I chuckle and shake my head. "You process this however you need to process this. I'll wait."
He shakes his head as if to clear the cobwebs in his brain. "I can't believe you're coming out to watch him. That's amazing. Does Tristan know?"
I nod. "Remy's been trying to give him space with the fight coming up but she told him last night that she'll be there to cheer for him. He seemed excited about it."
"He should be, it's way better when you're not there alone. Especially for a big fight like this." Suddenly the shock clears, and a grin stretches across his face. “You think you’re ready for Vegas?”
My eyes narrow. “I don’t know, am I? You sound suspiciously excited. Are you planning to get me drunk and married?”
Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can make any sense of it. “Not exactly the way my thoughts were heading, but we can get you married if you want, I guess? I’m sure we can find an agreeable bastard somewhere and make it the luckiest day of his life…”
I give his arm a playful smack, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “You’re hilarious. What do youactuallydo when you’re there?”
He sighs and turns back to his beer. “Nothing. I hate Vegas. It’s where most of Tristan’s fights are going to be so I guess I have to get used to it but I’m not a big fan of it anymore. Might just be that I’m over the partying thing.”
I gesture to myself, and the fact that I’m leaving. “Clearly I am, too. But I’m sure we can find something enjoyable to do after his fight anyway.”
Jax smiles at me, and in this moment, it hits me how easily we sink back into our friendship, even when something goes wrong—or when something goes weird and sexual.
“I’ll find you some edibles and a great club for dancing, how about that,” he offers.
I roll my eyes and pull my jacket on. “I guess that doesn’t sound like the worst thing,” I agree with a smile. And at his answering grin, I can’t help but lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek. Jax happy is one of my favorite sights ever.
“Thanks for today,” I tell him. “I’m sure we’ll talk before Saturday, but if I don’t see you before you leave, safe travels and good luck.”
He smiles again as he nods. “See you soon, baby girl.”
15
JAX
I watch Tristan shadowbox in the center of the mat, his nerves a palpable energy in the tiny locker room.
I chance a look at Coach sitting next to me. He's got the same expression on that he wears when he's watching a technique class at the gym—he's attentive, watching everything, but entirely at ease. I should've guessed he wouldn't be rattled, God knows that man has been in more locker rooms than anyone else.
Tristan, on the other hand, is nervous as fuck. I know my best friend better than anyone else and even though he's trying to hide it, I can see the tension in his shoulders and the tightness of his jaw.
We've always agreed that the hour before a fight is the worst. It's the time when you have nothing else to focus on but the fight, and no other thoughts to consume you but the ones where you acknowledge that you're about to be locked in a cage with a very large man that is going to try everything in his power to hurt you.
It's slightly unsettling.
It's also the thought that every single fighter has, but that only the realest fighters face head on and step into the cage anyway.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see our striking coach step into the locker room.
"It's time," is all he says.
Tristan just gives a stiff nod and immediately starts walking toward the exit. Without a word, Coach and I stand up to follow.
As we start down the hall and into the tunnel, I hearVoodoo Chileby Jimi Hendrix start to play through the arena. It's always surprised me that Tristan doesn't need "hype" music—he's too intense for that. He probably doesn't even hear the song, that's how focused he is right now. He doesn't look back at us once during the entire walk down to the cage.
On the other end of the spectrum, I'm shaking in my fucking boots and trying to keep myself together for the sake of my teammate.
When we reach the steps to the cage, Tristan wastes no time pulling off his shirt and shoes. The referee steps up to check his equipment—his gloves, his cup, his mouthpiece—and then he begins slathering Vaseline on Tristan's face and eyebrows. Tristan stands still, his eyes closed, even when I see goosebumps pimple his flesh as the nerves rush through him.
Finally, the ref's prep is done. He steps back to allow Tristan a moment to say goodbye to his corner.
Both coaches give him a quick hug, neither being one for big speeches. When he gets to me, I see a flash of vulnerability in his eyes, and I know I'm the only one he's let see it.