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I met a lot more people, learned about new products and methods. Typed a shit-ton of notes in my phone and exchanged contact info with a few popular shops that might be willing to collaborate on projects in the future.

Whenever I had a few minutes to myself, I checked the score of the game. Demere was losing badly, even worse than expected, but at least McNeely had come through with a field goal late in the first quarter. His stats were still good, which was all I really cared about.

I was back at the hotel getting changed into a fresh shirt before heading to dinner with Tanner and some of his friends, when Jack Youngblood texted.

Jack

YOU ARE THE GOAT! How tf did you get him to agree to this? Shit’s gonna rock, bro. We’re in the fucking money.

I had no idea what he was talking about. And it was fucking galling to have to ask him. But I caved pretty quickly.

What are you talking about?

Jack

Your boy in the ring, bro! Dalton’s pissing himself he’s so stoked. Been sending us around all day to spread the word.

My chest got that floaty feeling. Like something was very wrong.

My boy?

Jack

McNeely! People are losing their minds. The pool’s heavy on Spanner, but the total pot, bro? Insane.

I stared at my phone while the blood rushed out of my head.

It took me about two seconds to dial McNeely to ask him what the fuck was going on. I needed to hear from him that he was nowhere near my uncle’s place tonight.

No answer.

Jack had to be wrong. There was no way McNeely was fighting at the Pit.

Dalton wouldn’t let him. My uncle had gotten dollar signs in his eyes recently, sure, but he knew better than to let the senator’s fucking flesh and blood fight for him.

Didn’t he?

And Bett wasn’t stupid. He’d seen what those fights looked like. He knew all the reasons he should avoid the place. And he knew—because I’d fucking told him—I wanted him to steer clear, too.

Right?

But even as I thought this, my racing heart knew better.

My hands shook as I thought about Arvie Spanner, who had about thirty pounds and forty fucking nights in the ring on Bett.

Bett stood no goddamn chance.

Hell, he probably fucking knew it, too.

He’d get a good payday just for fighting. Didn’t even need to win.

But what the fuck did he need money for that badly? What had his father done now? And why—Jesus fuck, why—hadn’t he told me?

I called him again.

No. Fucking. Answer.

Pick up the phone.