space where Remy used to be. Remington comes back with an uppercut to the face that connects so hard Butcher rocks sideways.

It takes a few moments for Butcher to recover his footing. He swings out his arm, but Remy ducks and comes back with a punch to the ribs, the gut, and the face, all landing with perfect speed and precision. Pow, pow, pow!

Butcher throws a fist out once again, aiming for Remy’s face, but Remy blocks the punch and once again returns with a hit of his own—slamming his knuckles straight into Butcher’s ugly fat face. Butcher falls to his knees.

At my side, Pete’s excitement keeps building, and I hear him mumble, “Come on, Rem. Why are you letting him get in? You’ve got this.” He turns to me and whispers, “You can teach speed and agility, but you can’t ever teach a man to be a heavy puncher like Rem is. Soon as he starts hitting like he wants to, it’s over.” I see he’s grinning, but I am not.

Remy is still bleeding, and as the fight progresses, he keeps catching a couple of punches with his body.

I loathe, loathe, loathe when he gets injured, even though it’s my job to help him recover. He laughs and spits, almost like he’s enjoying it.

Last season’s nightmare of a fight did something to me, and watching this—this—kills me all over again.

My fear has grown and festered, and tonight, it is overwhelming. For a moment, my head spins faintly—but at the same time, I’m sure my adrenaline is keeping me awake, keeping my body fed and ready to defend him.

Butcher stands up again and whacks out another punch to the face, and Remington’s head swings, but his body stays firmly planted. My tree is always so firmly planted. He swings, and hits back even harder. The two men clinch, then shove away from each other, and Remington charges again, the blood on his face pouring in streams now as, once again, he goes pow pow pow!

His rapid, consecutive punches cause Butcher to start backing off. The fat man bounces on the ropes behind him but refuses to fall. Remy corners him, his chest glistening with sweat and his muscles rippling as he smashes Butcher’s gut and then his face.