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“Here, I can take one of the both of you,” Shelby offers.
“Thanks.” I hand over my phone. Remy puts an arm around me and I curl my fingers into a heart and hold them in front of me.
“Awww, so cute,” Shelby says, handing my phone back.
I’m never going to get a better chance than this and I’ll kick myself later if I don’t ask. “Can we take a picture together, Shelby?”
“Sure!”
Rooster stands and offers me his seat. Shelby leans in and Remy takes a few pictures.
“Thank you.” I return to my chair, but Remy and Rooster move into the seats behind us and Ella moves next to me.
Once we’re all seated, a flight attendant takes drink orders and I settle in for the flight, pulling my tablet out of my bag. I quickly send one of the pictures of Shelby and me to Kyla, Darcy, Jenn, and Hayden.
The engines roar to life. A surge of excitement mixed with fear flows through me. We’re really flying to Vegas. On a private jet.
In eight hours or so, I’ll be in Griff’s arms.
“You okay?” Ella asks, raising her voice to be heard above the engines.
“Yes.”
Finally, we take off, hurtling down the runway. My stomach jumps as the jet soars into the sky.
I peer out of my window, watching the landscape get smaller and smaller.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Griff
Fight camp has been a grind. Everything is structured down to the minute. Unlike my time in the Supreme Fighter house, everyone at camp is serious about learning and preparing for battle. Nothing is dramatized for television ratings. There’s a strict nutritional program we have to stick to. Thankfully, I don’t have to cut weight like some of the other fighters.
My reward for all the hard work is finally seeing Molly when she arrives tonight.
For the couple days leading up to the fight, we’ve moved to the hotel next to the arena where the fight’s being held. Training time’s been reduced but not eliminated. It’s supposed to give us time to recover and rest before the big day. But I have a long list of media events I’m supposed to attend. That shit stresses me out way more than the training. Underhill wants me to focus on meditation—sitting still, the one thing I’m not good at.
I’m in the hotel gym, finishing thirty minutes on the treadmill, when I sense someone standing to my left. Guys I trained with at the fight camp are spread throughout the gym. We usually try not to bother each other. Whoever this is on my side feels like an intruder.
I punch the speed down, grab my towel and jump off the machine.
A hotel employee scurries over and wipes down the treadmill and I step back to get out of her way. I haven’t gotten used to that, yet.
I swipe my water bottle off the floor and take a deep sip.
A guy with blond hair and a way too eager expression sticks his hand out. “Sorry to interrupt your training.”
I screw the cap back on my bottle and shake his hand. “You didn’t.”
“Jeb from Skirmish Skeptic.” He introduces himself. Another guy stands behind him with a camera, but Jeb doesn’t give him an introduction.
I recognize the name as one of the smaller YouTube channels. They spend more time roasting fighters than discussing anything meaningful.
Suspicious now, I raise an eyebrow and stare at him. “Who let you in here?”
“Uh, your coach said I could have a minute of your time. You mind if I film it?” He gestures to his buddy standing behind him.
I shrug and hold out my arms. “Yeah, whatever.”
