Nice 2 meet u Max **smiles** **waves**

Now will you come and watch?

Right behind u

He turns around and gives me the most brilliant smile, all crinkled eyes and boyish charm. Good thing I have no socks to knock off. He points at my phone.

I read the message, and my heart stutters.

XX

Did you just kiss me? **blushes**

I look up. He is looking down at me. His sensual lips part and he mouths his answer.

“Yes.”

***

Misery is one of California’s top-ranked amateur heavyweight fighters. At six feet two inches tall and weighing two hundred and sixty pounds, he towers over the fans and cornermen clustered around him. Torment is tall, but Misery is taller. Torment is broad, but Misery is broader. The only advantage Torment appears to have over Misery is his breathtaking good looks. From the size of Misery’s fists, I suspect Torment won’t have that advantage for long.

My official first aid attendant status gives me a front-row seat. I breathe in the aroma of lemon disinfectant with just a hint of stale sweat. Nice. At least Torment keeps the ring clean.

“Torment said this was a good match.” I tug on Jimmy’s sleeve, but he is too busy sticking his tongue in Pinkaluscious’s ear to talk. I look over at Rampage beside me. He is watching Jimmy and Pinkaluscious, and the pain on his face tells me everything I need to know. Love triangle.

“Hey,” I say softly. I nudge him with my elbow and he tears his gaze away and glares.

“Don’t torture yourself. Sometimes these things don’t work out.”

His cheeks redden, and he tightens his lips and looks away.

“Think about something else. Tell me about the fight. How long is it going to last?”

He looks sideways at me and sighs. “Three rounds of three minutes each. Professionals go three rounds of five.”

“Does Torment have a chance? He’s a lot smaller and lighter than Misery.”

Rampage shakes his head. “Misery is incredibly tough and hard to finish. In sanctioned fights, Torment would be classed as a light heavyweight, two classes down from Misery. That weight will make a difference, especially if Misery gets him to the ground. Torment is also at a disadvantage because he’s dominant in boxing. That’s his background. Misery is more well-rounded.”

Homicide Hank steps into the ring and warms up the crowd with flavorful details of past unsanctioned fights. He announces the money collected at the door will be donated to the County Hospital. I glance up at Torment. Jake is helping him with his gloves. Torment winks. I smile. How sweet is that?

I check beneath my feet for my first aid kit. I am prepared for everything—cuts, bruises, fractures, and head trauma.

At a nod from Homicide, Pinkaluscious tears herself away from Jimmy and climbs into the ring. The crowd roars in approval as she goes through her routine. She revs them up with her fake smiles and jiggle wiggles, before waving her pink flag to start the match. Rampage stares at her with naked longing. How could any man not want her?

The energy in the crowd is almost palpable. Every seat is taken and it is standing room only for the last few stragglers. The gym and training equipment sit idle. No one wants to miss a second of this fight.

The bell rings and the match starts with wild punching exchanges. Torment takes a hard shot to the head and his eye swells almost instantly. I have to force myself to stay in my seat instead of running down to the ring.

Torment recovers quickly and settles into a rhythm, peppering Misery with a frenzy of kicks and punches that seem to frustrate and exhaust the bigger fighter. By the end of the round, Misery is on the defensive, swinging tired arms to bat away Torment’s fists.

Misery gets his second wind in the second round. A solid right punch opens a deep gash under Torment’s swollen right eye. Blood streams down Torment’s face and the referee calls a break.

Nausea roils in my belly. Too real. Too visceral. On television, I can’t smell the tang of blood or the pungent scents of sweat, smoke, and stale beer; bile doesn’t burn my tongue, and I can’t hear the sickening, live smack of bones hitting flesh. And I’ve never known anyone who voluntarily stood in harm’s way. Except me. But that was a long time ago.

A sob wells up in my chest and I put my head between my legs and take deep breaths. A warm hand strokes down my back.

“He’ll be okay,” Rampage says, his voice uncharacteristically warm and soothing. He rubs my back until I sit up and then puts a comforting arm around me. “He’s seen worse. I’ll tell you when not to look.”

Overwhelmed with gratitude, I instantly forgive Rampage all his sins.

Jake cleans up Torment’s face and patches the cut. The referee signals a restart. Torment is still the fresher fighter. He dances around and throws a few kicks and punches. Misery deflects them, but his blocks are slow and his feet drag on the mat. Misery’s bulk must be working against him.

In what seems like a last-ditch effort to win, he shoots in on Torment and knocks him to the ground. They grapple for a few seconds and then Torment, in an incredible display of flexibility, tucks one shin under Misery’s neck and swings his other leg over Misery’s back. He pulls Misery’s head down, applying pressure to his trachea with his shin and effectively choking him.

The crowd goes wild. People jump, scream, and cheer.

Rampage leaps to his feet and pumps his fist in the air. “No way. No f**king way. Torment locked him in a gogoplata.” He high-fives Jimmy and Pinkaluscious and then pulls me up to my feet.