Let Me (O'Brien Family, #2)(47)

I don’t get far.

Kill steps in front of me, blocking my way. His expression is hard, bordering on pissed. “Look, Finn. I don’t believe the shit Angus says about tonight being cursed.”

“Good,” I tell him. “Cause I don’t either.”

He doesn’t move, and suddenly Curran is there, too. “What’s the problem?” I ask. Jesus, the adrenaline pumping through my bloodstream has me jumping in place. I need to move, not keep still and hear more of Angus’s superstitious bullshit.

Kill works his jaw. “I don’t want you to put on a show tonight.”

“What?” I ask, thinking he’s lost his mind.

Here’s the thing, MMA isn’t staged, it isn’t fixed, but the promoters like the drama. It stirs the crowd, gets fans talking, fills seats, and makes everyone more money. Men, they have to show what they’re made of, they have to show off their moves, bash skulls, and talk trash. The women, that’s a whole different level of drama. They get personal, vindictive, and nasty. But either way you slice it, you’re putting on a show.

“It could cost me the title match,” I point out.

Sumar Okafe just moved up from ninth to fourth for the lightweight title. When I win tonight, it will take me from seventh to the number one spot based on my opponent’s rank. Technically this puts me next in line for the belt. The problem is, Sumar has a big mouth and a bigger attitude.

Following his win last week, Sumar ran out into the audience and called out the champ, the champ’s woman, and his mother in front of a capacity crowd. Fans and fighters alike lost their shit all over social media, calling Sumar disrespectful, which the * is. But because of what he did―and because he stole the champ’s belt during the press conference that followed, fans of the champ are demanding he pummel his ass―which means they’ll pay big money to see it. If I don’t put on a big enough show, * or not, Sumar is going to get that title bout before I do.

“I don’t care about that right now,” Kill says.

My scowl deepens. “As my manager and my brother, you damn well should.”

“It’s not always about the money, Finnie,” he says.

“You’re right,” I grind out. “It’s also about getting what I deserve.”

“I’m not saying you don’t deserve a shot at the title. God knows you’ve earned it,” he says. “Just keep cool and stick with the plan.” He motions out the door, ignoring the reps beating on the door, telling me I’m needed out now. “You hear that crowd. They’re nothing more than piranhas, Finn. They’ve already seen and tasted blood so they want more. Your opponent knows it. So right now, his camp is telling him he needs to make sure that’s what he gives them. They’re telling him to f*ck you up. You need a fast win, in the off chance he gets lucky.”

More knocks on the door, more urges for me to get my ass moving. Kill keeps talking like no one is there. “Just like you want the title shot, he wants it too. Just like Sumar is making noise, he wants to make some of his own.”

“Hear him out,” Curran says when I start swearing.

“Just finish Boris quick,” Kill adds. “No showing off, no waiting for a shot that pisses you off enough to act. Get in, get a knockout or a submission. That’s all I ask.”

“If I get the win in the first round, it won’t be enough of a show for the higher ups,” I tell him. “Not with how much the fans on social media are talking up all the shit Sumar’s pulled―and not with how they’re demanding the champ lay him out.”

“No, it won’t,” Kill agrees, his voice tight. “But it will give you time to prepare so when the time comes, you’ll wear that belt, and be in one piece to enjoy it.” He shakes his head. “That last fighter, as young as he is, he’s done. You hear me? He was so focused on putting on a show, he got sloppy and now he’s hurt because of it.”

And messed up for life he doesn’t say. Like the others before him, and like Conan who probably won’t even be able to tie his own damn shoes.

The door swings open, but before one of the producers can rip into me, I bound past them with Kill and Curran at my heels. The cameraman scrambles when he sees me, pushing off the wall and racing to shove his lens in my face. As soon as it connects and the lights flick on, the crowd loses it.

Roars shoot down the hall like a cyclone. They know I’m coming. But they don’t know what Kill just said.

I’m not stupid. The last thing I want is to end up like some of those fighters who’ve spent years taking blows and can’t think straight, can’t keep their hands from twitching, and who can barely finish their thoughts. All that aside, I’m not going down like a punk. If he wants me to finish fast, I will. But I can’t say I’m not going to look good doing it.

The moment I cross into the arena, that’s when the crowds’ energy strikes me at capacity. It’s not the first time I’ve stepped toward the octagon, but it is like that first time. And I swear to Christ, it’s like I’m reborn.

This . . . this is where I belong.

Invincible is what I am at this moment. Alive is how I feel. And strength is all I own. I thought that part of me had died―that this taste had grown old, dulling to that numbness that had become more friend than foe. But now I’m back. I feel it, I breathe it. It’s a part of me once more. And it’s not simply because of my newfound commitment to training, or how I’m progressing in counseling.