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I was fucking desperate. So when I’d overheard Nick Ankers mention he knew someone favored to win at the Pit tonight was most likely going to lose, my ears had perked up.

“He’s got the fucking flu, man. But he needs the cash too much to bail. Supposedly, they pay two grand for fighting, but because he’s on the wrestling team, they offered him five.”

We’d been in the locker room after a light practice and tape review in preparation for tomorrow’s game, and I’d already been eagerly anticipating the coach-mandated early curfew after our team dinner. I was beat and needed sleep.

But as soon as I’d heard about one of the fighters at the infamous Pit fights having a disadvantage, I’d started thinking.

Hell, I would have been tempted to ask to fight, if they were paying that much. Even if I got my ass kicked, I’d have some serious cash in my pocket. But not only would I risk my spot on the team, I’d also be murdered by my father and his campaign manager when pictures or videos inevitably ended up on social media.

Using the insider info I had about tonight’s fight to double my money, though? That was a risk I was willing to take.

It had been weeks since the coaching assistant tasked with checking up on players for curfew had stopped bothering to include me in bed checks. Melvin knew I secretly loved an excuse to get to sleep early the night before games, and my yoga and meditation routine had been thoroughly covered in an online media spread last year.

So when ten thirty rolled around, I felt the odds were decent no one would come to check up on me. I found someone at the frat house who was heading to the fight and caught a ride with them.

When I entered the old biker bar, I was hit with a wave of body heat, sweat stench, and noise. Like the locker room, but worse.

The fighters were warming up, which meant I didn’t have time to dick around. I scanned the room for whoever was taking bets, but before I could find whoever that was, my eyes landed on Vaughn.

He was in the center of the room, moving closer to the cage, but the second I walked in, his attention snapped toward me like he’d felt the shift in the air.

His face didn’t change much, which somehow made it worse. His spine went rigid, his mouth pressed into that hard line I knew too well, and the look he sent across the Pit landed somewhere between a warning and a promise.

I made my way to him quickly, shoving down the nervous twist in my stomach. Yes, I’d known he was involved in the fight ring, but I hadn’t allowed myself to think about him actually being here. About the fact that I might have to place my bet with him.

Fuck.

“Hey, uh. How can I put money down on the fight?” I asked stupidly.

His eyes were narrow and his larger frame deliberately intimidating. “You can’t. Get the fuck out of here.”

Vaughn’s anger surprised me. In our room, he was always more of a tease, someone who laughingly provoked me. Yes, there’d been an undercurrent of annoyance sometimes that had made me wonder what I’d ever done to piss him off, but it was never like this.

“What the fuck is your problem?” I snapped, feeling the sting of his anger deeper, maybe, than I should have. But I was also suddenly panicking. I needed this money. And if I were caught for missing curfew and I didn’t have any extra cash to show for it, I’d be fucked.

Vaughn moved closer and lowered his voice until it seemed to rumble between us like the vibration of an oncoming train. “My problem is you showing up at my fight ring. Get the hell out, and don’t come back.”

I ignored the scent of his fucking cheap-ass bodywash, the same scent my own skin carried ever since he’d poured my Dior Sauvage down the drain. “Why? I want to place a bet.”

Before he could answer, I spotted a man several yards away taking money.

I didn’t wait for permission, simply moved away from Vaughn and toward the guy with the cash. The noise was deafening in the crowded room, which explained why I didn’t hear Vaughn come after me, didn’t realize I wasn’t simply being jostled by the people around me but upended over my roommate’s shoulder like a sack of fucking potatoes.

I didn’t react at first because my brain couldn’t process what was happening.

I was not a small person. Yeah, I was a kicker, not a linebacker. But I was still nearly two hundred pounds of solid muscle.

Once I realized, I let out an indignant squawk. “Put me down! What the fuck?”

One of his arms was locked behind my knees, and his other hand gripped the back of one of my thighs high enough to be ass-adjacent. I pounded my fists on his back and sides like a stupid girl from a 1960s movie, feeling the blood rush to my face for more reasons than gravity.

People turned to stare, which was when I tucked my face into the fabric of his shirt and prayed like hell no one clocked who I was.

He said something to one of the people we passed, and then we were out the doors and into the cool North Georgia night.

Instead of putting me down just outside the door, he carried me around the back of the building to a darkened area with only a couple of cars and his motorcycle.

“Put me down,” I hissed, beating him again with a hard knuckle to the kidney.