“Does that matter?” she challenges, her chin tilting up. “You ended up agreeing.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Because part of the proceeds from the event will fund a college scholarship in Connor’s name and honor.”
“Is that supposed to change my mind just because you throw out the ‘It’s for the kids’ card?” she asks, her arms slowly loosening and dropping to her sides. Her voice lowers, trembles. “You think I give a damn about a scholarship when all I can see over and over again is my husband dying for this fucking sport? When all I can imagine is losing someone else I care about to it? I’m supposed to be happy about it because someone is going to write a check?” she demands. “Sorry if it makes me a selfish bitch, but I can’t. I won’t.”
Losing someone else I care about…
The admission twists something inside me so hard, I struggle not to flinch. Pain and joy flare in me for what’s said and what isn’t. She cares for me.
But she doesn’t love me.
The omission of that word is as huge and bright as a blinking, neon Vegas sign.
Breathing past the vise grip squeezing the fuck out of me, I refocus on her and the fear that’s practically pouring out of her. “Eden, I’m not returning to the BFC. It’s one exhibition match. That’s it.”
Her harsh, sharp-as-glass laugh echoes in the room. “Right, Knox. One time.” Another of those serrated, cutting chuckles. “I’ve spent five years of my life around the Gordon men. Do you really believe I don’t know you? You’re all competitors, fighters in one way or another. You more than the others. I remember seeing you in the ring. You loved it, were born for it. You were soalivethere. More than I’ve ever seen you anywhere else or since. Once won’t be enough for you.”
“I’m not Connor,” I say quietly. In so many ways, I’m not my brother.
For a moment, her eyes soften, her lips tremble, and she shakes her head. “No, you’re not. You’re not impulsive or rash. You’re steadier, more responsible. You’re also a better, more seasoned fighter. For you, this isn’t a lark, an adventure; this is your passion. And that’s why I’m more scared for you than I ever was for him.”
“You’re partly right,” I concede. “I do feel alive when I’m in the ring. Fighting has been in my life for so long, it’s a part of me. It saved me when I could’ve easily gone in a very bad direction. But it’s not my passion. Not even art, tattooing, or the shop are. Yeah, they focus me, offer me an outlet, a purpose, a drive. But my passion? No. Only one thing—one person—can claim that position. You.”
The truth rolls out of me like rapids swollen by a violent, sudden rainfall. I have shit to lose. Hell, I’m losing it at this moment, watching it move farther and farther away, and all I can do is stand still like a goddamn spectator. But this game was fixed before it even started. The score decided, the victor chosen. Yet, I still played, and it’s only now when the inevitable is crashing into me, rupturing inside me like a grenade, that I can admit to that tiny, infinitesimal sliver of hope that had lodged in my heart like a grain of sand. Hope that this could possibly have a different ending.
Yeah, that hope has been crushed under the heel of reality, and all I have left is the truth. Pride is for shit when you have nothing else left.
“I would never make you choose between fighting and me,” Eden whispers, eyes searching my face. Confusion and a deepening, dawning understanding darkening her eyes.
“You don’t get it, Eden,” I growl, my fingers curling into fists as I battle the need to cross the room, chew up the distance between us, and tangle myself in her hair. Make her look at me and see. Fuckingsee. “Thereis nochoice. I made it two years ago. Hell, five years ago. You. I chose to step back and not pursue you when I saw how happy Connor made you. I chose to shut down my heart and settle for meaningless fucks because no woman would ever or could ever be you. I chose to hire you even though being around you day in and day out was torture. I chose to be your fuck buddy because it’s all I could have of you, and I’m enough of a selfish bastard to grab it with both hands. It’salwaysbeen you, Eden. Even knowing you’re not mine, would never be mine, it’s always been you.”
“Knox,” she breathes, stumbling back a step, her fingers splayed over her chest.
I ignore the pain that cremates me from the inside out. Ignore. Yeah, not possible. I push past it.
“I told you I’ve wanted you for years. And that’s true. But what I didn’t say was that I’ve loved you for almost the same amount of time. Even while you were with my brother,” I state just in case she doesn’t fully grasp the complete fuckery of this emotional ménage she hadn’t even know she was a part of. “Your marriage to Connor didn’t kill it; neither did his death. And walking out of here knowing you hate me won’t, either.”
She shakes her head, still pale, hand still pressed over her heart. “I don’t hate you, Knox—”
“Not yet,” I cut her off. Partly because I need to get this out while I can. And the other part because if she utters how she loves me but not in the same way, I might punch a hole through her wall, screwing up any chance of her getting back a security deposit. “Connor’s death. That’s on my head. My hands.” I spread my hands open in front of me and stare down at them as if I can see blood painting my skin.
“I told you—don’t ever say that again,” Eden snaps, some of the fire my announcement leeched out of her returning. “It’s not your fault—”
Once more I interrupt her. “I could’ve stopped the fight,” I state, laying out the bald, ugly truth I’ve been hiding between us. And as her arm drops to her side, I can’t do anything but stand witness as what I was terrified of most comes to pass.
Her eyes darken, and she moves those elegant fingers up her chest and circles her neck. Her knees buckle, and she slides toward the floor, the couch breaking her fall. Heart barreling toward my throat, I lurch toward her, but she slams a hand up, palm out in the age-old sign ofStop right the fuck where you are. Her lips form around a word, but no sound comes out. But I can read it.What?
Answer. She wants an explanation, not my touch.
“The BFC office wanted an event where they could promote both the Gordon brothers,” I continue. “They knew it would bring in mad money, sell the most tickets. A championship match as well as the heavyweight champion’s younger brother—it was marketing gold. And I went along with it because not only did I get a kick out of being on the same ticket as my brother, but I wanted that title match against Israel. In my heart, I knew Connor wasn’t ready for the match. I tried to talk to him about it, but he was stubborn. Got pissed when I suggested he wait, that he didn’t need to step into that ring because of the head office. He felt he had so much to prove. ’Cause of me, maybe. I know he got tired of being compared to me whether he won or lost. And there’s nothing wrong with desiring to be your own man, but I think it pushed him into accepting that match.”
Connor had always been the best at what he set his mind to; damn, the man had graduated high school and college early. Had been courted by top accounting firms, promising him any and everything if he’d join them. But he’d chosen to enter MMA. And as talented, as hard-working as he was, he still wasn’t the best there. Given time, he possibly could’ve been, but Eden had been right about the Gordon men: we’re competitive as fuck. And someday hadn’t been coming fast enough for Connor. Yet, that determination and drive were two traits I loved most about him.
“I tried to tell him that,” she whispered, her wide eyes so dark they almost appeared black. Shock. Her arms were back around herself, as if holding herself together so she didn’t shatter into pieces.
“I could’ve had the fight pulled,” I repeat, refusing to look away from her. Like a masochist, needing to glimpse the moment when disgust and rage entered her gaze. “Yeah, I believed the worst that would happen was Connor would take an ass-kicking, not die. But my beliefs and assumptions don’t amount to shit. If I’d told them I wouldn’t fight unless they pulled Connor’s match, his death wouldn’t have happened. He would’ve been mad as hell, but he would also be here. But I didn’t. And that’s on me.”
Saying the secret that has weighed me down for two long years out loud is…freeing. Cathartic, in a way. I’m no longer hiding. The burden of my brother’s death—I don’t know if I’ll ever be free of it. Maybe. In time.
