And the quickest way to that was to let this guy beat the crap out of him so he could concentrate on something other than pointless regrets and decisions he couldn’t take back. Besides, he didn’t need the prize money these guys were after. Better to let some struggling father win the pot so he could buy something nice for his family.
Gage’s lip split. Blood splattered across the floor. His head wrenched sideways and something in the audience caught his eye. The familiar flash of green-gold eyes and dark blond hair he hadn’t seen in twelve years.
Well, unless you counted dreams. And he didn’t.
Hope Rawlings. His belly tightened, a sensation that had nothing to do with the repeated blows he’d taken. Gage twisted, skillfully maneuvering his opponent so he could scour the faces surrounding them. But whatever he’d seen was gone.
Or maybe he was imagining things. Was it crazy that he would think of her now that he was back?
Given their history, yes, it probably was. Although, while he was reviewing regrets …
In that single moment of distraction the force of Gym Rat’s fist exploded across Gage’s left cheekbone. The pain reverberated through his entire face. The crunch of bone on bone burst in his ears.
“Shit.” He spat out with a mouthful of blood. Well, the guy had gotten his attention again. With a sigh, Gage resigned himself to a good tongue-lashing when his mama saw him at breakfast in the morning. And decided there was no way he was letting this guy win. The next guy could take the purse.
HOPE RAWLINGS WATCHED Gage get the crap beat out of him. For fun. She tried to stay dispassionate about it. After all, it wasn’t a new occurrence for him. Well, this underground, full-contact fighting for money was—maybe she could turn this into an exposé on men shedding their suits in an attempt to connect with their inner caveman—but not his penchant for finding trouble.
If they awarded medals for that … Instead, he had the Bronze Star, Prisoner of War Medal and Purple Heart. Just the thought of what he’d gone through to get those made her chest ache. And her head swell to the point of explosion. She fought against the urge to climb into that ring, snatch him by the ear and drag his ass out. Hadn’t he given them all enough heart palpitations recently? But that wasn’t her place. Not anymore.
Years ago she would have been right beside him, turning blue in the face as she unsuccessfully attempted to talk him out of whatever dangerous scheme he’d hatched. They’d been friends since Gage stole her sippy cup and hit her over the head with it. They were neighbors. Their parents were best friends. They were best friends. Or had been. Once.
He’d been home for a couple days and was already jonesing for a hit of adrenaline. It had taken a long time for Hope to learn that she’d end up the only one hurt by hitting her head against that brick wall. Gage did what he wanted and always had. Screw anyone who stood in his way or challenged him.
That didn’t make watching the smackdown any easier. Especially knowing the physical hell he’d just been through. When, exactly, would he finally say uncle? When would he have enough?
Although watching Gage was far from a hardship. They might have been friends, but she wasn’t blind. Even as a teenager he’d been gorgeous, and knew it. Girls, attracted by the pretty face and edge of danger, had thrown themselves at him. She’d been right there beside him, dismissed by the ones who bothered to notice she was even there.
The familiar spurt of jealousy came out of nowhere. Hope pushed it down. She hadn’t liked the reaction then and she definitely didn’t like it now.
Wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts, everything he had was on display. War might have left him with scars—visible and unseen—but it had definitely honed his body into something beautiful. The way he moved should have been a sin, all smooth grace and deadly calculation.
The guy he was fighting was an idiot if he couldn’t see the way Gage sized him up. His stomach muscles bunched as he went on the attack. Shoulders and biceps strained. He maneuvered the other guy into a corner, limiting his opponent’s range of motion. His thighs and calves flexed with every step.
Hope tried not to notice, but it was hard to tear her gaze away.
Gage was vibrant. Alive. Electric. Just being close to him always left her with the same warm buzz, like a contact high. And yet, it scared the hell out of her, too. He attacked everything so hard—life, love, danger, war. That kind of intensity was intimidating and draining for anyone standing in the fallout zone.
Dammit, when would this match end?
She wasn’t here to ogle him or reminisce. She was here to interview him. He’d been avoiding her ever since he got home two days ago. Hope tried not to take it personally—he was avoiding everyone. But it still hurt.
Although, considering the things they’d both said the last time they’d spoken … she wasn’t surprised. If it wasn’t for the phone call she’d received three days ago she might have been avoiding him, as well. But she couldn’t.
Gage Harper was her ticket out of Sweetheart.
“You want a permanent position with us, Ms. Rawlings?” Mr. Rebman had asked. He was the managing editor for the Atlanta Courier, a gruff man who’d only spoken to her once before for about sixty seconds—the length of time it took him to say her experience managing the Sweetheart Sentinel for her father did not make her a journalist. He was a real winner, but the man had the power to grant her every wish.
She’d practically tripped over her own tongue answering, “Yes, sir.”
“I understand that Gage Harper is from your hometown.”
And immediately Hope’s stomach had seethed with sickness.
Somehow she’d found herself answering, “Yes.” At least she hadn’t told the man that they’d grown up together.
“He’s refusing all interview offers. If you can get me an exclusive, I’ll consider finding a place for you here.”
Hope frowned as Gage landed another punch. So here she was, in the middle of backwoods South Carolina on a Thursday night, stalking Gage.
That sick feeling was back in the pit of her stomach.
With a sigh, Hope melted into the back of the crowd. In her four-inch heels—out of place amid the roughed-up cowboy boots—she could still see the ring just fine. Enough to know Gage had stopped playing cat and mouse and was finally going in for the kill. His opponent, a guy who never stood a chance, dropped to the floor with a groan and stayed there.
Gage bounced on his heels away from the guy, staying alert for any sign of deceit. As the nice man who’d spilled beer on her jeans had explained, there weren’t any rules so dirty fighting was more than allowed. But the guy stayed down. Some in the crowd cheered and some booed.
An older guy who looked to be in charge jumped into the ring. He announced Gage as the winner, using his loud voice instead of a PA system to combat the crowd. Hope got the impression this was a traveling circus and that kind of equipment would have been a little too expensive to abandon if the cops showed up.
The guy at the door, probably a recent graduate from a halfway house, only let her in after she told him she was with one of the fighters and pointed out Gage. Even then, the way he’d eyed her with skepticism made her
