She missed LA traffic. “Okay, so I’d be playing opposite an MMA fighter . . .” Not really seeing a problem there.

“No. The female lead is an MMA fighter . . . Parker, hold on, I’ve got another call . . .”

As he clicked over to his call-waiting, Parker dipped her foot into the warm pool water. At one time, her agent would never have put her on hold. Not too long ago, she was pulling in seven-figure paydays. Things changed so quickly in Hollywood. One day she was walking the red carpet on Brantley’s arm, the next she couldn’t even secure a job in a Cover Girl commercial. She needed things to change again . . . and fast. She wasn’t getting any younger; thirty in Hollywood was the equivalent to fifty in real-people years.

Turning, she studied her reflection in the tinted-glass patio doors. An MMA fighter. Hmm . . . She tightened her stomach muscles, rounded her shoulders, and raised her fists. Plastering the meanest look she could muster, she stared at herself. She could play the role of a fighter.

Dropping her hands, she sat on the edge of her pool. The Vegas sun reflecting on the surface, even at eight a.m., made her reach for her sunhat. The last thing she needed was more wrinkles when the last two casting directors she’d met with had claimed she was a little too “seasoned” to portray a young twentysomething.

She watched the time on her cell phone tick by another thirty seconds, wondering if Ian had forgotten about her. It wouldn’t surprise her. It seemed everyone else in Hollywood had. Five years ago, after her first Academy Award nomination, the studios were sending scripts to Ian specifically for her. That’s when she’d met Brantley—he’d cast her as the lead in his holiday romantic comedy and a month later, they were Hollywood’s hottest couple according to E! magazine. Brantley’s influence over the casting of his movies had practically guaranteed her roles in blockbuster hits.

Things had ended almost a year ago, and since he was no longer interested in her, neither was anyone else. She felt as though the breakup had blacklisted her somehow, as if Brantley had been awarded all of the directors and producers in Hollywood in their separation.

She continued to wait for Ian because she really had nothing else to do and all the time in the world to stress about her career. She longed for reassurance from him that things would turn around, but she wasn’t so sure her agent believed that.

When he clicked back over a minute later, he said, “Parker, I’ll have to call you back. I’m heading into my mother’s senior’s complex. She lost her third set of false teeth this month . . .”

God, she hoped she didn’t live to be that old. Aging terrified her. “Okay, but before you go—just think about it. What’s the harm in sending me the script? I’ll read it and maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll hate it . . .” But she needed something and this last script he’d sent was sure to put the final bullet in her career.

“You’re going to have to learn MMA,” he said with a deep sigh. “Even for the audition you should at least know something about the sport. How to jab or something.”

“Fine. If I read the script and like it, I’ll learn MMA.” She shrugged. How hard could throwing a few punches be? Besides, she just had to make it look good. No doubt a body double would actually be used for the choreographed fight sequences.

“Parker, you’re going to take one look at this script and say forget it.”

“Maybe not.” She no longer had the luxury of being picky. She did, however, refuse to play the career-ending role her agent had just sent her. She was fortunate enough not to need the money, since she’d put plenty away from her days as a successful child star. She’d spent her early years working on a long-running family sitcom, Meet the McIntyres—and then moved onto the big screen at the age of eleven, starring in her first feature film about a young girl with telepathy. This was about getting her career back on track. “This would be a challenge. I like challenges.”

“Fine. I’ll get Felicia to e-mail it over to you this afternoon,” he said, still not sounding convinced.

She smiled. “Thank you,” she said, disconnecting the call.

So, she had to learn MMA. How hard could it be?

*   *   *

The only thought on Tyson Reed’s mind as climbed the staircase at the back of the building to his loft apartment was preparing for the next day of training.

It was after eleven p.m. when he unlocked his apartment door above Punisher Athletics, his MMA gym. He went immediately to his washing machine, emptying the sweaty training clothes from the day from his bag and turning on the machine. Next he went to his bedroom, where he refilled the bag with two pairs of training shorts, two T-shirts, extra hand wraps, and tape, then set the bag near the door. It didn’t matter that he lived a staircase climb away from the gym. He always packed the bag. He was always prepared for the next day’s training.

It was a habit left over from the days when he lived at his family home, a three-bedroom bungalow just outside of Las Vegas. Every day since he’d dropped out of high school at fifteen, he and his father would make the early morning drive to the gym to train, to prepare, to get him ready to continue the family’s legacy of the best in the world.

Going into the bathroom, he turned the shower to hot and stepped in a moment later. The water stung his sore, torn knuckles as he washed the dried blood away. His hands were his weapons and they took a beating every day to prepare for the battle inside the cage.

Returning to his bedroom, his MFL light heavyweight championship belt caught his eye, lying flat on the top of his closet. He’d seen it every day for the past three months, ever since he’d removed it from his waist after winning the title. But it still hadn’t found its way into the championship display case in the gym downstairs. It didn’t deserve the spot yet.

He needed to defend it first.

And in two months Tyson would get that chance and feel worthy of the heavy gold belt that, for now, felt like a crushing weight on his shoulders, forcing him to struggle to the surface for air in a sea of self-doubt. The object of obsession that made sleep tortuously slow in coming, and the following day’s training all he could focus on.

Tomorrow he would be that much stronger, that much faster, that much more ready. Tomorrow, then the next tomorrow, and each tomorrow from now until the cage match were all that mattered. All he cared about.

He turned off the lights in his bedroom and set an alarm he knew he wouldn’t need, then lay there in silence as his mind replayed that day’s training. The only thought quieting his mind? Tomorrow I will be better.

*   *   *

The next morning, sitting at her laptop, coffee cup in hand, Parker tucked one foot under her on her chair as she opened a Google search. She started typing “MMA gyms in Las Vegas,” then stopped. Brantley had been a huge fan of the sport . . . he’d even dragged her to several fights when they were held in LA and every Pay Per View fight night, she could expect him to be out with the guys at whatever strip club was showing the fights. Therefore she knew a little bit about the sport.

Brantley’s favorite fighter was some light heavyweight fighting out of Las Vegas. She’d watched several of the guy’s fights . . . What was his name? It was the same as some other well-known boxer . . . Mohammed? No . . . Mike? Tyson!

Tyson Reed.

Typing his name into the Google search, she smiled when she saw the second listing to appear, right under the MFL’s website—a site for Punisher Athletics. The man had his own gym. Perfect.

Opening the website, she clicked on the location page and typed the address and phone number into her phone. It was located just off of the strip, about twenty minutes from her home. She clicked on the Reed Family page. An image of an older man standing next to Tyson appeared above the text. The photo description read Alan “The Steel Fist” Reed and his son, Tyson, at the grand opening of the family’s first gym. She leaned closer to peer at the image of Tyson. He was exactly what one would expect an MFL champion to look like—tall, muscular, shaved head, tattooed. He wasn’t smiling in the picture. His expression was one she couldn’t really read—confident, strong, yet reserved.