Tyson stood. “Okay, I’m up. Stop cleaning my apartment,” he grumbled, picking up discarded chocolate bar wrappers and an old pizza box and tossing them into the garbage.

“I know you’re pissed off right now and disappointed in that shit performance you gave out there . . .”

“Are you here to cheer me up or convince me to slit my wrists?”

“Neither. What was it you said to me once? Oh, right. I’m not your therapist. I just need my coach back because I have a fight in six weeks.” He opened the fridge and then shut it quickly. “Okay, that smell of rotting feet is coming from something in there.”

Tyson glanced around his home—or what used to be his home. Walker was right. It was a mess. He was a mess. The decision loss after the fight had put him into a depression like he’d never felt, but the thing that had broken him was the fact Parker was gone. He cleared his throat, as he picked up several beer bottles from the coffee table. “She left after the first round, huh?” he asked.

Walker nodded.

That was good. At least the woman he was undoubtedly in love with hadn’t watched him go down. He let out a deep breath. “Okay. Tomorrow. We start your training camp tomorrow.”

Walker tapped him on the shoulder as he headed for the door. “Great. See ya tomorrow, Coach . . . Clean yourself up.”

*   *   *

The noise outside his apartment woke him as he slept on the couch later that evening. Tomorrow, he’d return to the gym; tonight he was continuing his self-pity act and the interruption pissed him off. Grabbing his trusty bat, he swung open the door and stormed outside.

Connor stood at the bottom of the stairs, jiggling the handle to the back door of the gym. “What are you doing?”

“You changed the code,” Connor said.

Damn right he changed the fucking code. Pretty soon, he was going to start locking anyone out of the gym who didn’t have a good Goddamn reason to be there. His father was right. He’d let so many other things take away his focus. He’d lost that fight because of his own lack of judgment. That wouldn’t be happening again.

“I’ll give you four seconds to get away from my gym.”

“I wanted to return this,” Connor said, picking up the championship belt off of the ground next to him.

The sight of it made him ill. Perfect fucking timing once again, Connor. Pouring salt into wounds seemed to be his older brother’s specialty. He turned to go back inside but Connor’s footsteps on the stairs made him stop. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“I told you, I wanted to bring this back . . . I’m sorry.”

Running down the stairs, he grabbed the belt from his brother and threw it across the parking lot. “Go! Take it, sell it, get your next fix, but just leave me the fuck alone.”

“I saw the fight. You should have had him.”

Should have had . . . What the hell did Connor know about it? Five brutal rounds of the guy schooling him because he’d let everyone else’s problems become his own. No more. He’d let down his father, but more important, himself. “I said, leave.” He dropped his gaze to the stairs.

“You were fighting injured. I saw you favoring that right shoulder, avoiding your overhand right, which usually knocks them out . . .”

He didn’t want to hear any of this. He’d lost because for the first time in his life he hadn’t been prepared, he’d been stupid and cocky, and he wasn’t going to let it happen again. He climbed the stairs and grabbed the bat.

“I’m going to rehab. I’m done messing up.”

A part of him wanted to ask his brother if he needed cab fare, if that was why he’d shown up . . . but the humbled, depressed, and angry person inside couldn’t do it.

He went inside.

Connor’s voice drifted through the closed door. “This loss is a good thing Tyson,” he said. “You’ve been winning in the cage so long, you didn’t realize you were losing at life . . . Now’s your chance to change that. Start winning at life, man.”

He shook his head as he collapsed back onto the couch. Right, cause his brother was such an expert in that department.

Chapter 14

“Okay, I think we are ready to start taking questions. Guy in the back—gray tie, red shirt,” the movie’s publicity rep, Angel, said, pointing to the reporter in the back of the standing-room-only conference room at the Beverly Hills Marriott a week later.

Parker had never seen so many media personnel show up for any of her previous movies. Obviously, everyone believed, as she had, that this movie was going to be a success. The pride she felt about it returned, tainted only by the fact that Brantley Cruise sat at the end of the table, beaming as though this was his creation, his baby . . .

“My question is for Parker,” the guy said.

She smiled and sat straighter. “Go ahead,” she said into the microphone.

“Why did you decide to take the role of Jessica ‘The Crusher’ Carlisle?”

Good, they were starting with an easy one. “Well, I read the script and fell in love with the story, the main characters . . . the writers really did a fantastic job with the emotional portrayal of the struggles women fighters still have to face, even though the sport is becoming more accepting of them as athletes. Um . . . combined with the struggles my character faces in her personal life with the loss of her husband and raising her son alone, the role was too dynamic to pass up. I’m fortunate that I was able to get the opportunity to play such a powerful role.” It no longer mattered to her why she’d gotten the part—she was just eager to start filming to bring the story to life.

The reporter nodded. “Thank you,” he said as he sat.

Hands flew upward in the room, and questions were fired at everyone on the panel. Brantley explained why he’d decided to take on the project and the writers discussed the inspiration behind the story. Her fellow cast members answered questions about their motivations for being a part of the film, and Parker started to tune out, her thoughts far away from LA and the movie.

Then a young female reporter in the back of the room stood. “My question is for Parker.”

She sat forward in her seat. “Yes?”

“First of all, I just have to say, you look incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“My question is, What was your secret? How did you transform your body so drastically in such a short period of time?” she asked.

Tyson. He was the reason she’d accomplished the look she’d needed for the role. He was the reason she was confident she would deliver a realistic and compelling portrayal on set.

And she should have known she wouldn’t get through this media press conference without talking about him. She swallowed hard before answering. “Well, I trained MMA at Punisher Athletics in Las Vegas for the last several months,” she said simply, hoping that was enough to satisfy the reporter.

It wasn’t. “Under head coach and former MFL champ Tyson Reed, isn’t that right?”

Former MFL champ . . . it still ached to hear those words. She wondered how he was doing dealing with the recent defeat. She shook the thought aside. “Yes. I trained with him and his camp.”

“You were also photographed with him at a Vegas nightclub. Were you two an item?” the woman asked.

Parker’s mouth went dry. She glanced quickly at Brantley but the smug jerk wasn’t coming to her rescue. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying watching her squirm. The room was silent as everyone waited for her response. She hesitated, but recovered quickly. “Tyson Reed and I were . . .” She blinked as the room started to close in around her. Hundreds of eyes stared at her, awaiting her response, like hungry hyenas waiting for their prey to weaken so they could pounce. Her mouth was dry and she took a sip of her water, before forcing a playful smile. “Well, I mean—come on—look at him. Who wouldn’t fall for him?”