Broken Beautiful Hearts by Kami Garcia

Author:Kami Garcia
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Imprint

CHAPTER 26

Fight Club

I’M STILL IN the parking lot when the steady stream of people entering the arena slows to a trickle. The fights will be starting soon. I planned to leave and go walk around in downtown Nashville, but I’m still staring at the side door that Owen used a few minutes ago.

What kind of fighter is he? Aggressive and always on the offensive—going after his opponent the second he hears the bell? Or is he slow and steady, like a marathon runner, pacing himself and wearing down his opponent in the process?

I slump down in the driver’s seat, annoyed with myself.

Who cares how Owen fights?

He’s a fighter. That’s all I need to know. But I can’t stop wondering.

That’s it. I’m going in.

I’m overthinking this. I’ll go in, watch a little of the fight, and leave. Owen will never know I was there.

I open the car door before I change my mind. The temperature has dropped, and it’s cold. I should’ve brought Dad’s jacket.

Owen’s Black Water High hoodie is balled up on the passenger seat. I pull it over my head, and the salty scent of the ocean envelops me.

Why can’t he smell like blue cheese or old sneakers?

I slam the door and cut across the parking lot to the main entrance. A woman perched on a stool near the door is playing Word Wars, a Scrabble rip-off, on her cell phone. She holds out her hand without taking her eyes off the screen. “Five dollars.”

I dig a crumpled bill out of my pocket and hand it to her.

“Go on in.” She points behind her with her thumb. “Just follow the hollering.”

The moment I walk through the doors, I hear the familiar din—whistling and shouting, foot stomping and cheering.

I forgot how loud it was at these things.

Watching a fight is discount therapy—a way to let out your anger and frustration, while disguising it as enthusiasm for the competitors. I hesitate at the open doorway that leads to the fight floor. Mangled hinges frame the opening, as if someone had ripped the doors off, which sums up the vibe in the arena.

The moment I cross the threshold, it feels like I’ve stepped into a time machine, and it takes me back to one of Reed’s fights.

Folding chairs are arranged around the perimeter of the octagon-shaped cage, but no one is sitting in them. A slim guy wearing red trunks soaked in sweat pummels his opponent with a series of punches to the ribs, following with a knee to the stomach. The guy doubles over, with the wind knocked out of him. This fight won’t last much longer.

His right side is exposed.

Cover up.

Too late. The guy in the red trunks throws a kick, his shin landing hard on his target, and his opponent falls against the mat.

The crowd roars.

Why would anyone subject themselves to this level of physical punishment? I asked Reed that once after a fight.

He looked at me like I was crazy. “For the rush.”

Soccer gives me a rush, too, but I don’t have to get my butt kicked.

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