Legend (Real, #6)(8)

“I’m not coming back home.”

She cried softly. I put my arms around her and I held her. Six years before, I outgrew her in height and she felt small in my arms and fragile.

“I love you, Mav.” She grabbed my jaw and kissed my cheek. “Let me know where you go. Stay in touch.”

“I will.”

“Maverick. You’re not your father. You don’t have to do this.”

“No. But I’m half of him. And half of you.” I looked at her. “I want more than what I have here.” I opened the door with nothing but a duffel bag, my saved money, and my backpack. “I’m going to prove him wrong to believe I was never worth a moment.”

On the bus, I pulled out the last gloves my father sent me a birthday ago. He didn’t send me new ones, he sent me old ones with a message: Since you never use the ones I sent and clearly don’t plan to, sending ones a real fighter’s used.

The gloves are so old, they’re taped at the wrist with silver duct tape. I slipped my hand into one glove, and then the other, and realized they fit me.

They fit me.





FIVE


SPAR WITH ME


Reese

How’s the high life?

Miles finally texted last night. I was already in bed when my phone buzzed. I peered at the screen and jolted upright.

I should’ve probably waited a minute to answer. It’s not good to seem anxious or anything, and to be honest, I haven’t been. But he’s one of my closest friends and one of the few people who knows everything about me and likes me anyway.

Good! I texted back.

Thinking of visiting and meeting your new friends.

Was he using that as an excuse? I frowned and wondered. But we’re friends. He doesn’t need an excuse; he could say he misses me and that’s it. Maybe? Hesitantly, I typed, Sure. When do you want to visit?

Not certain yet, maybe to semifinals? Can you introduce me and the guys to RIP then?

I read the message, then eased out of bed and looked at myself in the mirror. By the time he comes I’ll look amazing, be exuding so much self-confidence, and have a clear direction in my life. So I wrote: I’ll see what I can do but I’m sure it’d be fine.

? ? ?

I DON’T HAVE that many friends; I value the ones I have because it’s always been a struggle to make any and keep them.

I show Brooke the text in the morning. “Hmm. I don’t know,” she says thoughtfully. She shows my phone to Pete since we all have breakfast at the Tates’ large kitchen table.

“Nope.”

Riley looks at it next. “Definitely friend-zoned.”

Remy stares at the phone before passing it back to me. He lifts his gaze and looks at me with beautiful blue eyes, just like Racer’s, and shakes his head somberly. “Get a man with balls, Reese.”

I tuck my phone away. “Men with balls scare me.”

“Not a real man. A real man hands them over.” He leans to the side of the table with a dimpled smile, chucks Brooke’s chin, and kisses her on the mouth. My ears grow hot, yet I can’t stop staring at that dry but hard, possessive peck on the lips they give each other.

Once I’ve got Racer’s picnic bag from Diane, we head out to day care in one of the SUVs. I start getting nervous as we drop off Racer and I walk to the gym.

What possessed me to tell Cage I’d spar with him? I can barely trot on the treadmill with my head held high for an hour.

But it’s a boot camp, a physical and spiritual and mental one—a whole lot of new Reese to discover and nurture—so I’m giving myself the boot. Or letting Cage do it.

Disappointment hits me when I don’t see him outside the gym. I scan the block to see if he’s late, but there’s no sign of him.

The doors open halfway and one of the admission ladies calls me inside. “Reese?” She waves me forward. “We let your friend in; we know he’s with you.” She grins at me, sheepishly and knowingly.

I want to explain that it’s not what it seems. That we’re just friends. But I spot Cage through the glass doors of the gym and I feel helplessly tongue-tied.

I keep my eyes on the jet-black hair on the back of his head as I wander into the bustling gym area, the sound of weights slamming down and padding footsteps and background music around me. My eyes trail the suntanned skin on the back of his neck. Add to that sweatpants that hang low on his narrow hips and give new meaning to sexy.

Why is he so damn intriguing?

He’s taller than I am. At eye level, I’m staring at the middle of his chest; his defined pectorals, to be exact. His nipples that are sometimes hugged by his damp-with-sweat shirt. His impressive muscles. His body is lean and corded but muscular, like fighters’ bodies usually are, and a dangerous rebel vibe radiates off him.

He’s jumping rope, with his earbuds in.

“Hey.”

I’m about to tap his shoulder when he stops jumping and turns. Eyes that are quiet and remote fix on me. My gaze drops, just a little, admiring his beautiful lips and the angle of his jaw. . . .

I take in his neck, the fit of his shirt on his tapered torso, and by the time I take an impulsive, reckless visual trek down the rest of him and back up to his gorgeous face, his brows quirk up. Those electric steel eyes pierce me, sending a strange buzz through my body.