Max ♕
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The fight is in the basement of a rundown gym called Club One. It's risky as hell – not to mention illegal – but turning down Khalil's latest offer to make money was a luxury I couldn't afford. What he didn't count on, I'm sure, was me getting wasted beforehand.

I sit at the bar, staring blankly at the amber liquid swirling in my glass. The air is thick with the scent of alcohol, mixed with the musk of cologne and sweat, but I'm fighting to drown it out. Tonight, I'm drowning a lot of things, including my sorrows.

Maybe it's unhealthy, and maybe the killer hangover in the morning will make me regret it, but right now, it's hard to give a shit. Distractions haven't worked, and neither has focusing my efforts on training. Maybe alcohol will.

I can feel the weight of my phone in my pocket, the constant temptation to check for a message or a missed call from Alyssa. But I resist, knowing that it will only make things worse. Instead, I focus on the details around me, taking in the sports memorabilia and framed photographs on the wall, desperate to forget. But I can't.

She's all I think about.

I put down my glass and – for the millionth time – think back to last week and the hatred in her eyes as she tried her best to hurt me. The real pain, though, never came from her punches. It came from her telling me I did her a favor.

I'd known it, obviously – it's the reason I'd left in the first place – but part of me held onto the thought that maybe I was wrong. Maybe a lifetime of misery had clouded my vision, and I wasn't so terrible. Clearly, I was wrong.

The bartender pours me another drink, his eyes avoiding mine. I wonder if he's seen this before, if he can tell I'm drowning my sorrows. I wonder if he thinks I'm pathetic. I sure as hell do.

With a heavy sigh, I shift in my barstool to swiftly scan the room. Somewhere in this godforsaken club, Khalil is trying and failing to get a date, which marginally lifts my spirits. It's his fault I'm here, though if I'm being honest with myself, it didn't take much convincing.

It never has.

I'm ashamed to say the underground circuit is not something I'm unfamiliar with. The days after Dad bailed, I'd been looking for trouble, and I found it in bare-knuckle boxing. The brutality, the lack of rules – it was as if the cage set free this monster I'd been trying to suppress, and instead of being horrified, people cheered, which was why I loved every second.

Nowadays, the thought of returning to that place is scary as hell, but it's not like I have much choice. The hours I'm putting into training means there's little time to fit in deliveries, and I'm already strapped for cash. If I win this fight, it's quick, tax-free money that goes straight into my pocket. Easy – I hope.

As Khalil strolls up to another group of women, I feel my jaw clench, suddenly reminded of the night Alyssa first watched me fight. I'd picked her out of the crowd with ease, could feel her dark eyes as they watched me in the ring, and even though she'd caught my attention, there was no way in hell I could have predicted what would happen. What, one day, I'd lose. Everything, by the way. It feels like I've lost everything.

Before I can drown even further in my sorrows, Khalil slips onto the barstool beside me and takes in the line of empty shot glasses. "Oh, Jesus. You said you were only ordering two. Are you sure drinking before the fight is a good idea?"

"I'll be fine."

His eyes darken, and he gives me that look as if I'm made of glass. The pity look. Running a hand along his jaw, he says, "Look, maybe I was wrong to spring this on you. If you've changed your mind–"

"I haven't," I say and order another shot. Tonight is about making quick money, but it's also a distraction. If I keep thinking about Alyssa, I'll drive myself insane. Believe it or not, punching somebody's face in is easier.

I down the final shot and slam it on the counter. I can't remember the last time I got wasted, but I'm starting to feel the effects kick in, the slight numbing it offers. Good. "Alright," I say, getting to my feet. "Let's go."

A cautious Khalil follows me to the exit, waiting for the moment I suddenly lose my footing, but the truth is, I barely feel drunk. The only thing I feel right now is numb.

Outside, the Uber is already waiting for us. The gym sits on the outskirts of Burbank, its first floor – a small yet clean gym with old, worn equipment – a cover for the violence deep within. There's no such thing as safety in the underground circuit, nor honor or integrity. The rules are the same as they are on the streets: every damn man for himself.

