“All right, wiseass, I’ll tell you why. Because with the piss-poor showing I’ve seen from you in the training room recently, I’m afraid he’ll hurt you and you won’t be able to fight.”

Deacon laughed. Which startled everyone, because he never cut up during practice. Never. “Whatever. The odds are better that I’ll trip over my own feet and twist my knee before Courey can ever hurt me bad enough to keep me from that fight.”

Courey puffed up his chest and bumped it into Deacon’s. “You’ve got a big fucking mouth, McConnell. How about I shut it with my fist?”

“You can try, dipfuck.”

“Back off. Both of you,” Maddox warned.

“You gonna let us spar, right here, right now?” Deacon asked Maddox without breaking eye contact with Courey.

“No.”

“Fine. Then we’ll go someplace else.”

Courey grinned. “One hour. Chico’s Gym on South University.”

“I’ll be there.”

“The hell you will!” Maddox roared. “You’re my fucking fighter. I say when you fight, where you fight, and who you fight.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“And I don’t recommend you try,” Ronin said from behind them.

They all watched Sensei move forward in that deceptively lazy gait that meant he was ready to strike at any moment and strike hard.

“What the fuck, Ronin?” Maddox demanded.

“This is what you’ve been pushing for. So let them spar. Full contact.” Ronin gave both Deacon and Courey a cool once-over. “Then we’ll know who is ready to move to the next level.”

Maddox looked unhappy as his gaze flicked between Courey and Deacon. He rubbed the frown line between his eyes. “You heard Sensei Black. Suit up. Ring check, five minutes.”

Deacon grabbed his gear out of his locker and got ready, trying to focus on what he remembered as Courey’s weak points.

No one attempted to talk to him. Good thing, or else he might’ve used them for a warm-up.

Blue checked his gloves. Deacon spared a quick glance at the guys standing around the ring, then at Maddox and Ronin on opposite sides of the netting.

Deacon bowed before he crossed the threshold into the ring.

Courey did not. Once he got inside, he bounced around like he’d loaded springs in his feet. He swung his arms. Moved his head side to side until all the vertebrae in his spine cracked. Then he grinned and popped in his mouth guard.

Terrel served as ref. “Clean fight. Three three-minute rounds. You both know the rules. Blatant disregard of common rules will result in forfeiture. Understand? Now, touch gloves.”

After that they returned to their respective “sides” to await the signal to start.

Courey attacked first.

Deacon let him.

Courey tried an outside leg kick, which Deacon blocked.

Then Courey landed a punch to Deacon’s jaw, which Deacon didn’t even attempt to dodge. That singular hit fueled the rage and he released every bit of pent-up anger. Toward his cousin. Toward the fucked-up situation with Molly. Toward his motherfucking coach, who’d lost faith in him. Toward the sadness at losing his brother and the self-hatred for his part in Dante’s death.

But within that firestorm he became a fighting machine. He remembered why he’d earned the nickname “Con Man.” Because neither Courey—nor anyone else—knew what to expect.

By the end of the first round, Deacon had Courey on the run, on the ropes, on the mat. And he’d executed a picture-perfect takedown—a judo hip throw that even skimpy-praise Ito would’ve applauded.

During the quick break, Deacon grabbed the bottle of water from Terrel and drank deeply, never taking his eyes off his opponent. Strategizing his next round. Not bothering to sit down because he wasn’t tired; he was exhilarated.

At the start of the second round, Deacon kept Courey guessing by implementing every fighting style that he’d been perfecting. Faster hands courtesy of Fisher. Faster feet courtesy of Sergei. Faster takedowns courtesy of Blaze.

When Deacon had Courey in a rear naked choke, he freed him before the man could tap out. Tapping out would be too easy. Deacon wanted to make the cocky motherfucker suffer.

So before Courey caught his breath from the near choke out, Deacon rolled him to his back and started a ground and pound until Terrel broke them up.

That signaled the end of the second round. Courey hadn’t landed a single kick or hit in those three minutes.

Riggins entered the ring to tend Courey’s wounds. Hard not to smile about that.

Again, Deacon didn’t sit down during the break. He paced as he remembered Molly’s disappointment, the shock and the hurt on her face when she’d learned what he’d kept from her. Then the anger when he refused to explain.