Page 59 of Between the Ropes

I needed this job.

This was supposed to be my way out, my chance to prove that I was worth something. And instead, I let a man ruin it all.

I should have known better. I should have seen it coming.

Ryan Pierce, with his world of fame and intensity, was never meant to be more than a fleeting moment. A passing thing. I was nothing more than a distraction for him, something convenient. Something he could throw away when it got too complicated.

He discarded me like I meant nothing. Didn’t even think I was worth a conversation. Didn’t even have the decency to tell me to my face that I wasn’t enough for him.

Fury radiates through me, hot and blinding, but it comes out in the form of quiet, relentless tears.

It feels pathetic—to be here, curled up in my bed, crying over a man who clearly never saw me as anything more than temporary.

My hands shake as I pull the covers around me, trying to hold myself together, but the cracks are too deep.

How did things change so fast?

How did I go from being hopeful, from feeling wanted, cherished, protected, to lying here, shattered?

Was I really so naïve? So stupid to think that someone like him could actually want me? That we could ever be something real?

I press my face into the pillow, muffling my sobs, and for the first time in a long time, I feel completely alone.

Somewhere between the tears, I drift off, but even in my sleep, the pain lingers, wrapping itself around me like a weight I can’t escape.

And the worst part?

I don’t think I want to escape it.

Not yet.

44

When I wake up, rage is the first thing that hits me. It claws its way through my chest, demanding to be felt. Last night should have been my night. I should be waking up with the UXW Championship belt beside me, the weight of it a reminder of everything I’ve worked for. Instead, all I have is this empty bed, the bitter taste of failure, and lingering regret.

Kyle is still the champion.

The thought twists in my gut, sharper than the bruises covering my ribs, deeper than the cuts carved into my face. I replay the match in my head—every moment, every misstep—and it only fuels the fire. I let that bastard get the better of me. He outplayed me with those damn brass knuckles.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Brian. Again. I send him straight to voicemail for the third time today. I already know what he’s going to say.“It wasn’t your time, Ryan. You’ll getanother shot.”I can’t hear that right now, not without losing it. Not when he filled my head with doubt days before the biggest match of my career.

I sit up, muscles screaming in protest, and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The room is dark, heavy, suffocating. I need to move.

I push myself to my feet, every step toward the bathroom a reminder of the war my body has been through. When I flip on the light, the brightness is harsh, exposing every inch of damage.

I brace my hands against the sink and look at myself in the mirror.

I look like hell.

A jagged cut slices across my cheekbone, dried blood crusted at the edges. My lip is split, swollen, the deep purpling along my jawline proof of Kyle’s brass-knuckled cheap shot. My ribs ache with every breath, bruises blooming in ugly shades of black and blue across my torso.

I run a hand through my hair, gripping the back of my neck, my pulse hammering beneath my fingertips. This is what I do to myself. This is what I’ve always done. I push, I punish, I chase after something just out of reach, breaking myself in the process.

And Natalie.

That’s the worst part of it all. I let her go. I told myself it was for the best, that she deserved more than I could give her, that I needed to focus on the next steps of my career—but now, I have neither.

I tighten my jaw, shoving the thought away.

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