Fighting Fate (Fighting #7)(67)

Pulling my bag up, I go to the bathroom and dump the contents of my drawer into the bag. I quickly glance in the shower and see his things are gone, another reminder that he truly has left to the other side of the world.

I pass by the bowl of change and see the keys to his Jeep and his phone. My heart stutters as I stare at the device. Ryder must be watching because he sidles up next to me. “Guess he forgot it. I told my dad I’d send it to him, but he said it’s just easier for him to pick up a new one over there.”

Reaching out, I grab it and hit the button that brings it to life.

The screen lights up to an image of our faces, a selfie we took in front of the Eiffel Tower at Paris on The Strip. It was during Christmas break and Vegas was having a cold snap, so I was dressed in a big coat with a fur collar, and Killian had on a hooded sweatshirt and a black beanie. Our cheeks and noses are flushed pink, and he’s smiling casually while I’m laughing hard at the story he’d just told me.

Did you know a woman once jumped off the real Eiffel Tower to commit suicide, landed on a guy’s car, and they ended up getting married?

I swore he made that up, but he insisted it was a true story.

His future wife fell from the sky right onto his car. They don’t call Paris the City of Love for nothing. People line up at the base of it now just waiting to get clobbered by their true love.

I laughed. He snapped the picture.

We posted it on Instagram, along with selfies of us on a gondola at The Venetian and in front of the Statue of Liberty at New York-New York with the hashtag #worldtravel. It was stupid, and no one actually believed we were traveling the world, but for two people who’d never even been on a plane, for just that night, it sort of felt like we were.

“You ready, Axelle?” My mom smiles sadly at me, most likely having been witness to me staring at Killian’s phone.

I nod and set the device back down by the bowl of change.

He left his phone here on purpose. That’s obvious. He’s sending a message, cutting all ties. As much as it hurts, I can’t deny that it’s probably for the best.

With a wave good-bye to Ryder and Theo, I keep my head down to hide my tears as I scurry out the door and to my car. My mom makes sure I get in okay, and once I’m out of sight, I pull over onto a side street and bawl.





Twenty-three





Killian





One month in London and I’ve managed to fall into a robotic routine. I wake every morning at five and jog The Thames Path along the river. I throw down a mostly tasteless breakfast and shower then head to the training center with Caleb. The training center here is a quarter of the size of the one in Vegas, more like a storefront than a warehouse, but only five miles from home. Just like back in Vegas, I train with different members of the UFL UK team, but all under the supervision and expertise of Caleb. I’ve met so many new people it took weeks for me to remember all their names.

There’s Laise, pronounced like Lacey, the Scotsman who rivals the likes of Jonah Slade in size and ability. His overgrown beard and shoulder-length hair give him an ominous look inside the octagon, but he has the temperament of a kitten when he’s outside it.

Then there are the three local British fighters: Liam, Henry, and Jay who encompass the MMA trifecta: Liam’s ground game, Henry’s stand up, and Jay whose takedowns are better than Rex’s (not that I’d ever admit that out loud).

And finally there are the French siblings, Olivier and Fleur, a brother and sister who’re so bad-ass their blood type must be BA positive.

It’s Ollie who stares at me now as I annihilate the speed bag. His eyes are narrow and assessing. My arms and back, legs and core, all strain with fatigue as the Frenchman lifts a brow at me. I step back and pop off my earbuds. “I don’t care how many times you ask. I still refuse to autograph your dick.”

His mouth lifts in a one-sided grin, and he scratches his shaved head. “Hilarious, Harry.”

I control the urge to sock him in the gut. Just one time these *s saw me in my glasses and they’ve been calling me some variation of the young wizard’s name ever since.

“Caleb wants you at grappling.” His French accent is weak and mixed with the Londoner accent he’s picked up since he’s lived here most of his adult life. “And you should know you hit like my little sister.”

I laugh and pull off my gloves to wipe the sweat off my forehead. “Is that supposed to be an insult? Because your sister’s quick as shit.”

“That’s what I mean. Your arms are fast; it’s like…like…” His eyes widen. “Magic!”

I grab my shit and make my way over to the grappling pads. “You guys really need to come up with some new material.”

He follows right behind me. “Tell me, Potter, how long did it take until Hermione let you Slytherin, huh?”

He laughs at his own joke, and I can’t help but chuckle too. The guy is creative. I’ll give him that. “Did you know Merlin was a Slytherin?”

“You’re off your trolley.”

“I’m serious. The Merlin was taught personally by Salazar Slytherin.”

“You nerds done?” Caleb calls from the mats, waiting with Liam. My first fight is in three weeks against Hugo “Spidey” Webb. He lost the welterweight title his last fight and is looking to make a comeback, and I’m not going to let him earn it on my back.