Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
Hammer Fists is huge and not much of a talker. We shake hands before entering the cage but that’s about it. While the producers fuck around with the lights, I take a moment to close my eyes and breathe.
You’ve got this. You know what you’re doing. Keep moving. Don’t let him grab you. Stay off the cage wall.
I open my eyes and bounce on my toes. Adrenaline thunders through my veins. Across from me, Hammer Fists is formidable. But his expression’s blank. He could be assessing my strengths and weaknesses or pondering how long it takes grass to grow. It’s hard to tell.
As soon as we’re given the signal, Hammer Fists lunges for me with his thick arms.
“You tryin’ to bear hug me, bro?” I dart away.
He grunts. We circle each other. I see an opportunity and weave in at an angle. I throw a quick shot that lands in his solar plexus. I’m too keyed up and my fist doesn’t connect as well as it should’ve. He drops his elbow, catching my shoulder, and I rock sideways.
Fuck no.
I dart away. Too far. He whips out a powerful roundhouse kick to my midsection. The thud reverberates through my body. I grit my teeth and move in closer.
The arena’s quiet. Too quiet. I’m used to a crowd cheering or talking shit as background noise. Hammer Fists’ heavy breathing and slow steps trigger something at the back of my mind.
Gas this big fucker.
I cut in close and pop him once, twice. He moves to defend. I weave away. I hit him again. He moves to kick again, and I switch and come in with a kick to his back leg. He grunts and grabs me in a clinch.
Fuck.
I posture up and move in tight so he can’t knee me.
Keep him busy. Don’t let him apply force.
I distract him with my hands and angle my feet for better leverage and dump him on the floor.
Breathing hard, I back away.
“Cut!” someone yells.
Huh? Even though he’s still on his back, I don’t want to take my eyes off Hammer Fists.
“Hold on!” one of the producers yells.
Bright light sweeps through the cage. Hammer Fists groans and rolls to his side.
“Stonewall! Move in closer!”
To what?
Is the fight over? Hammer Fists didn’t really tap out.
Confused, I move closer to the center of the ring. The ref steps inside and squats next to Hammer Fists, talking too low to hear him.
The ref stands and raises my hand in the air, turning me toward the brightest lights.
To make the outcome even more muddled, the ref has Hammer Fists stand and do the same raised hand, turn-toward-the-camera thing.
Did we tie?
“You’re a fast fucker,” Hammer Fists says to me with a respectful chin lift.
“Knew I couldn’t let you grab me.”
A sinister grin spreads across his face.
“Is that it?” I ask the ref.
“We got what we needed.”
I glance at Hammer Fists and he shrugs.
The next day, we all have to sit through a ceremony where Matt and some other “expert judges” criticize our moves and performances. None of it is constructive or helpful critique.
Then we’re forced to watch Bear Trap get the axe.
“Shit.” I drop my head and sigh. I was hoping none of my guys were leaving yet.
I haven’t known him long, but it sucks.
Venom, Woolly, and I huddle around Bear Trap to say our goodbyes.
“This shit’s fucked,” he says, shaking his head.
He gives me a hug. “Stay vigilant, Stonewall.”
“I’ll try.”
“Hit me up when you get out.”
I pull away and shake his hand. “Will do.”
He says a similar goodbye to Venom and Woolly, flips everyone else the bird, and storms off the set.
“And then there were three little monks.” Deadass pulls a sad face at us and mockingly rubs his fists against his eyes.
I glare at him but don’t respond to the taunt. Why couldn’t I have gone up against him instead of Hammer Fists?
“Center,” Woolly reminds me. “Ignore him.”
Kiki—persistent as ever—hurries to console us. No one’s confirmed it, but I’ve gotten the impression she was “assigned” to us or something. I rarely interact with the other girls, but somehow Kiki’s always in my face. Wandering the hallway outside my room, bumping into me outside the gym, in the kitchen.
“I’m going to the gym,” I say.
Venom pats my back.
Working out to avoid the drama going on with the other contestants is the only thing preserving my sanity. It keeps me from missing Molly. When I think about her, I train. When the pain becomes too much, I picture Molly’s smile, replay her laugh in my head. Think about our last night together. The note she gave me. The little cherries embroidered on her underwear that she picked out just for me. That only makes me miss her. So, I jump on the treadmill and run until my body’s as limp as overcooked spaghetti.