Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
A couple hours later someone from the fight organization runs in and informs me I need to be downstairs in Conference Room A for a press meeting in fifteen minutes.
“Just go like this.” He circles his hand in front of my face. “We want to show everyone how hard you’re grinding in here.”
As if I was going to run upstairs and change into a fucking suit.
“This wasn’t on the schedule,” Underhill snaps. “We have training to finish. And he needs to rest.”
The guy gives Underhill a tough shit shrug and leaves.
“Assholes.” Underhill pulls out his phone and starts checking his messages. “Go clean up and get ready,” he mutters.
“We’re going with you, right?” Remy asks.
“It’ll probably be boring. They ask the same dumb questions over and over.”
“Not this time,” Underhill says, waving his phone in the air. “That pixie dick opponent of yours is finally coming off his high horse to do a joint Q & A.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Eraser asks. “He’s been doing all his interviews from whatever house he’s staying at, right?”
“We’ll see,” Underhill grumbles. “He’s gonna trash-talk your buddy, though. So behave.”
“Whatever.” I shake my head. “Let’s see if he has the balls to say to my face all the shit he’s been talking online.”
Mike “Magic” Everson is every bit the asshole Diane warned me he would be. I already knew that from the videos I’ve watched but seeing it in person is a whole new experience.
I sit at a table next to Underhill on a stage. Someone handed me a microphone when we arrived, but I set it down. Magic never shuts the fuck up, so I haven’t needed to use it much. He’s on the other side of the stage at a different table answering questions about some shitty sneakers he’s endorsing. A moderator stands at a podium between us. Several bouncers dressed in black standing shoulder-to-shoulder behind us in case Magic and I want to start the fight early.
“Next.” The moderator recognizes a man in the third row with his hand in the air. The first five or six rows are only half full of press waiting to ask questions. The rest of the giant conference room is empty.
“Will from Warrior Force podcast. My question is for Magic. You lost to Captain Biscuit in your last fight. Griff is the same age. Similar skill set. Same wingspan. He put on an impressive performance week after week on Supreme Underground Fighter.”
Why, thank you. About time some recognize that.
“So, after your recent loss, are you concerned at all?” Will asks.
“I’m eleven wins and one loss,” Magic growls into the mic. “I ain’t worried about no one.” He waves his hand vaguely in my direction. “He’s a nobody. Didn’t even win that shit contest. I’m not even sure how we got here.”
Oh, fuck that. I snatch the microphone off the table and switch it on. “You sure seemed to know who I was when your people were begging me to come out to Vegas and fight you. I didn’t even know who the fuck you were.”
Magic cackles into his mic. “You didn’t know who I was? You didn’t know? Are you serious right now?”
“Dead serious. But it doesn’t matter. I’m here. I’m ready. I’ve got the skills and heart to win.”
“Yeah. You’re skilled all right. Skilled at bleeding,” he grumbles.
I let out a loud yawn. “Please stop. I’m too young to die of boredom.”
“You are young. I been at this fight game for years. You been here a minute.”
I cock my head and shrug at the audience. “Imagine doing this for years and still acting this childish.”
A low murmur of chuckles ripples through the room.
“You need to show some respect!” he shouts.
I slowly turn my head and stare at him. “Respect is earned, not given. I don’t care who you are.”
“Hard to respect someone who goes trolling for dates at the local high school,” he mutters into the microphone.
Fury shoots through my chest. Don’t react. I loosen my grip on the microphone and force out a harsh laugh. “You sure are obsessed with my love life. You tryin’ to fight me or date me?”
“All right!” The moderator interrupts. “Let’s take more questions.”
“Griff!” A man in the first row raises his hand.
I point my microphone at him.
“Jeb from Skirmish Skeptic, we spoke earlier.”
I nod quickly to acknowledge that I remember him.
“Speaking of your girlfriend. Will she be here for the fight?”
I open my mouth to answer but he continues. “After all, high school doesn’t let out until mid-June in New York, right? Will she need a permission slip to fly to Las Vegas?” He smirks like he’s really fucking proud of that one.
This prick. “What was your name again?” I ask.
The cocky tilt slips from his lips. “Jeb. Skirmish Skeptic. We met earlier,” he repeats.
“Jeb with the blond hair and green shirt.” I raise my hand and point to him. “Yo, Ruthless, that’s him. Front row. Jeb with the goofy green polo.”