Page 71 of The Masks We Burn

Both Bellamy’s and my parents are footing the start-up cost sans what the crowdfunding does. Lily’s aunt Mina—a woman of many trades I found out—has been working a lot with Bell to get flyers and electronic payments set up, as well as social media pages.

Mix all that in with my upcoming final fight, all senior assignments due, plus apartment hunting—busy is an understatement when it comes to my life the past month. But I’m not complaining. It’s left me with little time to sleep and even less time to think—which I’m more than grateful for, because if I’m being honest, any second I’m not drowning in something to do, I’m thinking about her.

I’m wondering about things as mundane as what she’s doing all the way to if she’s as busy as me planning her business. And then there’re the times when the rain is heavy outside and I wonder if she’s okay, or if maybe she’s found someone else to hold her through the storm.

It used to sting like fire when I did think of her, but as the weeks passed, I’ve trained myself to become numb to the dull ache. Kind of how my knee used to feel when something reminded me of ball; only now, the soreness is in my chest.

Remy’s been kind, not bringing her up when she comes over to help me with the spreadsheet stuff, or calculating costs and fees with the club. Part of me thinks she doesn’t want to hear a fat assI told you so.

But also, I don’t want to say it.

“We’ll be there all weekend to help you pass out flyers and talk to local businesses. I think when we came out to have dinner with you, I saw a T-shirt place. They may be willing to work with you for shirts for the parents.” My mom’s voice pulls me to the present.

“That’d be great, Ma. Really, I can’t thank you both enough for helping me out with this.”

“Son, you don’t have to thank us. This is our job. Besides, I haven’t seen you this happy in years. I would do anything to keep you feeling like this.” Dad smirks at me before going back over the training field drawing I made.

He hasn’t looked at me with this much pride since I threw my first touchdown. He’s a good dad, a perfect role model, but something inside of him dimmed the day of my accident. I think he struggled the same way I did watching so much potential disappear in the blink of an eye. He came to every appointment, every surgery, every godforsaken therapy session. And I think a piece of him did it in hopes I’d get better, even though he knew otherwise.

But seeing him now, staring at me as if I’ve made him the proudest parent in the world… well, it does something I can’t quite explain.

It’s as if a fog has cleared, letting me finally see all these good things in front of me.

I release a breath I’ve been holding for four years.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Iwon my last fight.

Exactly like all the others, I played defense, staying away from their kicks, avoiding getting caught in the face and when I won, nothing came over me. I didn’t expect there to be anything, but I also didn’t expect to feel so empty.

Amora hadn’t come, not that I thought she would, but I figured maybe since she needs to keep up the marriage charade, she’d come.

At least, I hope she still needs the fake marriage.

A horrible thought hits me as I consider the worst. If she decided to forget her whole plan and give in to her mother.

Fuck no. My girl is too damn hardheaded for that. No matter what happened between us, I know she’s still going to fight till the last damn second before they get the chance to rip off her wings.

I stretch my tight muscles, finally getting out of the hotel’s bed. All the other times after a fight, I had a reason to go home, but last night, I was too tired, and decided to take up the offer to stay the night. Now, I regret it.

Spencer is blowing up my phone about the ring—the damn jeweler didn’t match the color band of the engagement ring, and Bellamy’s called twice. I decide to call both of them after I stop at Main Juice and get a smoothie to wake me up.

As if on automatic, I take another shower, brush my teeth, and get dressed. By habit, I make my bed and double-check underneath to make sure nothing dropped. Finally ready, I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and open the door, only to be met with dark eyes and a salt and pepper goatee.

“Mr. Orlov.” I keep my voice calm, masking the mix of surprise and sudden dry throat.

Though his eyes are small and have long lost their hue, I seeherin them and it’s a punch to the fucking gut.

I miss her.

Fuck, I miss her.

“Mr. Cassidy. I wondered if you had a moment to talk?” His voice is low, and much more timid than I would have thought for a man who runs an amateur MMA club.

I nod and back away from the door, letting him in. He walks past the room and onto the patio, sitting at the small bistro table.

His dark suit is heavily starched and pressed, tailored to fit his frame. He taps a small envelope I hadn’t seen before on the table as he gazes over the balcony. The hotel room has a beautiful view of the city, but I hadn’t really looked, considering me and heights don’t really do well together.

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