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To win.
While the fighters cleared the cage after the first matchup, Hugo Avila nudged my elbow. “Heard you got an invitation to Ivory and Iron. Holy shit! Nice work, man, fuck. My brother knows those guys.”
It took me a minute to switch from fight-night mode to work mode, but I blew out a breath and appreciated the compliment. “Yeah, thanks. I was fucking shocked when they contacted me. Apparently, Tanner knows some of those guys and talked me up. They asked me to present the Honda restoration.”
His thick eyebrows shot up. “The one with the leather stitching and custom foot pegs from the summer? That thing is fucking sweet. People are gonna lose their minds. You’ll get a ton of business from it, yeah? Our little Elliot’s gonna be booked solid.”
“Hope so. Might kick-start my plans for after graduation. Help me get there sooner than I thought.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “I know Dalton’s proud of you, kid.”
As he turned to answer someone’s question about the next pair of fighters, I realized maybe I should spend less time worrying about Bett McNeely Jack Youngblood and focus on my goals. In addition to Ivory and Iron, I’d also been invited to a small bike show in February that I needed to get a project going for. Something to show off and talk about to help make the right connections.
By the time the second fight of the night started, the Pit had tipped from loud to volatile.
Outside, the early October night might have been cool, but inside, the air was heavy with sweat and cheap beer, bodies packed too close together. The floor vibrated under my boots from the constant shifting of the crowd, money changing hands, shoulders bumping, testosterone and ego simmering just beneath the surface. It was the kind of energy that seemed on the knife’s edge between civil and riotous.
I knew that energy.
I’d created it and kept it going for three long years.
Every fighter who’d stepped into this cage at the start of the semester had come through me. I’d recruited them. Vetted them. Watched them spar. I knew who folded when they were tired and who got meaner. I knew who could take a hit and who only looked like they could.
Across the room, Jack fucking Youngblood leaned against a rusted steel beam like he owned the place. He flashed an easy grin at a cluster of frat guys who were shoving cash into his hands, his white-blond hair catching the single overhead light like he was the new prince of the fucking realm… which I supposed he was. The heir apparent, anyway.
The fighter he’d brought tonight was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, loose in a way that wasn’t confidence so much as chemistry. I hadn’t seen him pin anything, but he had that wired look guys got when they were on a stack—eyes too bright, muscles too tight, like his body was running hotter than it should.
There were no rules about juice in this place. Never had been. Dalton and I had gone around about it before, but this wasn’t my operation, and the guy’s jittery grin was a solid reminder I didn’t get to call the shots here.
The bell—really just a dented pipe hit with a wrench—rang out, and the two fighters met in the center of the ring with a force that made the front row collectively suck in a breath.
My guy was solid. Not flashy. Built like he understood leverage and pain in equal measure. He took the first punch without losing his footing, then adjusted and countered with a clean body shot.
The crowd roared its approval.
Then Jack’s recruit snapped a right hook that landed with a crack sharp enough to cut through the chatter.
My guy staggered, and my heart started hammering in my stomach. This was… fuck.
He tried to recover, but the other guy didn’t give him space. Three more hits, fast and brutal, and my fighter dropped hard to the mat.
It happened too quickly.
Even the crowd felt it.
The cheering fractured. Voices rose, confused and suspicious.
“No way.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I want my money back.”
And just like that, the energy turned.
Someone shoved someone else. A wad of bills scattered to the concrete floor. Two guys near the back squared up over a bet that had evaporated in under two minutes.
I stepped in automatically, grabbing one of them by the collar before he could throw the first punch.
