Page 101 of Keep Your Guard Up
“Sure—”
“Paige?” My brother interrupted.
That beaming, happy, kind face of the woman in front of me morphed into a scowl. Her eyebrows pinched together, fizzing out the light that had been in her eyes just moments ago. “Prince Disgusting,” she hissed. “I would ask you how you are, but we both know that I don’tfuckingcare.”
Hearing a girl wearing a green and white floral skirt and a bright pink vest swear at my brother might have just been the best thing I’d ever witnessed. I tucked the memory away in my mind. Later. I would enjoy this later. When I didn’t feel like hot, steaming garbage.
She stormed off, and I failed to contain my laughter. Less than half a second later, JJ joined me in holding our stomachs from laughing too hard.
“Jesus, Dyl. What did you do to that poor girl?”
“I-I-I just—” he stuttered.
“I-I-I just,” JJ mimicked. “Jesus, Deedee. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone talk to ya like that without copping a smack from ya.”
“You good?” Dylan asked me, ignoring JJ’s comment. I may have been depleted, may have been feeling like a steaming pile of horse shit, but even I could see the haunted look that had fallen onto my brother’s face.
I flicked my head over to where Talia was standing, taking photos of all of the signage with my name on it.
Dylan groaned, muttering a not-so-quiet curse on the end of it. “Want me to take care of that?”
At my brother’s words, JJ immediately squared his shoulders.
“Just leave it. I don’t have the energy to deal with the fallout of that.”
Understatement of the century.
~
Five and a half hours, and a fuckload of media presences later, I was standing side stage waiting for the announcer to call me up onto stage for the face-off with Randy.
My stomach was so empty, I was teetering on a fine line I could feel would turn into a cramp at any second. I had no salt, no sugar, no food on board. I was so depleted that I didn’t even feel hungry anymore.
Yay. Fight week.
“And now, the number one contender, Chance Riordan,” the announcer said.
My hearing muffled over as I walked out onto the stage. All of my energy poured into keeping my shoulders back, my chin up, and that fucking smirk on my face.
From the way Randy was shifting slightly from foot to foot, I could tell he was doing the same.
The referee for Saturday’s fight signalled me to my mark and Randy to his. He reeked; the smell even more pungent when he stepped into my space.
“I’ve fuckin’ got ya, Riordan,” he snarled, his stupid smirk on his face.
I laughed. I laughed long and hard. So long that Randy’s face morphed into a scowl as he shoved at my chest.
I’d seen it coming, knew he wanted to be first to put hands on me. So I’d planted my feet, not even staggering when he shoved at my chest. I stood tall, playing pretend like I did with Sunny.
Pretended like making weight was easy.
Pretended that I felt strong and powerful.
Pretended I was capable of fighting this cunt right here and now.
Multiple seccies and stage people separated us then, though I quickly pushed them off. Breathing felt thick and heavy, like a fucking chore. The less people taking up oxygen around me, the better.
“Would the fighters please take their seats.” The interviewer stood on a podium, Randy and I on either side of him. Someone in the front row opened a muesli bar. The crinkling wrapper sound drilled straight into my ears and the smell of sugar hit me like a fucking truck.
