Mine (Real, #2)(14)
Immediately I know, with every fiber in me, that they’re going to bring him out. He’s wanted, not only by Butcher, but by the entire screaming arena.
“Riptide! Riptide! RIPTIDE!” they chant.
I feel like a ginormous fist is squeezing the contents out of my stomach as I wait for a glimpse of him. He’s angry at me. He’s angry at me because I’m being ridiculous and I hate that I can’t stop being ridiculous and then I’m angry at myself.
“Riptide, Riptide!!” the crowd continues screaming for him.
There’s a commotion as the organizers seem to scramble to comply as the crowd’s demands get even louder.
“RIPTIDE! RIPTIDE!”
“Give us f*cking RIPTIDE!”
The speakers flare to life, and the announcer sounds breathless. “You asked for him, ladies and gentlemen! You asked for him! Now, let’s bring out tonight the one you are all here to see! The one, the only, RRRRRRRiiiiiiippppppppppptiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide!”
The crowd roars in delight and my body screams in silence as all my systems kick into overdrive. My heart pumps, my lungs expand, and my eyes hurt as I pin them fixedly on the walkway. All the vessels and capillaries in my body dilate to accommodate blood flow, and my leg muscles feel ready to run, even though all I can do is squirm uneasily in my chair. I can’t ever seem to make my body realize that Remy is not in danger. Nor am I. My brain cannot comprehend that the man I love does this for sport, for a living. For his mental well-being. So I sit here while my body unleashes all the same hormones it would if I were being cornered by three raving bears ready to eat me.
And then I see him enter the arena—strong, magnificent, in control.
He takes the stage quickly and removes his robe while Butcher keeps pounding his chest as the crowd receives Remington with all their love and devotion. Like they always do.
I hold my breath and my hands fist in my lap as I wait for him to look at me.
It kills me. First, I watch in anticipation, then in dread, then in disbelief, as he makes his turn, unsmiling, then drops his arms at his sides and gets into place. The bell rings.
The men charge. I wince when Remy’s head flies to the side from the impact.
“Oh, no!” My stomach drops, my eyes blurring when I see blood.
The awful sounds of bone cracking against flesh follow, one after the other, as Butcher delivers three more consecutive blows, all to Remy’s face.
“Oh, god, Pete,” I gasp, covering my face.
“Shit,” Pete tells me. “Why didn’t he f*cking look at you?”
“He hates me.”
“Brooke, come on.”
“We . . . he’s . . . I’m having trouble coping with the women, all right?”
Pete looks at me with a conflicted expression, and his stare bores into my profile, as if he wants to say something but can’t.
Remington growls angrily and lifts his guard as he shakes his head, easing back. His face is bloodied from the nose, the lips, the little scar on his eyebrow, and I don’t even know where else.
Butcher swings again, but Remy blocks, and they exchange jabs for about a minute until the round break is called and they go to their corners. Riley puts something on the wounds, and Coach is yelling stuff to him. He nods, shakes his arms out, flexes his fingers, and comes back, angry now, as he goes toe-to-toe with that burly awful beast and his spiked knuckles.
They go at it again. Swinging and slamming.
Remington feints to the side and Butcher throws his fist into the space where Remy used to be. Remington comes back with an uppercut to the face that connects so hard Butcher rocks sideways.
It takes a few moments for Butcher to recover his footing. He swings out his arm, but Remy ducks and comes back with a punch to the ribs, the gut, and the face, all landing with perfect speed and precision. Pow, pow, pow!
Butcher throws a fist out once again, aiming for Remy’s face, but Remy blocks the punch and once again returns with a hit of his own—slamming his knuckles straight into Butcher’s ugly fat face. Butcher falls to his knees.
At my side, Pete’s excitement keeps building, and I hear him mumble, “Come on, Rem. Why are you letting him get in? You’ve got this.” He turns to me and whispers, “You can teach speed and agility, but you can’t ever teach a man to be a heavy puncher like Rem is. Soon as he starts hitting like he wants to, it’s over.” I see he’s grinning, but I am not.
Remy is still bleeding, and as the fight progresses, he keeps catching a couple of punches with his body.
I loathe, loathe, loathe when he gets injured, even though it’s my job to help him recover. He laughs and spits, almost like he’s enjoying it.
Last season’s nightmare of a fight did something to me, and watching this—this—kills me all over again.
My fear has grown and festered, and tonight, it is overwhelming. For a moment, my head spins faintly—but at the same time, I’m sure my adrenaline is keeping me awake, keeping my body fed and ready to defend him.
Butcher stands up again and whacks out another punch to the face, and Remington’s head swings, but his body stays firmly planted. My tree is always so firmly planted. He swings, and hits back even harder. The two men clinch, then shove away from each other, and Remington charges again, the blood on his face pouring in streams now as, once again, he goes pow pow pow!
His rapid, consecutive punches cause Butcher to start backing off. The fat man bounces on the ropes behind him but refuses to fall. Remy corners him, his chest glistening with sweat and his muscles rippling as he smashes Butcher’s gut and then his face.