Legend (Real, #6)(5)

I didn’t expect coming here to be easy. But I am ready to grow. I needed a change. I’m almost twenty.

“Sure you’re okay?” Mom asked.

“Yes,” I said last night, when she called. And for the first time in a long time, I meant it.

I’ve also learned about the Underground. Last year, the final fight was between Remington “Riptide” Tate and Parker the Terror, who was a real nightmare all around. It was a close match, but the Terror lost and later was hospitalized and kept from fighting due to being in intensive care. An older nemesis and opponent, Benny the Black Scorpion, apparently disappeared this year and no one knows where he is or if he’s coming back. Some people think Twister is a contender. And apparently Spidermann—who left Oz Molino, his former trainer, and went with a new one—is rumored to be in good shape too.

Parker and Scorpion used to give Remy a run for his money, but they wore themselves down. It takes discipline for longevity, Pete tells me. Not just the fight itself but the lifestyle you build to support yourself in a positive way.

I’m embracing the lifestyle with gusto.

The guy—Steel Eyes—has been in the gym every day. He speaks to no one. You’d think it was too much effort to do so, effort he seems to prefer laying on the punching bag. Straight from those eight-pack abs and to the punching bag with a dull thud. He’s new in town, I think. Nobody knows. He keeps earbuds in to shut out the rest of the world. I recently snuck a peek at the log page where we sign in; he signs his name as Cage.

Caged is the way I felt when he looked straight at me on our second day.

Recognition flared in his eyes when he saw me in my exercise clothes, and something like excitement kindled in his eyes too. In that stupid moment I felt as if it was excitement to see me. He’s got eyes the oddest color I’ve ever seen—metallic, really, a shimmering steel—and he was standing outside the gym door as if waiting for someone. I saw him, felt an odd little prick of nervousness, then pulled out my card to get in. He started after me, pulled his hood up a little higher to cover his face, and eased into the gym when I did.

I stopped before we got farther than the desk. “He’s with me,” I told the ladies, and he grabbed the pen by the log and signed his name.

“Thanks,” he said under his breath as we headed into the gym area.

I nodded, and suddenly it felt as if I’d had butterflies for breakfast for some reason.

It’s been like that every day now. And every day, I’ve caught him looking at me as he trains. Every day a little longer.

The guy punches hard. He doesn’t stop. Other gym members, especially some of the ones training near the bags, seem threatened and keep talking about him.

He’s got a chip on his shoulder, that one.

Who the hell does he think the bag is?

Who pissed off the kid?

He’s not a kid. He’s a 195-pound-plus, six-foot-plus man. At least a few years older than my twenty. Maybe . . . twenty-three?

He plays around a lot with the bags. He teases and bounces around them, and hits like he lives for that punch. But when someone speaks to him, the playfulness is gone and he puts up a wall that has pretty much kept everyone away for the past few days. The air he exudes is implacable. Determined. And way too intimidating for anyone to miss. Way too intimidating for anyone to call him out on using me to enter the gym. Nobody questions him. They let him be and keep on training, all while shooting covert glances his way.

I’m getting ready to leave for the day when he stops the bag and approaches.

“Hey.”

My eyes widen when I hear his voice clearly. A deep, male, dark-thunder voice.

Oh no, buddy, you’re not breaking our unspoken code of silence, I think in alarm.

“What’s your name?” he asks me, eyebrows low as he studies me.

“Reese.”

He nods, and thankfully walks away. I’m left feeling a little funny, uncomfortable. I’ve never felt so discomforted by a guy. I exhale, turn around, and head outside, briefly noticing that Cage is taking off his gloves as if he’s getting ready to leave too.

? ? ?

RACER CALLS ME Ree. Just Ree. Though he can’t really pronounce the Rs well yet, so it sounds like Wee. Which is adorable. And embarrassing.

He can speak better than that, but I think it’s his pet name for me. The little bugger loves me. The one lone dimple on his cheek pops out whenever I appear. I straddle him on my hip when I pick him up after the gym. “Did you have a good time today, Racer?”

He just nods and looks at me, with the dimple.

“What?” I pretend I don’t know what he’s waiting for, then I go, “Ooooh! This?” I pull out the Popsicle.

He reaches out one chubby hand.

“Give me a kiss or you don’t get it.” His kiss is wet and sloppy, but it delights me to no end. Almost like my dog Fluff’s kisses.

Brooke wants to get pregnant again. I know that with the lifestyle of the fights, she’ll find it hard to watch over two babies. But Racer is older now, and smart. And very, very mischievous.

We stop by the park, where I always sit down to give him some lunch. Riley, one of the team, meets me with the stroller.

“Hey, stranger,” he says.

“Hey.”

“Borrowing babies to pick up guys?”

“That’s right. But there’s none to pick up around here. No good ones.”