Chapter 14 Chapter 14 Fight Night
My phone has been ringing all morning. I stretch, still half-asleep, and reach for my nightstand, grabbing it blindly. It’s Gemma. Of course it is. I answer and toss her on speaker, letting my head fall back into the pillows.
She’s already rambling about our plans for the day, her voice fast and excited, but I’m not listening.
All I can think about is that kiss.
Sergey leaning over from the passenger side of my car last night, his big hand cupping my face like I was something fragile. His lips brushing mine—soft, quick, barely there—but it still knocked the air out of me. It wasn’t even a real kiss, just a peck, and somehow it felt heavier than anything else.
My fingers drift up to my lips, tracing them like I can hold onto it.
I swallow.
“Are you even listening to me?” Gemma snaps.
“No,” I exhale, smiling to myself. “I’m thinking about him kissing me last night.”
“Okay, I don’t care about that right now,” she shoots back immediately. “We have an appointment to wax your hooha in an hour, then hair and nails. Get your tight ass up and meet me or I will kill you. Also, pick up Erika and Tish—you’re closer.”
“Fine,” I groan, forcing myself upright. My body aches from last night’s game, every muscle protesting.
By late afternoon, I’m running on fumes and caffeine. I crack open an energy drink, letting the burn wake me up. I haven’t heard from Sergey today—not that I expected to. He told me he’d be on a strict schedule: eating, resting, light workout. Before the fight, he loads up on sugar—chocolate and orange juice—for that final burst of energy.
I’ve never done this much prep for a guy in my life.
Gemma made sure of that.
The wax lady left me completely bare—everywhere but my head. My hair is black now, sleek and straight with soft waves at the ends. My nails and toes are painted a light pink—Gemma’s favorite. She says it looks elegant.
I barely recognize myself.
But I look good.
I also made calls. Todd at Studio hooked us up with VIP and bottle service for after the fight. Knowing people in Vegas matters, and I’ve built my own little network. Same thing last night—I called Javier at the steakhouse across from the pizza place. He snuck us through the back to a private dining area. Sergey tried to pay, but Javier waved it off, took a few pictures, and called it even. I still tipped the waiter.
Now I stand in front of the mirror, taking it all in.
I look older. Sharper.
I miss the pink hair a little.
Tish wraps her arms around me from behind. She’s in a red mini dress, Erika in silky black, Gemma glowing in her signature hot pink. We look like trouble.
Alek calls, telling me he’ll meet us and walk us to our seats. Second row.
Second. Row.
I valet my Benz at the MGM, the place buzzing with energy. The second we step out, heads turn. Too many. My skin prickles under the weight of it.
Gemma grabs my hand. “You’re fine,” she murmurs.
We move toward the arena, collect our tickets, and head through security. They ask me to take off my coat. I slip it off slowly, aware of the way guys nudge each other, eyes dragging over me.
I hate it.
“Damn, doll! You’re going to get my brother killed,” Alek laughs as he approaches, his voice cutting through everything.
Relief hits instantly.
I get wanded, then he pulls me into a hug, kissing both my cheeks. His hand settles at my lower back as he greets the girls the same way. Around us, whispers start—people recognizing him, recognizing us.
I catch bits of it.
Is that Sergey's girlfriend?
Alek hears it too. He just smirks.
“Want to see him before the fight?” he asks me.
“Oh no,” I shake my head quickly. “He doesn’t need that distraction.”
“Relax,” Alek says, squeezing my hand. “He’s going to win. Jones is good, but Sergey is better.”
“I know, but…”
He leads us to our seats. I take off my coat again, settling in. He offers drinks—I decline. I need a clear head. I’m driving.
Gemma,Tish and Erika don’t share that concern. They’re already laughing, drinks in hand.
We’re surrounded by celebrities—actors, fighters, models. It’s surreal. Alek drapes his arm along the back of my chair, grounding me a little as the prelim fights start.
Then someone behind us leans in. Speaks.
I turn.
A very famous, very handsome action star is suddenly there, running a hand through his dark hair, flashing a smile like he knows exactly what it does.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“You don’t need to know her name,” Alek cuts in sharply. “This is Sergey’s girl. Back off, or Jones won’t be the only one getting his ass beat tonight.”
The guy freezes. “I wasn’t—”
“You were,” Alek snaps. “Matter of fact, don’t talk to any of these ladies. Just watch the fights.”
The actor backs off fast.
I sink slightly in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—my dress, the attention, the way people are looking at me.
Sergey’s girl.
I don’t even know how I feel about that.
The lights dim.
It’s time.
Sergey’s fight—heavyweight, twelve rounds.
My stomach flips violently, nerves clawing at me. Alek notices and hands me his drink.
“Take a sip,” he says. “You’re buzzing. It’s cute, but relax.”
I take a small sip.
The music hits. Jones comes out first, the crowd roaring. Then Sergey—belt holder, calm, focused. He steps into the ring like he owns it.
They circle each other, testing, reading.
For a split second, Sergey glances at me—just a flick of his eyes—and gives me the smallest wink before his expression hardens again.
By the sixth round, Jones is breathing heavier. Slower. Then suddenly—he lands a brutal punch straight to Sergey’s chin.
I gasp, covering my face.
Sergey doesn’t even move.
The bell rings.
Corners.
I peek through my fingers. Sergey looks over at me, steady, unshaken. His coach is barking at him in Russian—finish him.
Sergey nods.
Seventh round.
They circle again, slower now. Jabs, testing distance. Then—
Sergey shifts.
Left step. Quick right jab. His right foot slides forward—
I recognize it instantly.
I’m already on my feet.
His left hand comes around—
—and connects.
Hard.
Jones drops.