Legend (Real, #6)(78)

I swing my left, he ducks and shoots his left out. My forehead catches the blow and my brain jerks inside my skull. I back away, listless.

Things get bloody after that.

I feel a high, a complete rush of adrenaline. Boxing, moving, punching, countering, blocking.

Round four, five, and six—he breaks my rib and I give him a swollen eye. He can only see through one, squinting at me as we fight.

The crowd is overwhelmed. Ringside seats splattered with blood. We’re beating each other to a pulp. Throwing punches left and right. We’ve both got gashes above our eyes, Tate on his temple, and my blasted same cut above my eye has opened again. We are breathing hard, getting Vaseline on our faces when we take our stools, and getting patched up, and wearing down the more we fight.

Round seven, he knocks me to the canvas.

I get up, and the fight keeps going. . . .

Three of Tate’s hooks on round eight, and I’m down again.

“Fuck,” I growl under my breath, my cheek flat on the ground as my body convulses from the hits.

The countdown begins.

Reese is on her feet, hands to her mouth, crying.

She’s with me.

My body trembles as I demand more from it than it can give. Everything. I plant my hand down on the ground, and then the other, bring my knees up and stand.

And I look at Tate. One eye is swollen. His coach is cutting it up so the blood can emerge, and he’s taping him back.

I look at my gloves. Every mark there on the leather is from me. Fought for by me. I think of my father’s message and drag a deep breath. Guess I’m a real fighter now.

Tate approaches. He’s angry now. Is he disappointed? He looks mad that I haven’t given him more. Did he think he wasted his time with me? Is he thinking I wasn’t worth it? Like my own f*cking father?

Don’t want to think he’s bigger. More experienced.

He thought I’d give him the better fight.

And I will.

I don’t fight for my father.

I fight for me.

I’m the phoenix rising.

I brace my legs, lift my arms, and keep on fighting.

Hungry for victory.

His nose crunches.

He hooks back and busts my face open. I hit the ground and immediately leap up.

My vision’s blurred. Legs, arms, nothing responds. I blink and taste blood in my mouth. Pain slowly streaking through me, I force myself forward.

I picture my father. His face. Him fighting me. You’re not good enough. . . .

Him fighting dirty.

Him fighting Tate.

Him soiling me.

Him letting my mother scrape until her hands were weary.

And I roar and swing out so hard, Tate hits the canvas.

The next seconds are a blur.

Time drains away. The countdown stops, and Tate is still getting his bearings.

My eye’s so swollen it’s all a blur, but I see something shiny fly at me—and focus on the penny landing at my feet.

The penny I gave Reese when it was all I had. When I had nothing but me.

I scoop up the penny and lift my eyes to Reese. Tears stream down her cheeks, and I inhale and it hurts to breathe, and it hurts to lift my fist and put the penny to my chest, and when she cries harder, and I can’t breathe anymore, I look away so she doesn’t see the burn in my eyes as the ringmaster grabs my wrist and lifts my arm.

“Your VICTOR, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! The first rookie ever to win the season championship, to shoot to the top of the f*cking stratosphere!”

And for the first time in my life, I hear the crowd. I hear the crowd. And the crowd is yelling at the top of its lungs: “MAVERICK! MAVERICK! MAVERICK!”

Tate comes to his feet and he looks like shit, and so do I, as he locks his hands behind my neck and bumps his forehead to mine and squeezes the back of my head, grinning until his bloodied dimples pop out. “How do you feel, motherf*cker? Is this real enough for you? Huh?”

And the crowd goes, “REMY! REMY! REMY!”

The ringmaster stands between us, lifting each of our arms, and f*cking crazy Remington Tate is grinning over the top of his head at me.

The crowd is yelling after him as he leaves the ring for the last time, a legend. Eternal.

But I can’t move yet.

For the last few seconds, I stand alone in the ring, bloodied and broken, a winner, the world opening up to me.

But I’m still clutching Reese’s penny in my fist like the most precious thing I’ve got.

? ? ?

I’M ALONE IN the back room.

Hearing the crowd cheer outside.

Oz is patching me up, trembling with adrenaline, sniffing quietly. I stare at the wall. Processing.

There’s a knock, and Tate stands at the door. All patched up too. Tape along his temple, his jaw, a lot of swelling spots like my own.

Oz looks at him, reverently pats his back, and whispers something like, “Best fight I’ve ever seen in my life,” and he steps outside.

“Hey.” Tate drops on the bench before me. “First time I was up in the ring, I got beat up so hard, I got two ribs broken and my spirit. They both healed though. If it comes to that, yours will too.”

I hold my jaw tight as I nod. I want to talk, but I have no words for this guy. My father’s greatest enemy, who gave me more attention than my father ever did. My father’s greatest enemy, who believed in me more than my own father ever did.