“Give me that damn hand, I’m not finished.” He takes my wrist and starts wrapping my hand in black tape. I watch him closely, beads of sweat across his brow. I feel for Oz. I know that every hour he spends without his flask is costing him his soul.

“You kind of grow on a guy, you know,” I say.

“Yeah?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Does your girlfriend hate my guts? I don’t want either of you to think I was a dick to her the other day. I was irked. For good reason. My champ stood up at the airport after going through all the effort of first class . . .”

“She had good reason and she doesn’t hate you. Reese offered to be your sponsor, Oz. She’s anti-Wendy, like you and me. She’s one of us.”

Oz exhales as if I just lifted the whole city off his shoulders.

I test out my hand before shoving my fingers into the black boxing glove he extends. “You haven’t drank today. Right?”

“Not for a few hours,” he admits, opening the other glove for me. “But I’m craving it, son. I’m going to need a fix soon.”

“If you’re even tempted, tell me and we’ll find something funner to do.”

“Yeah. Go break a few noses for me.” He signals to the door and steps back to make room for me.

I get to my feet and stretch my neck; the crowd is getting noisier.

The announcer calls out my opponent as I shove my arms into the black robe Oz holds up. I jerk the sash closed, then I loosen my shoulders, keep eyeing the door. My muscles are already heating. Adrenaline pumps in my veins. I’m sky-high on testosterone and I not only have tonight’s important match to thank for that, but Miles too.

“Toro! Toro! Toro!” the crowd outside cheers.

I hop in place, loosen my wrists, my arms. I’m impatient. I’m hardwired to fight the moment I put my gloves on. I’m ready.

Come on, motherfucker, call me up already. . . .

“And now, ladies and gentlemen. He’s reckless! He’s determined! He’s got eyes of steel that will cut you to the quick, and fists with unparalleled reach. Maverick. ‘The Avenger.’ Caaaaage!”

I head with Oz down the walkway, lights shining down on us as the crowd shuffles restlessly and even gasps. Oz takes my corner, and I climb the ring.

I’m fucking primed to fight. My eyes land on Toro as Oz pulls off my black robe, and suddenly I can hear the silence, as always, when my tattoo is revealed.

Nobody sees the phoenix really. All they see is the scorpion that marks me.

I purposely do not get rid of that scorpion.

I am who I am.

I come from where I come from.

That doesn’t mean I’m shit.

In the far back, I hear a few females scream, “GO MAVERICK!”

“Well, look at that! I like them!” Oz happily cries.

He squints into the lights and raises his hand to shield his eyes as he tries to locate my fans as I head to center and focus on the guy before me.

Joel “Toro” Waltzinger.

Bull in size, height, and he even breathes like one too. Sweat glistens all over his body, as if the guy already wore himself out climbing the ring. Hell, I hope he’s ready to get his guts smashed.

Ting.

We go toe-to-toe, tap gloves, and he tries a couple of jabs.

I block and duck, easy.

He throws his arms out again, and as I duck, I hit. I go for the body first, poom, poom, poooom.

He grunts.

I smile and prowl around him. “Not too bad for a rookie, huh?” I try baiting him.

He swings out again, I block and hold his arm up there with mine, opening his side. And I hit again, crushing his ribs.

He’s winded. And that’s when I drive my hook upward, straight to the head. First the left hook. Then the right hook. And then I shoot my arm out straight and bust his face, his nose crunching beneath my knuckles. He falls to the ground.

Next up is Hot Shot.

I keep my guard up, brace my legs apart, and hold my balance. Everything I learned from Tate.

We go toe-to-toe. I double punch, hit, stunning him.

I protect, then attack. Protect, attack. Stay away from the ropes, prowl back, then prowl forward until I’ve got him caged.

And then I pummel him. Gut. Ribs. Gut. Temple. Jaw.

He’s on the ground.

The adrenaline is rushing inside me. I’m bloodthirsty and I’m eager for it. I’m taking this ring tonight no matter who they put before me.

With Taz, we dance a lot. Hop, duck, leap around. He’s fast but I’m just as fast, and I’m stronger. I catch a few hits. They hardly graze. Mine don’t graze him. They land and crunch bone beneath my knuckles, knock him to his knees.

He tries to come up and his leg quivers, and he falls.

I take Libertine out within two minutes of taking the ring.

Spidermann avoids the ropes. He’s been studying me?

I play it different. I let him get in a few hits to the body, let him bring me to the ropes, and then I flip us around, cage him in, and fucking finish him.

Twister is last.

Oh, I’m going to have fun with him. Flirting with Reese? Busting his nose last time was not enough for me.

I prolong it this time. I raise my fist and crunch his nose under my knuckles—in case he doesn’t remember who fucking busted it before.

He yells, and when his hand flies instinctively to the source of the pain, I go straight for his liver.

He chokes on a breath and gets blood all over my chest as he tries to lean on me for balance.

I shove him back (I’m not his hugging post), then let him recover before readying to hit again.

“You motherfucker,” he hisses, charging.

I smash my hook into his mouth, then hold his head between my folded arm and hit him three times with my fist. Then I drop him splat on the ground.

There’s a wave of shocked gasps across the crowd. I look around the arena as it falls silent, clenching my jaw, narrowing my eyes, and then I raise my arms and let my fist punch the air, saying, This is who I am!

“Absolutely ruthless! No mercy from Maverick Cage, NO FUCKING MERCY TONIGHT! Ladies and gentleman, we give you . . . Maverick ‘the Avenger’ Cage!”

I’m catching my breath as my arm is raised, and then I pull free and leap out of the ring to where Oz waits to lead me down the walkway, to the back room.

“You just got into the fucking final, Mav. YOU’RE IN THE FUCKING FINAL!”