Page 85 of Player

She rolls her eyes. But her sassy attitude has been replaced by concern and I’ve got to say, I like it. I like her worrying her pretty head about me getting me head smashed in. I like her caring about me.

“What if you lose?”

“I won’t.”

She sighs. “Did you speak with Edward?”

“That would be a no.”

“Finn,” she grinds out my name. I feel my cock twitch, liking the sound of it, liking it very much indeed. “It’s one thing to be confident but—”

I snatch her elbow and tug her into me before she can finish.

She gasps as her chest collides with mine.

I lean in. “I’ll show you confidence later when we’re rolling on the floor and having subpar sex again.”

That quiets her down.

The bell sounds. I finish my pint, ignoring Clarissa’s concern.

She thinks I’m as mad as a box of frogs.

Maybe I am.

“Finn?” she says, pulling free.

“Yeah.”

She looks me square in the face. So serious. So feckin’ beautiful it stirs up things inside me that are better left alone. “If you’re losing, give me a signal and I’ll interrupt the fight.”

I give her arm a squeeze, needing to touch her again. “I can do that,” I reassure her. Fretting her pretty head over a scrapper like me, who was born with a clenched fist and whose fighting skills were what attracted Hayden into recruiting him in the first place. Broken leg? Keep fighting. New style of attack? Take a beating while you adjust. Cheap shot to the groin, hold yer breath then get even. Fight till you win. Period. If I lose, they’ll be carrying my lifeless body away on the stretcher.

“You did good tonight. Now it’s my turn to show you a thing or two.”

I place a kiss on her forehead without thinking.

Her eyes flash wide, though I’m pretty feckin’ sure my surprise mirrors hers. Quickly recovering, I hand her my empty pint glass and stalk off before things can get any more awkward.

* * *

Irip off my shirt as I enter the cage. Whipping it in circles overhead, I jog around the octagon, playing the buffoon. I release my grip and it sails into the crowd. Two dodgers fight for it, my new T-shirt bringing out the best in men.

Half the crowd are friends of Seamus’s and fist pump the air in solidarity. The other half are team punk-Edward, easily identifiable by the pints of the Black Stuff being hurled at me. Slicking up the mat, and as luck would have it, unintentionally giving me an unexpected advantage.

The lad Donovan enters the cage. Straight faced and with a professional air about him.

I jeer at him, mouth open and fist high.

His look says it all—I’m a bleedin’ eegit.

We meet in the middle of the mat as is customary then shake hands gentlemen-like. His hands are large, his grip firm.

This is going to hurt.

The opening bell rings and we’re off.

I test his skills, opening with a jab and uppercut combo that fall flat. Next, I land a low blow just below his right kidney. He winces but keeps moving. A fine fighter, indeed.