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“Ava, I got respect for you, but I don't need your pity or your judgment. I'm doing what I want."
He rejected my attempts at understanding. It felt like he rejected me, too. I stood frozen as a crowd shuffled out of Carnage, the pulsing music matching the pounding in my ears. Ryder got his mask back on before they could see him. My shoulders slumped in defeat.
"You're right. It's your life. Do what you want with it."
I turned and walked away before he could see the tears stinging my eyes. The chilly night air washed over me, but it couldn't cool the frustration and hurt burning inside. I had tried to understand Ryder, and I failed. Now I could only walk away and wonder if I had ever really known him at all.
I got in my car and drove out of the seedy district of town. I broke the speed limit a couple of times, trying to put as much distance between myself, Carnage, and Ryder, as possible. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was nearly midnight, but the city still pulsed with energy. Groups of people spilled out of bars and clubs, their laughter echoing down the sidewalks. The lights of downtown gleamed and glittered.
I inhaled deeply, trying to clear my mind. But I couldn't stop replaying our argument. I saw again the defiant set of Ryder's jaw as he refused to listen. Should I have tried to understand his side more? I prided myself on my investigative skills, but I had to admit, I didn't comprehend Ryder's motivations. We were two entirely different kinds of fighters.
I observed it all as I drove. The truth was, I cared about Ryder far more than I wanted to admit. Somewhere along the line, I'd stopped seeing him as just a story and had let myself get drawn into the fantasy of what might be.
I motioned my head side to side and laughed softly, a bitter edge to it. The argument. The doubts. The realization I'd fallen for him, despite my better judgment.
Professionalism, or passion?
Safety, or the risk of being hurt again?
I got to my hotel room, where I curled up on the couch for a late night flick. My phone rang. I stilled, thinking for a moment it could be Ryder. Then I glanced at the screen and saw my editor’s name on the display. I winced. He didn’t have to call me. I knew I was already behind on my deadline. “Mr. Crawford. Hey.”
"Ava, you were supposed to have an update for me yesterday. The network is getting impatient. What's going on?"
I scrambled for an excuse. "I've hit a bit of a roadblock. The story took an unexpected turn and it's throwing me off. The good news is, I just need a couple more days to work through it."
Silence from the elderly editor. Then a heavy sigh. "You know I can't keep stalling the higher ups forever, but I'll see what I can do. Take the rest of the week if you have to. It's the best I can give you."
"Thank you, I really appreciate it." Relief flooded through me.
"Just get it done, Ava. I'm counting on you here." Mr. Crawford hung up, leaving me with a mix of gratitude and guilt.
A few more days with Ryder, that's all I needed. For the story. Not to figure out where we stood and what came next. The answer had to be nowhere. Even if I tended to waffle on the subject, Ryder already made it clear tonight.
Chapter Ten
RYDER
Warrior’s Den
The rhythm of my fists against the punching bag filled the gym, a steady thump that matched the hammering in my chest. I had been at it for hours, trying to sweat out the memory of Ava's face when she realized who I was. No, what I was. The mystery fighter at Carnage, an identity I'd guarded until she tore it down with nothing but a look of shock and hurt.
"Dammit," I muttered under my breath, pausing to swipe a towel across my forehead. The image of her standing there, rooted to the spot with disbelief, wouldn't leave my mind. How long did I think I’d keep it from her?
I rested against the cool concrete wall, feeling the ache in my muscles and the sting of my conscience. Ava cared about me—really cared—and all I'd done was throw it back in her face. I got obsessed with the adrenaline rush that comes with the fight, the roar of the crowd at Carnage. It was addictive, the surge of power. But at what cost?
Come on. I shook my head as though it would make the thoughts go away. You’re better than this.
Was I though? The question gnawed at me as I wrapped my hands for another round. Each wrap around my knuckles became a reminder of the walls I'd put up around my life. Ava had started to peel those layers away, and instead of letting her in, I pushed her out.
"Stupid," I hissed through gritted teeth. I threw a punch, then another, faster and harder. Why couldn't I let go of the rush? Why was I so intent on chasing the high that came with each fight, even if it meant losing something—or someone—real?
And there it was, the truth laid bare in the empty gym: I craved the fight because it was simple. No complications, no expectations, just me and the opponent, reduced to our most basic instincts. But life with Ava, it wasn’t like that. It had the potential to be messy and beautiful and complex, and I was terrified of it.
She gave me a chance. She saw past the fighter, the ego, the bravado. And I screwed it up.
I dropped my hands, exhausted. The bag swung lazily to a stop, and I knew, right then, I had to make it right. I had to show Ava that I was more than the guy in the ring. That I could be someone worth taking a risk on, worth sticking around for.
Not for the roar of a crowd or the rush of blood in my veins, but for something far more frightening and worthwhile, the chance at a real connection with Ava.
