Page 70 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

“I wasn't sure you would either,” Deepa admitted.

“What changed?”

“I made a choice.” With one hand on Roz’s chest and the other on the middle rope for balance, Deepa leaned in to press a kiss to Roz’s cheek. “I want you to win,” she murmured against the salt of her skin. “I want you to win every time, betting be damned.”

“Do I get another one of those if I manage it?” Roz asked carefully, like she was testing the waters.

“You can have whatever you want,” Deepa promised, “whatever the outcome.”

With the whistle, Roz launched herself back into the match, and Deepa clasped her hands over her heart, standing lightly on her toes, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she fought the urge to follow Roz into the ring. Her scarf was wrapped flat around Roz’s trunk, a brilliant carmine red to match her gloves, marking her as Deepa’s as surely as that smudge of lipstick on her cheek.

Deepa could only hope Roz wouldn’t choose to untie the scarf or wash clean the lipstick after the fight.

“Win for me!” Deepa shouted over the ebb-and-flow cheering and barking of the crowd.

Roz glanced in her direction as if drawn by a magnet, a grin lurking in one corner of her mouth.

The other fighter jabbed, her punch aimed too high, and as Roz tore her gaze from Deepa to return to the fight — a split second of distraction — the blow caught her square in the corner of the jaw and knocked her clean off her feet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

OF FIGHTS HARD-WON AND RECONCILLIATIONS MADE

Roz hit the floor with a thud that made Deepa’s bones hurt in sympathy. Her hands flew to cover her mouth, a shocked gasp escaping as she threw herself against the ropes. It was Kelly who pulled her back, keeping her from climbing in and invalidating the entire match.

“She's alright,” Kells told her, one arm around Deepa’s shoulders more as a restraint than a comfort.

“She needs to get back up.”

Even as Deepa said it, Roz groaned and rolled onto her hands and knees, pushing herself up with a grunt before the referee could count her out.

“I heard she was supposed to go down in the second,” said Kells.

“Not a chance,” Deepa said firmly, her gaze fixed on Roz like she could keep her standing through sheer strength of will. “Roz doesn’t lose.”

Overhearing this, Roz’s manager rounded on her in purple-faced frustration. “You’re the one who talked her out of it, are you?”

“I told her to do it, actually,” Deepa replied, not bothering to look at him. “I also told her to fire you.”

“You—!”

Another earth-shattering blow sent Roz staggering back, winded, her defensive form momentarily lost as she fought to keep her feet under her.

“Get back in there,” Deepa hissed, her hands wrapped around the middle rope. If she had claws, she’d have been shredding it to ribbons. “Get in there and hit her back!”

The third blow sent Roz wheeling, and as she spun, their eyes met. Helpless, Deepa felt only capable of distracting Roz at the worst possible times. Pressing her lips to her fingertips, she reached out with a kiss, all she could offer.

It was enough. Swinging around, Roz met her opponent with a strong right hook, forcing her back a pace and giving Roz room to follow up with a quick one-two that knocked the other woman off-balance.

As if Roz had only been waiting for Deepa to give her audience, she knocked the other woman back for the first time since Deepa’s arrival. If her opponent hadn't already tired herself out in the first two rounds, she probably could have taken Roz down anyway. But as it was, Roz’s last hit knocked the woman to the mat, and for a split second, the crowd was completely hushed, holding their breath in shocked anticipation. Deepa didn’t cry out this time or cheer her on for fear of distracting her again, but she held the ropes in a death-grip andbeamed every ounce of love and admiration and heated wanting in her fighter’s direction, willing her to come out on top.

Dropping to one knee, the referee began her countdown, her whistle between her teeth and one hand pounding the mat as she marked the time. Panting, Roz stood over the two of them, keeping her fists up with a strength that looked like it was flagging by the second. If the other fighter found her feet, her next hit would likely take Roz down for good.

Her opponent struggled to her knees — Deepa didn’t breathe — only to list heavily to one side, swaying as if drunk, before dropping her head and waving one gloved hand in defeat.

The final whistle pierced the air, silvery and pure. Leaping to her feet, the referee grabbed Roz by the wrist and thrust her arm up, and the crowd erupted in a roar of approval as she claimed her victory.

Deepa’s knees buckled in sweet relief before she climbed between the ropes and into the ring. She didn’t try to pull Roz away from her victory, but waited in her corner to catch her as soon as she was done.

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