The room filled with laughter but the young woman still didn’t look happy with the vague response.

Thankfully Angel moved on. “Next question.”

Another woman in the front row stood. “This question is for Brantley . . .”

No longer on the hot seat, Parker slid to the back of the chair and tuned out again as Brantley went on and on about how he’d immediately knew the film was different, unique blah blah blah . . . All those words and not one of them meant anything.

Unlike Tyson’s silence—which spoke volumes when he was loving her and letting her go.

*   *   *

Tyson’s cell phone rang and he ignored it. The Desert Hope Treatment Center number was one he’d been ignoring all week. So, his brother had made it to the drug addiction therapy center. Good. That didn’t mean he wanted to have any part of the healing process and twelve-step program to recovery. If Connor needed forgiveness, he could start with the other people in his life that deserved an apology. He just wanted to be left alone.

Silencing the call, he stared at his fighter roster, looking for a replacement fighter to offer Erik Johansen for the December match that Dane wouldn’t be fighting in. After the recent headaches he’d caused the organization, he felt as though he had to make things better somehow. As he reached for the office phone, it rang. Desert Hope again.

He sighed as he answered. “No hablo Ingles.”

“I taught you that one,” his brother’s voice said.

“Look, man, I’m kinda busy . . .”

“I know. I won’t keep you. I just wanted . . . I mean, here at the center, they encourage us to reach out to family. They are having a family dinner tonight and I thought maybe . . .”

“Thought maybe what? That I’d come?” His brother couldn’t be serious. The front door to the gym opened and his father entered. Perfect timing. He hadn’t seen his dad since their argument about Dane and now he was showing up while he was talking to Connor?

“No. You’re right. That’s too much to ask. I. . .uh . . . I’m sorry, man.”

His brother hung up just as his father entered the office.

“Hey,” he said, stacking the fighter files on the corner of his desk.

“Hi.”

“So, your brother’s in rehab,” he said.

“I heard.” About four seconds ago.

His father looked uncomfortable as he rocked back and forth on his heels. “I thought maybe I’d drive out there tonight.”

Tyson’s mouth fell. His father was going to go to the Desert Hope Treatment Center’s family dinner?

“The lady from the support group called. She said it helps when the family offers support throughout the process.”

His jaw tightened. Wasn’t that what he’d tried to do? Wasn’t that what his mother had tried to do? They’d all failed. What made anyone believe Connor was serious about this now? Hadn’t his brother’s failed attempts cost their family enough?

“Anyway, I wasn’t sure if you planned to go or not.”

“No.”

He nodded. “That’s fair. You tried already; no one expects more from you. I’m the one who stood back and let everyone else shoulder the impact this has had on our family over the years. It’s time I stepped up . . . for my son.”

Tyson’s gaze fell to the desk. “Dad, about the fight . . .”

His father crossed the room and placed a hand on his head. “Don’t. I’ve failed both of you over the years and it’s me who should be sorry. I forced you to become something I wanted you to be and I pushed Connor away because he was a distraction who could never be the idea of perfection I thought our family legacy needed. Fuck family legacy—it’s time to focus on family.”

The lump in his throat at his father’s words preventing him from speaking, so he nodded.

“We will get the belt back. That is, if you want it back.”

“Of course I do.” It was the only goal he’d ever worked toward. He didn’t know anything else.

“Anyway, I should go if I’m going to make it on time.” He hesitated for a second at the door, then nodded. “Okay, see you later, son.”

“Hey, Dad,” he called as he father left the room. “Uh, tell Connor . . .” What? He had nothing. He shrugged.

His dad nodded. “Will do.”

*   *   *

A week later, Tyson scanned the crowd inside ShadowDancers at Walker’s bachelor party. Billy and Carlos were at the bar doing shots off of one of the dancer’s chest and he grinned. They better enjoy it while they could. Starting the following morning, they were training twenty-four-seven in preparation for their upcoming fights. His loss had already done enough damage to his camp’s reputation. His fighters were going to be ready for their fights.

Across from him in the booth, the groom-to-be was texting, a goofy grin on his face.

“You know, I thought the point of a bachelor party was for a final hoopla before you cut your balls off and yet all night you’ve been sitting in this booth texting Gracie,” he said, but he understood. Walker had found a good one; you didn’t mess that up.

At least his buddy was smart enough not to.

“She’s in Lovelock at her bachelorette party,” he said.

“And you’re keeping tabs on her?”

Walker laughed. “There are exactly three single men in Lovelock—none of them under the age of fifty. She’s with her mother, my sister, and my grandmother at the tiniest bar imaginable. I’m okay with this.”

Tyson nodded as he checked his watch. “Well, I think I’m going to head out.” He tossed enough money onto the table to cover the evening’s tab and offered a fist bump to Walker. “Congrats again. You got a good one.”

Walker shot him a look. “You had a good one too.”

Tyson just shook his head. “See you tomorrow morning at the gym. Make sure those two make it into a cab, okay?” he said, nodding toward the young fighters at the bar.

He couldn’t stay any longer, pretending to have a good time. His thoughts continually drifted to Parker and the night they’d been there together, when she’d come on to him and he’d refused her. He should have continued to refuse her—for both of their sakes.

On his way to the door, a pretty redhead touched his arm. “Hi, aren’t you Tyson Reed?”

He nodded.

“I’m a big fan,” she said, twirling a strand of hair around her index finger.

Obviously she hadn’t seen his last fight. “Thank you,” he mumbled, looking past her longingly at the door. So close.

“Do you want to grab a drink?” she asked, sliding out of the booth.

Her short skirt and knee-high boots were exactly the kind he used to take home, but tonight he shook his head. “Sorry. I was just leaving.”

“That’s cool,” she said with a shrug, grabbing her purse. “I was ready to go anyway.”

Shit. For once that wasn’t what he meant. “Sorry,” he said again. “I’m leaving alone.”

She pouted. “Really?”

Really. He nodded.

“Fine, well, can I at least get your autograph?”

He wasn’t sure it was worth much anymore. “Sure.”

He waited as she opened her purse and retrieved a pen. Then almost predictably, she lowered the edge of her shirt, exposing a freckled breast. Once his former self would have kissed every inch of her into all hours of the morning. Now his body offered no reaction to the sight. Parker had somehow managed to break his heart and his dick.

Fantastic.

He hesitated, then ignoring her chest, he reached for a napkin on the table. He scribbled his name quickly and handed it to her.

She looked disgusted as she took it. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

“Have a good night,” he said quickly, once again dashing for the door.

This was just great. He couldn’t be with the woman he wanted, and now he didn’t want to be with anyone else.

At home an hour later, he turned on his television and flipped on his Netflix. He scanned the list of movies until he found the ones he was looking for.

When Parker’s face appeared on his flatscreen moments later, he leaned forward, not hearing the words she said, just mesmerized by her presence. Not seeing her the last few weeks was driving him mad. And if he had to watch and rewatch all of her old movies just to see her, that’s what he planned to do—pathetic and a perhaps a little psychotic—but he didn’t care.