Legend (Real, #6)(28)

I clench my teeth. Is she coming to the fight?

She can’t come to my fight.

I don’t know what it’d do to me if she ever did. When she walks into a room I’m speechless? thoughtless. High.

She’s different to me.

She’s not afraid of me.

The moment the announcer yells out my name, “Maverick ‘the Avenger’ Cage!” the crowd outside falls deathly quiet. I finish lacing my boots and kick Oz’s ankles to get him to wake up from where he was snoozing big time on a bench.

“Wha—”

“We’re up.”

I slip my fingers into the gloves and the anticipation to hit the ring starts simmering inside me. A black hooded robe covers me as I stalk out and take the aisle, tapping my gloves as I warm up to the idea of kicking some shit.

Inside the ring, my opponent waits. Hector “Hellman.” The fact that he’s up against me makes him an immediate favorite. There are signs floating with his name on them.

No signs for me.

In every video I saw of my father, he gave the crowd the bird as he came up into the ring.

My father was the most loathed fighter in history. But also the most feared.

I can feel the fear in the air, thick as oil.

Oz heads over to his corner while I take the ring, taking my time to climb the ropes. Swear to god, these people don’t even seem to be breathing. I stand in the center and look around. They want to see if I’m going to curse them, spit on the floor, or give them the bird. I smile privately when they keep waiting—and I do none of that.

I’m here to fight.

I’m here to win.

“Booo!” the crowd starts. “Boooooo!?”

“They hate your ass, Maverick,” Oz says, scratching his head as if he’s trying to figure out how to win them over.

Bell rings, gloves touch.

He throws a punch. I duck and throw out my fist, hearing it crack into his gut. The crowd gasps. The boos silence.

Hellman’s stunned. I loop out a left and hit again. The crowd is silent as a morgue. I can hear the sound of flesh pounding flesh as I have a go at him. They’ve got no more cheers. I hope they’re saving them for their golden boy. Because I want a chance to get a hit on that boy. I want a chance to prove to myself I’ve f*cking got it. Got more than my father ever did.

I knock Hellman out.

I don’t take my stool as I wait for the next fight.

The moment the bell rings, I go straight for the kill—jab, straight jab, hook. He wraps an arm around me and then slips away. I back him up against the ropes, jabbing, ducking, jabbing, then I hook.

The hook stuns him.

And he’s down.

I start beating them all, a third one, a fourth one, a fifth. My body’s producing heat like nobody’s business. I’m on fire and so are my fists. I’ve got long arms, a far reach. My opponents think they’re in the safe zone away from me, but they’re not. Over and over, I hit. Flesh. Bone. Flesh. Bone. But I’m wearing down. I know it’s because I haven’t been training as I should.

I was at the park, with a kid and a girl who’s driving my head in all kinds of directions, all of them leading to the same end: her.

Her in a bed with me.

Her lips under mine.

Her sweet, round little butt under my hands.

Every second spent with them reminds me of the family that I don’t have and desperately crave.

I take the stool at my corner and let my body recharge when the announcer’s voice flares through the speakers, introducing my next opponent. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen . . .” He trails off mysteriously and lowers his voice. “I know you all have been waiting for this,” he begins.

The crowd shifts restlessly, and as a chorus of gasps and titters sweeps across the crowd, I tiredly roll my shoulders. I twist my sore neck to one side, then the other. Motherf*ck me, I need gas right now.

“That’s right, ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer starts to yell. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, our record-holding champion, Remington ‘Riiiiiiiiptide’ Tate!”

I can’t even relish this moment; I’m catching my breath.

Worn out. I’ve taken a few hits, my eye has swelled up, and my cut is about to bust open and bleed again.

My jaw aches like a bitch. I open my jaw and flex it, rubbing my arm across the sting as Tate takes the ring.

The crowd goes wild. I glance at Oz while I wait. Oz looks as f*cked-up as I am, snoozing in my corner. He really needs to back off the booze.

“Hey. At least pretend you give a shit.” I nudge him. “Put some Vaseline on my face or something.”

He lifts his head and does as I tell him, then he looks at Tate as he climbs into the ring and his eyes widen.

“WHAT THE LIVING FUCK?! How many have you knocked out?”

I shrug, eyeing Tate’s size from up close. He’s an inch taller, two or three wider. And he looks fresh as spring compared to my sweaty, bloodied, beat-up self. I’m not as big as him, but I bet I’ll look pretty big from the ground.

We go to center. Touch gloves. The bell rings.

The screams take over the arena. “REMY . . . REMY . . . REMY . . .”

I take a hit: a blow straight to my ribs.

I ease back, shake my head.

He comes in with a hook that knocks me off-balance.