TWENTY-TWO.

NO MORE.

Maverick I ran eight MILES, and it's midnight now.

Miles. Miles. Miles.

I stare at myself in the mirror in the hotel bathroom, looking deep into my eyes. And I smash my fist into the glass.

TWENTY-THREE.

BROKEN KNUCKLES.

Maverick The next day we're training, Oz and I. We're training in a storage unit he got us for the day. The door's wide open, and he hung the bags from the iron beams in the ceiling. I'm using my left, over and over. Hitting. Listening to the sounds. Smack, thud, thud, smack, poof.

"Whoa, stop, stop. Where's your right?" Oz demands when he shakes himself out of a nap. The guy brought a fold-out chair and has just sat there for hours after we gobbled down two pizzas, one each. I might have had a few extra slices of his.

"I'm trying to strengthen my left," I lie.

He scowls at me. "You got a great left. Your left is almost as good as your right."

"Keyword 'almost,'" I point out. I aim for the bag.

"You hurt your right?" He comes over and grabs my right and I pull it free before he can pull off my glove.

"I fucked up, all right," I growl. "It'll be back to normal in no time."

"You fucked your right. During the season. When?"

"Doesn't matter."

"When?"

"Last night. I broke something."

"You broke YOUR KNUCKLES, THAT'S WHAT! You fuck your right on a temper tantrum? What the fuck? Am I gonna have another Scorpion on my hands? Huh?" He pushes me, and I let him, just stand there and let him have his tantrum. He gives up and stalks back to his chair.

"You might as well not go to the fight without your right," he growls.

"I'm not missing a fight."

"You should've thoughta that before busting your knuckles. This because of Tate? A girl?"

I hit the bag, then lower my arms and stare at the ground, inhaling deeply.

"Her name's Reese," I say, under my breath, frowning up at the heavy bag. "Reese Dumas."

He swears under his breath. Then he pulls out the flask. "Stay away, Maverick."

"How about you stay away from that flask, Oz?"

"I can't."

"So we understand each other." I get into position and start hitting. "I'm not quitting her." Then I test my right and jab the bag, and pain shoots up my arm. I yank my glove off.

I stare morosely at my hand, testing my fingers and curling them in.

"Members of the Tate team," Oz says, leaning forward in his seat, "even if they're not blood related, they're closer than if they were. She's not going to want to even look at you, Maverick."

I toss my right glove aside and keep hitting with my left. I don't think we should do what we did again . . . the Tates are my family . . . Miles is coming . . .

"I don't want to see you make a fool of yourself for a damn Wendy!"

I stop. Then slide my gaze to Oz and narrow my eyes. "She's no Wendy."

The frustration's building. I go back to hitting and I'm hitting the bag hard.

"Heard you trained with him," Oz says.

"Yeah. Would've told you if you'd been half-awake." I don't stop hitting.

"This means you won't need me now, huh."

"No. Just means I get more chances to find out how to beat him."

"He's getting the same chance to be sure how to beat you," he growls.

He swigs and stares mournfully out the storage unit door and I stare at the heavy bag and keep on hitting until my muscles burn out, and then I keep going.

TWENTY-FOUR.

PATCHING UP MAVERICK.

Reese My mom's been calling, but I haven't picked up the phone. I'm afraid she'll hear my voice and she knows me too well, she will know there's something haunting my thoughts.

I finally cave in when Brooke knocks on my door. "Your mom called me. She's worried."

I was packing things into my suitcase, since we leave to the next location tomorrow-Atlanta. Racer is in a deep sleep in his room, all packed and ready, except for a little red train he likes to tuck under his pillow at night. "What did you tell her?"

"That everything's fine. Isn't it?"

I nod.

Brooke hesitates for a moment, then gives me a really warm smile. "Reese, I'm here if you want to talk."

All my life I've wanted to have someone to talk to other than my parents and now that I have her, I'm not sure that I can talk to her about what I most need to. "I'm good," I assure her.

She smiles again.

"I'll call her," I add.

"Great," she says, relieved, and gives me a thumbs-up before she leaves. I decide to call and soothe my mother's fears. "Mom, how are you?"

"Worried."

I sigh. "Don't be; I'm fine."

"You promise? Tell me you're making good choices, Reese. And that you're staying strong? We can come get you."

"NO! MOM!" I don't want to leave, I don't want to go back home, where I'm always the old Reese, where I can't grow and learn and discover and experience. "Mom, I'M GREAT HERE. I'm . . . just in a blossoming process and I need time solo, okay."

"Butterfly?" she asks hopefully.

"No," I say with a wan smile, "still a caterpillar."

"Tell me what you've been up to."

I tell her about Racer and my diet and the Tates, how great they are, and the team, and that Miles is coming over.

"Oh, this makes me happy! Don't forget to call every night or two, three at most. Okay, caterpillar?"

"Okay, Mom."

I know she cares, but when she doubts me, I feel hopeless, like I'll never be able to gain her trust again even though I have been slowly earning mine.

When I hang up, I make a note on my phone-CALL MOTHER.

Brooke peers into my room.

"Your mom's happy now? She was pretty worried."

I nod. "I guess it's her favorite thing to do."

"Well, you're her only daughter. This is why I absolutely want Racer to have a sibling. It's healthy to have a mother's obsession distributed."

I laugh, then stare wistfully at her. Wondering if I can ask her more about Maverick. I know Remy has been training with him. And every day it's torture not to ask.

"Is it the boy back home?" she asks me, as if reading my mind.

I open my mouth, wanting a friend, a female friend, but what do I say? Maverick Cage? I am obsessed. We had sex. I think of him, often. And I think of him as my friend even when I don't speak to him for days. I just don't understand it myself. I'm afraid to say it out loud. I'm afraid to make another big mistake, something that can hurt my family again.

So I just smile at Brooke and let her think that it is the boy back home. When in fact it's the son of the Black Scorpion.

WE'RE IN ATLANTA, staying at a nice hotel in the heart of the city. Brooke and I are having dinner. I haven't seen Maverick since the park. Eight days plus a lot of long little minutes and seconds. He's been training with Remy, and Brooke hasn't really seen Remy either.

We've both brushed our teeth and slipped on our pajamas. Brooke wears T-shirts with little shorts to sleep, and I'm wearing my soft cotton lounge pants in light blue, like my eyes, and the matching top. We rejoin in the living room to read and talk when we hear low male voices-and what sounds a lot like cursing-outside.

The door swings open and the guys appear: Pete, Riley, Coach, and two tall, dark-haired fighters, banged-up and bloody, their T-shirts plastered to their chests. Brooke's mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again as she gazes at her husband. "Did you guys fight?"

"Yeah."

"Thought you were training?"

I'm staring breathlessly at Maverick.

Maverick in our hotel room.

Maverick in exercise clothes, sweaty, and . . . Maverick.

"Change of plans." Remy stalks across the room and says, "Help me patch him up."