By the time we get to the basement, I feel sick. Its darkness is palpable, and an acrid stench of vomit and sweat seems to follow as we push through the tightly packed crowd. "God, I forgot how much I don't miss this," Khalil shouts above the commotion and music.

He's right. The noise is overwhelming, a cacophony of pounding music, shouting voices, and the thud of fists hitting flesh in the cage. I can feel the heat and sweat of the crowd pressing in on me from all sides, their bodies slick with fluids, but somehow, I don't feel out of place. In the gutters of this basement, surrounded by the worst, I'm at home.

The cage sits in the center like a twisted centerpiece to a macabre carnival. It's constructed of rusted metal bars held together with heavy-duty bolts, with a raised platform in the center where the fighters stand. I stare at it hard, feeling as if I've entered some dark, twisted underworld, one where violence and depravity reign supreme. The worst part of all is I belong here.

Always have.

With a nod to Khalil, I force my way over to the back room, a small, dank space with a single mirror above a sink. Shame – that's what burns in my eyes right now, the idea that if Alyssa could see me here, she'd be horrified, but maybe that's the point. I do deserve better than you, she'd said. Tonight, I'm determined to prove it.

I pull off my t-shirt and give myself a final look in the mirror. The harsh fluorescent lights illuminate every inch of my skin, highlighting the bruises and cuts. As I tilt my head, shadows rise and fall across my face, offering a fleeting sense of anonymity, but there's no escaping it. Right now, I look like my father.

Fists clenched, I turn and enter the basement to a chorus of whistles and boos. They part before me, creating a narrow path that leads straight to the cage, where my opponent is already waiting. He's a brunt of a man, well outside of my weight category, with bulging, vein-threaded muscles that only form from copious amounts of steroids. Great.

Undeterred, I hold my head high as I enter the cage, taking in the crowd's harshly lined faces. A few will recognize me from my last stint here, hence the unforgiving reception. You leave this place, and you're no longer one of them but an outsider. You leave and come back?

You're a fool.

Still, I'm not here for glory but the paycheck. I turn to face my opponent, raising my fist in a gesture of respect. He's deadly serious, and his gaze is fixed on me with an air of cockiness that makes my fingers twitch.

The ref, a skinny, twitchy dude named Wolf, pulls out a cheap microphone and slurs an introduction. My opponent is Alexis, an up-and-coming newbie on the circuit who's won every fight this week, making him a crowd favorite. He acknowledges the cheers by lifting his fist, then proceeds to jog around the perimeter of the cage, exchanging fist bumps with his team—a show-off, I realize, just like Pretty Boy, but without the boyish looks.

"And in our other corner, we have Max O'Connor," Wolf shouts above the uproar. "One Club's very own former reigning champion."

Former, in this case, is code for a deserter, and I roll my eyes at the chorus of boos. Still, behind the irritation at my less-than-warm welcome is the tiniest lash of excitement. We touch fists before getting into our stances, and I'll admit, my heart starts to pound as the crowd kicks up, not because I'm afraid of him, but because deep down, I'm afraid of myself.

As soon as the whistle blows, Alexis launches himself at me. It's a common tactic for a guy his size, hoping to knock out his opponent in the first few blows, but he's in for a rude awakening. I dodge his attack, slipping under his swinging arm and cleanly jabbing his throat. He lets out a strangled cry before stumbling back against the bars. I straighten again, my fists tight and ready as I start my advance. This is going to be easier than I thought.

That's when, for a brief, fleeting moment, I let my eyes wander to the crowd behind Alexis. Predictably, Khalil is standing front and center, a wad of cash held tightly in his hand as he stares up at the ring, but what I hadn't counted on was the out-of-place figure standing rigidly beside him, staring at me as if I'm a stranger.

Kino.

The hit lands hard on my jaw, rattling my core and sending searing pain through my face. I stumble back, struggling to keep my balance as I try to shake off the blow. But even in my half-dazed state, all I can think about is Kino. What the fuck is he doing here? He should be at the library or work or wherever else it is that good people go, not here. This place isn't for him, it's for lowlives like me. Why the fuck is he here?

Before I can figure it out, Kino shifts slightly, and that's when I see her standing in the shadows, her face twisted in horror as she stares back at me.

Alyssa.

A/N

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