Page 3 of Fighting for You
Brooksy boy.
Fuck. Him.
No one gets to call me that. Not anymore.
I’m charging him before I even realize what I’m doing.
My fist flies toward his face but not before he uppercuts me, and everything goes black.
“Brooks. Wake up,” Hayes Mason’s voice floods through my brain as I come to. He’s tapping my cheek with his big, rough hand.
I immediately wince at the burning pain under my chin as I give him a grunt in reply.
I try to open my eyes but slam them shut again as the lights around The Pit burn my fucking retinas.
“Can you stand? They gotta… uh, clean up some before the next fight.”
The hesitation in his voice makes me wonder how much of the dampness I’m feeling underneath me is my blood and not just sweat. I nod in response, not yet trusting my words to come out coherently. At least the ringing seems to be gone, and the noise of the crowd has died down.
Hayes grabs my hand then shuffles beside me from the sound of it.
“Alright, count of three. One, two—” His words cut off as he tugs me up from the ground.
“Fuuuuuck you, that was not three,” I complain as he throws my arm over his shoulder. A shooting pain radiates across my rib cage, and my opposite hand flies to my abdomen, another moan escaping me.
“Yeah, I was tired of waiting,” Hayes says, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.
I’m not sure what he finds so fucking funny. I just had my first ever loss in The Pit–all I am is pissed.
I raise my hand enough to give him my middle finger which only makes him huff an actual laugh. My one win of the night.
Now that I’m standing, he leads me out of the ring. The crowd is a rowdy combination of boos and cheers as we walk through them.
“You wanna crash with me, or do you want me to take you home?” Hayes asks as he basically drags me toward his parked truck.
“Fuck you. I’ll drive myself home on my bike.”
“Not happening. You can barely walk, Brooks.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He doesn’t respond. Once I’m able to open one of my eyes enough to see the blurry image of the field in front of us, I see why. He isn’t listening, he’s taking me to his truck regardless of what I say.
With the bed of his truck a few steps in front of us, he finally says, “You have two options. My place or your place—courtesy of me driving you there. Pick your poison.”
I decide at this moment I both love and hate Hayes. I know he means well, and I’d do the same for him, but fuck—I don’t like depending on anyone other than me, myself, and I. And that’ssaying something since I do a shit job even for myself most of the time.
“Can my bike at least come with us?” I ask, knowing he has the ramp to put it in the bed of his truck.
He grunts in response, helping me into the cab, and slams the passenger door shut. I’m left to sit there with my thoughts and the pain riddling my body, neither of which are good company.
I can’t believe I got my ass handed to me in front of a huge crowd of people who came out tonight thinking I’d win. I probably lost some of the regulars hundreds of dollars. Who knows if they’ll bet on me again considering how epic the loss was.
I try to peel open my other eye that’s still burning, but the air from the AC hits it as soon as I do, making me wince. Taking a deep breath, I listen as Hayes loads my bike into the bed of the truck. In the silence, I remember what set me off right before the hit that did me in, and I’m pissed all over again.
Brooksy Boy.
Before I can spiral too much, Hayes opens the driver’s side door and gets in. He’s so big, it makes the truck look smaller than it is.
