Free Brawl by Kylie Hillman

glass. I take a sip, fizzy lemonade bursting over my tongue, and my mood lightens a tiny bit. Glancing his way, it lifts even further. His handsome features are cloaked with contrition, and he lifts his beer my way when he sees me looking at him.
    “Apologies for being a jerk. Sometimes my mouth moves quicker than my brain. I like you; you’re hot as fuck and tough-as-nails, just how I like my women.” I smile at his declaration. It’s not what I was expecting, however, it’ll more than do as an apology. “Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Jep. Nice to meet you.”
    He holds out his free hand. It takes me a second to catch on to what he wants from me. Extending my own arm, I grasp his hand and shake it. “It’s my pleasure, Jep. I’m Gabbi.”
    Nate’s eyes burn a path over the back of my head as he watches our weird interaction.
    Jep tugs me closer to him with the hand he’s holding and I don’t resist. Letting go of my hand, he shuffles his beer into the one furthest from me, and then slings his free arm over my shoulder. Once he’s slid me hard against his side, I fix my eyes on the octagon, and push away all thoughts of my strange reaction to Hooligan earlier. Jep’s proving to be more my speed tonight. Easy, safe, and down-to-fuck. There’ll be no messy run-ins at work afterward. Hell, I don’t even have to see him again if I don’t want to.
    With those thoughts firmly in the forefront of my mind, I watch the referee call the two fighters into the middle to touch gloves before he starts the fight. Nate and Jep stiffen with anticipation on either side of me, catcalls and whistles coming from the pair of them in support of Hooligan. I stay silent for the moment, stuck in a quandary about which fighter I want to cheer for.
    I’d be lying if I said that a small part of me wasn’t hoping that Nate’s uncle’s opponent would hand him his arrogant ass tonight.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Hooligan
    A drenaline surges like electricity through my body. It sends sparks of energy to the ends of my fingers and toes. Breathing deeply, I begin to channel my focus into the fight in front of me, zeroing in on the asshole challenging for my title. My preparations are interrupted when a pair of wide amber eyes appear in my mind, followed by a pouty set of ruby red lips, a full rack, and tattooed legs that go forever. Nate’s girl. Or Jep’s. Fuck knows which one she’s with, she’s been all over both of them.
    All I know is my dick thickened at the sight of her and that surprised the shit out of me...that was until thoughts of Mari and Gabe popped back into my head. Which put an end to the two seconds of peace I’d had since the last time their memory haunted me.
    Jesus H. Christ. My cock twitches in my cup, grinding painfully against the hard shell. There’s not much room for growth and I’m about to give everyone a free show if I can’t get it under control.
    Nuns. Calculus. Bathroom mold. Dead son. Murdered wife.
    Pale blue eyes filled with love replace the sexy amber pair that were filling my vision, and my hard-on wilts. Icy-cold, inescapable anguish filters its way back into my veins like liquid nitrogen, and my momentary return to hot-blooded male ends as quickly as it began.
    “Touch gloves,” the ref’s voice breaks through the fog of grief holding me in its grip. Bouncing on my toes, I hold my hands out and wait for my opponent, Gregory “Kryptonite” Krakan, to touch gloves. He doesn’t, and it proves everything I’ve heard about the up-and-coming Croatian in the lead-up to tonight.
    He’s arrogant. Full of himself. Already has the fight won in his head.
    All of these things will work in my favor. Not that I really need any extra luck or assistance. The need to inflict damage—to make my opponents feel a small amount of the pain that grips me every single fucking day—is more than enough. I haven’t lost a fight since my life turned to shit and I have no intentions of starting