LIKE TOMMY HAD PREDICTED, I was signed to the MFA exactly two weeks to the day that I was released from prison, with a six-figure salary that within three months had turned into seven figures. One year had passed since I had been released from one cage and thrust into another.

Except this one was different.

This was on my terms and I was the fucking king. The MFA were paying me a shit ton of cash to do the only thing I was good at doing – inflicting pain.

The sweat that dripped from my brow screwed with my vision as I stalked my opponent – my prey. I couldn’t see properly, not that poor sight ever affected me.

Fighting for me was primal.

It was gut instinct.

It was in my blood.

My body was primed for this stage. It was all I had ever known. And the pain only encouraged me, turned me on, fueled the beast inside of me. The guy I was fighting, Justin Philippe, was one of those annoying as fuck all-American boys – wholesome and god-fearing. God only knew why the douche was even involved in the MMA circuit. He had a rich daddy and an even richer granddaddy.

Fucker was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I hated that shit. Seriously, I fucking hated those types of fighters – the ones that were carried.

Every hair on my body stood on end as I pummeled the poor bastard through his attempts to block my left hook. The feeling of adrenalin pumping inside of me was like a drug and I couldn’t get enough.

The more blood he shed, the more pumped I became.

I showed no emotion because I didn’t fucking feel. I was ruthless, methodical and composed. To the outside world, I didn’t have a weakness, and that made me dangerous.

I wasn’t born like this – a heartless bastard. It was something I had turned into as the years passed by and life got cold – something I had been twisted and morphed into.

The crowd roared out my name and it didn’t mean a damn thing. These fuckwads didn’t have a thing on me and that’s exactly how I wanted it.

The women eye fucking me in the crowd didn’t faze me either. I didn’t raise an eyebrow when panties were tossed in my direction, or when I found naked women skulking around in the backroom after each fight. It was the life I lived now. They were enthralled with an illusion. They didn’t know me. None of these women did.

They satisfied my needs – sated an itch that needed to be scratched – but I was only interested in turning the head of one woman.

Smirking to myself, I grappled with my opponent, tackling him to the mat, and executing the final blow.

The bell sounded, and the referee dragged me to my feet, raising my hand in the air in victory.

 

 

I FELT SHADY AS HELL as I tiptoed down the hallway and into my bedroom with the latest MFA magazine in my purse.

Closing the door behind me, I settled cross-legged on my bed and opened the center page section of the magazine…

 

MESSINA NEXT IN LINE FOR HEAVYWEIGHT TITLE SHOT

In a rare interview with Noah ‘the Machine’ Messina, when asked about his commitment towards the MFA, he responded with:

“Many people don’t understand the obsession, the fuckin’ passion of the sport. But that’s ‘cause they’ve never stood in the middle of an arena with seventy thousand people screaming their name.

They’ve never felt the compulsion of pushing their body to maximum capacity, of working their body until they puke and keep on going.

Fighting is in my veins.

Adrenalin pumping through every pore in my body – fuck there’s nothing like it.

You could go to the ends of the earth and nothing would compare to the feeling of standing in the ring, geared up and ready to inflict pain…”

When asked about his private life, in particular his relationship status Messina responded by saying:

“I don’t have time for a life – for one woman. Been there, done that, and I can safely say it was the biggest mistake of my life. In my experience, women are a dime a dozen – a means to an end – an itch to scratch, a fucking nuisance. No, I’m too busy climbing to the top, being the best and winning. That’s my goal, my focus and my fucking church. I won’t quit until I win. I won’t quit until I’m carried out of that ring in a fucking body bag.”

 

Ugh. Tossing the magazine off my bed, I threw myself onto my back and shoved my fist in my mouth. If I didn’t, I was going to scream the house down and if I did that, my upstairs neighbor Mrs. Murphy would probably suffer her second heart attack this year.

I wasn’t having that on my conscience.

I was such a glutton for punishment.

Seriously, why I tortured myself by watching fight after fight and buying up every magazine and newspaper with his name on it was beyond me.

I needed to get a grip.

I needed to get a bloody life, but I knew exactly where I was going be on fight night; parked in front of our flat screen with my heart in my mouth, and every other part of my body shaking to the core.

Breakups were hard enough on a woman without having their ex splashed across magazines and television screens, looking hot as hell. Only my ex could land himself in prison for half a decade and come out smelling like roses. The man had signed with the MFA the minute he got out of prison and in the last year had taken the sport by storm.

Noah was a global superstar, and I was an instructor and co-owner of a back street gym in Cork City. Noah was shagging every woman with a pulse, while I had practically regrown my virginity.

I couldn’t explain why I put myself through this, only that I wanted to see him succeed. I wanted to see him. Even though I would never admit it to a single soul, I wanted Noah to have a good life.

The door of my bedroom blew inwards and in barreled Hope, fresh-faced and mouth agape. “Teegs, did you read what Noah said?”

“Don’t say his name in my presence,” I snapped, stopping my friend in her tracks. “I mean it Hope; don’t utter his name in this room ever again.”

Pathetic as it was, I couldn’t stand to talk about Noah openly. It hurt too much because at the end of the day, regardless of how much I wanted to, I couldn’t stop loving him and I couldn’t stop wanting to hate him. I was a proud woman, and talking about it only made me feel weak. I didn’t show weakness, therefore when it came to conversations involving Noah Messina, denial was my best friend.

Hope looked momentarily stumped as she stood in the doorway of my room with her iPad clutched between neon painted fingernails. “Can I change he-who-shall-not-be-named’s name to asshole and talk trash about him?”

I considered this for a moment before nodding. “Yes, I accept those terms.”

Hope grinned and skipped over to where I was laying on my made bed. She could always do this; make me feel like I wasn’t completely alone in the world.

My relationship with Hope was one I cherished more than anything. She wrecked my head at times, but the girl was worth her weight in gold.

But no matter how much trash she talked, or how hard she tried to cheer me up, I couldn’t shake Noah’s words…

“I don’t have time for a life – for one woman. Been there, done that, and I can safely say it was the biggest mistake of my life.”

Looks like he’s up to his old tricks again,” Hope announced. “Whoring and touring.” Looking at me with a devious smirk, she added, “At least you made it out with a clean vagina.”

“That’s true,” I laughed, burying my hurt with a smile.