Broken Beautiful Hearts(64)

“You never give up, do you?”

Owen’s expression turns serious. “Not if I want something bad enough.”





CHAPTER 26

Fight Club

I’M STILL IN the parking lot when the steady stream of people entering the arena slows to a trickle. The fights will be starting soon. I planned to leave and go walk around in downtown Nashville, but I’m still staring at the side door that Owen used a few minutes ago.

What kind of fighter is he? Aggressive and always on the offensive—going after his opponent the second he hears the bell? Or is he slow and steady, like a marathon runner, pacing himself and wearing down his opponent in the process?

I slump down in the driver’s seat, annoyed with myself.

Who cares how Owen fights?

He’s a fighter. That’s all I need to know. But I can’t stop wondering.

That’s it. I’m going in.

I’m overthinking this. I’ll go in, watch a little of the fight, and leave. Owen will never know I was there.

I open the car door before I change my mind. The temperature has dropped, and it’s cold. I should’ve brought Dad’s jacket.

Owen’s Black Water High hoodie is balled up on the passenger seat. I pull it over my head, and the salty scent of the ocean envelops me.

Why can’t he smell like blue cheese or old sneakers?

I slam the door and cut across the parking lot to the main entrance. A woman perched on a stool near the door is playing Word Wars, a Scrabble rip-off, on her cell phone. She holds out her hand without taking her eyes off the screen. “Five dollars.”

I dig a crumpled bill out of my pocket and hand it to her.

“Go on in.” She points behind her with her thumb. “Just follow the hollering.”

The moment I walk through the doors, I hear the familiar din—whistling and shouting, foot stomping and cheering.

I forgot how loud it was at these things.

Watching a fight is discount therapy—a way to let out your anger and frustration, while disguising it as enthusiasm for the competitors. I hesitate at the open doorway that leads to the fight floor. Mangled hinges frame the opening, as if someone had ripped the doors off, which sums up the vibe in the arena.

The moment I cross the threshold, it feels like I’ve stepped into a time machine, and it takes me back to one of Reed’s fights.

Folding chairs are arranged around the perimeter of the octagon-shaped cage, but no one is sitting in them. A slim guy wearing red trunks soaked in sweat pummels his opponent with a series of punches to the ribs, following with a knee to the stomach. The guy doubles over, with the wind knocked out of him. This fight won’t last much longer.

His right side is exposed.

Cover up.

Too late. The guy in the red trunks throws a kick, his shin landing hard on his target, and his opponent falls against the mat.

The crowd roars.

Why would anyone subject themselves to this level of physical punishment? I asked Reed that once after a fight.

He looked at me like I was crazy. “For the rush.”

Soccer gives me a rush, too, but I don’t have to get my butt kicked.

I glance at the doorway behind me. I should get out of here. This place reminds me of Reed, and he’s the last person I want in my head. But if I leave, it’s because of him, and that’s worse.

I stay near the wall so I don’t get bumped by someone rushing to the bathroom. I move closer to the cage, but not too close.

The fighters clear the cage, and two new competitors approach. I can’t see them, and there’s no spotlight as they emerge from the locker rooms. Nobody is airing these fights on cable. But they still matter. No one starts at the top.

Maybe Owen fought before I came in and I missed it. It’s the universe’s way of telling me that I should’ve stayed in the car. I’m about to go back out there when I spot Cutter’s orange UT jacket.

“Bring in The Law,” someone shouts.

Owen comes into view, flanked by Cutter and Lazarus, who are both talking to him.

Another thing you don’t see at MMA fights are flashy satin robes. Owen is wearing nothing except a pair of black-and-yellow trunks.

They enter the cage and Owen raises a fist when the ref—doubling as the announcer—calls out his moniker: “Owen the Law.”

Owen’s opponent comes out next—“Rabid” Ricky Dio.

I see his hair before the rest of him—the top gelled and spiked so straight that it actually looks dangerous. Dio’s hair is buzzed down to his scalp everywhere else and he looks rabid. His expression is a lethal mix of anger and anxiety.

Dio lunges at Owen and starts yelling. He’s trying to psych Owen out. It’s a page right out of Reed’s playbook. Owen ignores him.

The ref calls the fighters to the center of the mat and talks to them. Then the trainers and cutmen exit the cage. Mouth guards go in and the bell rings, signaling the start of round one.

Dio goes after Owen like a man possessed. He’s an offensive fighter, like Reed—pointing at Owen and talking smack. He hits Owen with a combination—a jab to the kidney, a flying knee to the stomach, followed by an elbow strike to the jaw.

The elbow lands hard and I flinch.

Owen shakes it off and stays calm. He blocks and weaves, letting Dio wear himself out.

Between rounds, Cutter and Lazarus rush back into the cage. Cutter bends down in front of Owen, who nods as she talks, while Lazarus ices and applies ointment to Owen’s cuts to stop the bleeding.