I think it won't last.

So I just lie here and make this one moment last.

On impulse, I reach down to my jeans on the floor and pull out the penny, showing it to him.

He looks at it in my palm.

Why haven't you cashed it in? his silver eyes seem to ask as he takes it between his thumb and forefinger.

Because it feels like that's all I'll get from you, this unspoken promise, this blank check, and I don't want to give up all I'll get from you, I think.

I just take it from his hand and tuck it into my pocket, saying silently, I won't give this back to you. I'm keeping this.

MAVERICK LOOKS LIKE a gourmet meal on the bed, all male, testosterone-laden, dark, and tattooed. And asleep. I watch him, trying not to make noise as I quietly get dressed-and I try not to remember how good it was. How fucking great it was. I am simply doing my best to get dressed and get out of his personal space and back into the safety of mine. Where I'm not the one dating a fighter, sleeping with a fighter, dangerously close to being in love with a fighter. The one fighter I can't have.

I'm acting recklessly. The other times in my life I've been reckless, I've paid such a huge price, I'm still recovering.

I shouldn't have admitted I wanted this.

I shouldn't have followed him out.

I shouldn't be here at all.

But at the same time, I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be but here.

I look at the tattoo on his back as he sleeps prostrate on the bed, one arm haphazardly stuck under the pillow, his ass hard and muscled, the backs of his legs dusted with hairs. And my eyes go back to the tattoo, the most beautiful tattoo I've ever seen.

It's a burning phoenix, I now realize, with a black scorpion riding on its back. It almost feels as if the weight of the scorpion is dragging the phoenix into the flames, or maybe the phoenix is the one lifting the scorpion from the fire. Reviving it.

I watch the tattoo and the way it moves, like the feathers of the phoenix, rippling as he seems to sense my gaze and props up on one arm and turns. I step back into the shadows and see him groggily drop his head down, and quietly I tiptoe to the door, making sure I have my penny in my pocket.

A HALF HOUR later, I tiptoe into the Tates' three-bedroom suite and make my way through the darkness into my room. I lock the door to keep Racer from coming in without notice, strip to my panties, and slip into bed, sighing as I hug my pillow. I shove it under my head and stare up at the ceiling, reliving every moment and every kiss and the way his body moved above me.

Did we just do it?

Did he love it as much as I think he did?

I stare at the ceiling, smiling like a dope.

I dream of the phoenix in flames, burning me, and I wake up, sweating, to the buzzing of my phone. Maverick doesn't have my number, but I'm still breathless when I pick it up because he's the first thing I thought of. "Hello?" I ask hopefully.

"I thought of texting, but I really wanted to hear your voice," I hear on the other end.

"Oh, hi," I say, leaning back on my pillow as the reality of the reckless hot sex I had last night comes crashing in when I recognize the voice.

"Well, you don't sound too excited, Reesey," he teases, pretending to be sad. "Have you already forgotten about me?"

It's Miles.

TWENTY.

TRAINING WITH RIPTIDE.

Maverick I wake up and do a body check of what hurts. Head. Chest. Arms. Shoulders. Back. Quads. Calves. Inhaling, I turn my head into my pillow. Hell, my pillow smells good. My cock wakes up. I reach to the side of the bed for her, smelling more of the jasmine on my pillow. It's the scent of her. The bed's empty under my hand, and I open my eyes and scan my hotel room. Reese is gone.

I peer at the time, then sit up and curse under my breath. I head over to shower and pull out my training gear. If Tate's ready to teach me some lessons, I'll get ready to dish out his. In the ring.

He's waiting impatiently when I arrive.

Tate's an aggressive fighter; he doesn't wait. Neither do I. I've seen his tapes. I know his moves. He started boxing in his early years and his endurance has been unmatched in the Underground. No weakness. No mercy. Fast, strong, and precise. He doesn't waste swings. More than half of his swings always land. My father swung much more, but they were wasted efforts. He would wear out and leave Tate fresh as spring rain, beating him to a pulp. I'm not making the same mistakes my father did.

The gym is vacant save for the three members of his team. His coach, the coach's second, and his PA. I nod at the three and spot Tate by the bags. I know when a guy's ticked, and he's ticked now. Punching the speed bag like he's out for murder.

I shake my arms and shoulders to loosen them up, pull my hoodie over my head. "I'm here."

"Fucking late. I would kick your ass for that alone if I weren't kicking it anyway."

I grit my teeth and scowl. He turns to grab something from the wall and looks at me, scowling too, and tosses me headgear.

