Maverick
“the Avenger” Cage wants to rise to the top and become a legend in the ring.
Though he keeps his identity well guarded, he's known on the fighting circuit
as the new kid with a chip on his shoulder and a tattoo on his back that marks
him as trouble. He's got a personal score to settle with the Underground's one
and only Remington "Riptide" Tate.
As
Mav trains, he meets a young girl—the only other new person in the town--and
sparks fly. When things get heated between them, he finds out she's none other
than Reese Dumas, the cousin of Remington Tate’s wife. A girl who's supposed to
root against him and a girl he's supposed to stay away from.
But
Maverick fights for the woman in his heart, and the monsters in his blood. The
world’s eyes are on them and the victor will go down in history as the ultimate
fighting champion; the ultimate LEGEND.
*
LEGEND is the 6th and final installment of the REAL series, but it can also be
read as standalone or after the three Remington and Brooke books (Real/Mine/Remy.)
PRE-ORDER NOW
SEATTLE
Maverick
‘Not in a million years, kid.’
‘NOT INTERESTED.’
‘Get the fuck out of my face!’
Four cities in two days, and more
doors slammed in my face than I can count. I sling my backpack over my shoulder
and scratch another name from my list.
Hopping on to a bus and hopping off
thirty minutes later, I scan the mix of both commercial and apartment numbers
down the block, then knock on my last door.
“Coach Hennesy?”
He’s a tall man, his hair like
pepper, clad in sweats, with a yellow timer hanging from his neck. He gives me
a questioning look.
“I’m your next champion.”
He laughs, but then he must see
something on my face. In my stance. Thirst, resoluteness, guts. Maybe I’m
wearing my balls in my eyes. He falls sober and swings the door wide-open.
“Come on in.”
He
doesn’t ask for my name.
I
guess with one look, he knows he’ll find my name in the dictionary, right next
to “determined.”
He leads me to his garage. “Where’d
you train before?” he asks.
“Self-taught. I watch videos.”
He scoffs, then shrugs. “Okay, let’s
see what you’ve got.”
I eye the equipment across the room.
The heavy bag hangs from the ceiling, the leather worn from other fighters
before me. There’s a boxing dummy at the corner. Speed bag. Weights. A whole
private gym set up here. I drop both my bags, then zip open my backpack and
start to put on the gloves without bothering to remove my hoodie.
“Take that off; I need to know what
you’ve got. Need to see your form,” Hennesy says.
I clench my jaw. Slowly unzip my
hoodie. Take it off and glance past my shoulder, shifting to keep my back from
the coach’s view. The guy is clearing the fighting area. Good. We can get down
to business. He walks to me when I face him.
“Give it over.” I hand him my hoodie
and he tosses it aside, then crosses his arms and looks at me. “Speedball
first.”
I inhale, position myself before the
speedball, and hit. Wham.
I keep on hitting, lightning fast,
my fists making the bag fly.
I would have warmed up first, but
I’ve been doing this for days, and I won’t stop until I’ve got myself a
coach—and not even then.
I’ve got momentum now, and I pick up
speed, my arms moving back and forth, working the speed bag until it’s moving
so fast you can’t even see it.
I’m starting to sweat; it’s stuffy
in here, but I can’t stop. I need him to take me on. I need one yes to get me
in the ring. Just one yes and I’ll do the rest.
“Time.” Hennesy stops me. He signals
to the boxing dummy and the heavy bag. “Let’s see you pound the bag.”
I swing out and slam my knuckles on
the bag, putting everything into my fists. Thack,
thump, thud.
Hennesy’s composure starts to
crumble with excitement. “Holy shit, boy!”
I’m getting in to it. I’m in the
zone—where it’s just me, the leather brown bag, my fists, and nothing else but
slamming the spot I’m looking at.
“I’ve seen enough.” He stops the bag
from swinging. His eyes glassy. “Fill this out.”
I pull off my right glove and grab a
pen as he slaps a paper onto a desk at the corner. I bend down to fill out my
name and contact information and realize, too late, that I exposed the tattoo
on my back.
“You’re his boy.”
I freeze midsignature.
A second ticks by. Then two.
I slowly set the pen down and take
one last look at the paper. I might not get to fill it out after all. I turn.
His face has paled.
I wait it out for a few beats. Maybe
he’s different. Maybe he can deal with it.
He tosses my jacket at me. “Get out.
Nobody wants to see you fight.”
I frown fiercely as I catch my
jacket in my fist and edge forward, equally mad now. “That’s too damn bad.
’Cause I’m fighting anyway.”
I
keep my eyes on him as I pull off my left glove, shove my arms into my hoodie,
and zip up.
I walk out and the door slams behind
me. I clench my jaw, and I shove my gloves into my bag and spot the old, black
gloves inside too. I push them down into the bottom of the duffel bag and zip
it up.
The season starts in a week and a
half. No coach? No fight. I can’t even get into a gym.
But I won’t let anyone or anything
keep me from the ring.
I pick up a penny from the ground.
And I spot a girl in workout clothes
across the street, tying her shoelaces. She’s a step away from the gym door. I
straighten, pull my hoodie over my head, and cross the street, following after
her like I belong.
