Page 133 of Undisputed Chaos
I turned to find my K.O. victim’s head coach swaggering toward our group, flanked by three of his fighters and reekingof wounded pride.
His face was still red from watching his boy get dismantled in front of a sold-out crowd.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
“Coach,” I replied with a grin that looked more feral than friendly in the club's strobing lights.
"Shouldn't you be consoling your fighter? I hear he's still trying to remember his name."
The insult hit home, his face darkening as his entourage shifted restlessly. "Big words from someone who fights tomato cans for easy money."
"Easy money?" I laughed, the sound echoing through our section of the club. "Your boy lasted longer than I expected. We actually made it to round three before I put him to sleep."
Connor and Jax flanked me automatically, their presence alone enough to make his crew take a step back.
We might be celebrating, but we were still apex predators in a room full of wounded prey.
"Drinking contest," The man announced suddenly, loud enough for half the club to hear. "Shot for shot, last man standing. Unless the feral puppy can't handle his liquor."
The crowd began to gather, sensing blood in the water. Money started changing hands as bets were placed, the energy shifting from celebration to gladiatorial anticipation.
I glanced over at the girls, catching Isla's eye. She was watching with rapt attention, her chocolate martini forgotten as she leaned forward in her seat.
The trust in her gaze, the absolute confidence that I would dominate whatever challenge came my way, sent fire racing through my veins.
Time to put on a show for my angel.
"Boys," I called out to Connor and Jax, "keep an eye on the girls. I’m having some fun here.”
From the corner of my eye, I caught movement—Elliott, our coach's twenty-year-old son, practically bouncing on his toes with excitement.
The kid's baby face was flushed with hero worship, his copper hair catching the strobe lights as he pushed through the crowd toward the bar.
Toned build aside, he looked like he belonged in a library more than a fight club, but his dedication to us was absolute.
"I got this, Adrian!" He called out, his voice pitched with shy enthusiasm as he flagged down the bartender.
The kid had been helping at the gym lately, always eager to fetch water bottles, hold pads, or just watch us train and try to copy us.
I studied the opposing coach’s flushed face, the slight tremor in his hands, the way his eyes were already slightly unfocused.
This would take five minutes. Maybe less.
The bartender began lining up shots, clear liquid that gleamed under the lights.
Elliott hovered nearby, practically vibrating with energy as he coordinated with the bartender. Twenty glasses in total, enough to put a normal man in the hospital.
Good thing I wasn’t normal.
"Rules," I announced, loud enough for the growing crowd to hear.
"Shot for shot until one of us taps out or hits the floor. Loser buys everyone's drinks for the night."
"Hope you brought your credit card,” The coach sneered, grabbing the first glass with unnecessary force.
What followed was pure theater. He threw back shot after shot with desperate determination, his face growing redder, his movements more erratic with each glass.
The crowd cheered and jeered, placing side bets on how many drinks it would take to drop each of us.