I catch it and toss it aside. "I won't be needing that."

"Fine with me. I don't mind busting your nose." He climbs into the ring from one side, and I climb in from the other. "Your father and I go way back," he says.

"It's because of you he's in a piece-of-shit hospital bed."

"Is that what happened?" His eyes gleam menacingly. "He did that himself."

One of his team members comes over to tape up my hands and then shoves the gloves on me.

At Tate's corner, outside the ropes, his coach whistles. "You two get some headgear on. Stat."

Tate's lips curl rebelliously, and he looks at me with challenge in his eyes.

I smile back, a feral curl of my lips.

We tap gloves.

No headgear.

I jab. He swings his arm, blocks the hit, leaps back, and I jab again, blocked again.

We space apart and jump in place, shaking our shoulders, loosening up. I pull my gloves back up, narrow my eyes, and he asks, "You think you're the shit because you're fast and strong? I got news for you. I'm faster, I'm stronger, and I'm disciplined. Your coach isn't doing you any favors."

"He's in my corner, and that's enough for me."

He swings, I duck fast and come up behind him. He straightens and faces me again. "If you settle for that, then you should settle for second place."

"What the fuck. You want me to win?"

"I want a good fight. I like keeping things real. Reminds me I'm a man. Mortal."

"I want to be a legend. Legends never die. Even if they die alone."

He swings again, and I duck, come up, and jab three times.

He blocks repeatedly, then hooks with his right; I deflect. He grins and jabs again. I block, then I duck before he puts me up against the ropes, and I head back to center. He follows.

"To be a legend you need to fall seven times, get up eight," he says.

I remember a final a few years ago when my father kicked Tate to a pulp. "Or not fall at all."

He backs up his arm and then smacks the smirk right off me. "Before you stop falling, you need to embrace the fact that you're going to hit the ground."

I clean the blood from my mouth, glowering.

We take positions again, and he watches me as if waiting for my next move as we start dancing around, jumping, waiting for the other to strike.

"Do you want the headgear now?"

I lunge and start hitting, and he blocks, deflects, blocks. "Fuck you," I grit out.

"Getting angry doesn't help. You control the anger, not let it control you."

I want to prove him wrong, I loop out my arm and aim for his head.

He ducks and hooks, his knuckles cracking into my jaw. I spurt blood and bounce against the ropes.

I shake my head, wipe the blood away, grit my teeth, and straighten, narrowing my eyes. "My turn," I growl, and I swing. My fist connects: a kidney punch.

He blocks my next hit, frowning in thought. "You're cocky for someone who just lost yesterday."

He jabs.

I dive my upper body to the side, evading. "You got to play it to become it."

"I'm the champion, not you."

"You won't live forever, champ."

He jabs three times, then leaps back, flexes his arm, and looks at it.

"Muscle memory. You hit enough times, you fight on instinct; part of your brain works on your assault, the other is focused on the other's assault. Let your muscle memory work for you and consciously stay focused on your opponent's eyes."

I laugh mockingly. "I don't need your pointers."

"Go back home to daddy, then."

"When I'm finished with you." I punch him, then raise my left hook and connect hard enough to stun him.

He raises his head, shakes it to clear it, and wipes blood from his nose. I catch my breath, satisfied I got some blood. At least I won't be the only one with an ice pack tonight.

He sees the blood on his arm and looks at me, impressed.

"TIME!" his coach yells out from the corner. "You two won't have shit for the fight if you keep up this nonsense."

Tate grins at him, then turns back and glowers at me. "You get enough?"

"Barely warming up here." I squint the blood out of one eye and raise my gloves. "Come get it, Riptide," I growl.

We go at it for three hours. His team is pissed with him. We end up bloodied and losing pounds of water from sweat. His team comes over with electrolyte drinks, and he tosses one my way with the crook of his arm.

"Same time, a day before the Atlanta fight. You have a lot to learn." He yanks off his gloves.

I say nothing. Out of pride, I shoot him a fuck-you look. But I know I'll be there.

I'M PROSTRATE ON the bed, ice packs wrapped all around my body. I don't get this guy. I don't get him at all. I'm being set up. I have to be. I wonder if Reese is in on it. If she's meant to be my distraction.

Fuck, she is.

I groan and take out my phone. I want to text her, but I don't have her number. I want to text somebody who gives a shit. My mom? No way. I text Oz.

You alive?

I am.

Where the fuck are you?

I want her to come over.

Can't get what you want, asshole, that mean little voice tells me.