And then he taught me to fight.
I chuckle to myself in the dressing room, as I strip to my boxers and face the mirror. I remember my teenaged years well. Nolan’s got the patience of a saint.
I’ve worked hard to train my body, my muscles now at peak form, my body lithe and nimble. I wear McCarthy ink along my shoulders and chest, down my arms and neck, and across my back, the signature markings of the Clan. It’s widely known here and incites respect in anyone who sees it.
I bounce on my feet and throw a few punches, spin in a circle and get ready to fight. Christ, how I missed this adrenaline rush. I imagine it must be similar to how soldiers going to battle feel, at the knowledge that I either face certain pain or I’ll be on the delivering end. Though the fights here in Ireland are moderated, bareknuckle brawls can be brutal. They’re rarely fatal, but it’s still a distinct possibility.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Yeah?”
The door’s pushed open, and a short, portly man with a balding head and scars along his face and chin peeks in at me. A former fighter, likely. Ring referee.
“You ready?” he asks, then he freezes when his eyes come to the McCarthy ink.
“Aye.”
He blows out a whistle. “Bloody hell,” he says. “It’s you.”
Does he recognize me?
“Not sure we met before?” I ask, trying to be polite. I grab a bottle of water and chug it before the match.
“Can’t say that we have,” he says. “But you’re the McCarthy fighter?”
I look away. I hate recognition like this. “I’m one of them, aye.”
He snorts. “One of them. They taught you to be humble, eh?” He pushes the door wider open. “There’s only one known as the McCarthy fighter, son. You’re feckin’ legendary. Why’d you leave the ring?”
I don’t answer. It isn’t right for him to favor one of us before the fight, and I won’t make friends with him.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“Oh, aye,” he says with a chuckle. “It always is, isn’t it? Bet you have a pretty girl who can’t bear to see her mate’s nose broken again, eh?”
I frown, then quickly school my features. More like two sisters and pseudo mother. Don’t I fucking wish I had a girl who’d care.
“Something like,” I mutter.
He claps my back, but I’m so pumped up I hardly feel it.
“Good lad,” he says, then he mutters under his breath. “I hope you kick his feckin’ arse.”
Jesus. Who am I facing? Someone I know?
The cheering of the crowd increases in volume as I make my way toward the ring. My heart slams against my rib cage as we draw nearer. Christ, I forgot what this was like, the bright lights, teeming crowd of people, the cheers and catcalls, hoots and hollers. Makes me feel like a goddamn celebrity, and I’m not sure I like it.
The stadium’s filled to standing-room only, and an announcer’s voice comes loud and clear over the speakers.
“Please welcome the one and only Tiernan Hurston!”
The one and only? Bloody hell.
I jog up onto the platform, the crowd’s energy spurring me on, and for one quick moment, I lose my focus.
My God. They’re all here.
Keenan and his wife Caitlin at the very front, beside his brother Cormac and his wife Aileen. Beside him sit Nolan and Sheena. When she catches my eye, she gives me a sad smile, kisses her fingertips, then blows me a kiss. On instinct, I blow her a kiss back, and the stadium erupts.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. They think I blew a kiss to my lover, no doubt.
Next to Sheena and Nolan sit my youngest sister Fiona and her husband Lachlan. Fiona grins at me and waves excitedly. Lachlan rests one hand around her shoulders and waves to me with the other hand. Beside Lachlan sits the rest of the entire clan inner circle.
Clan techie Carson and his wife Megan are there, gangly Boner with a girl on each side of him as always, and at the very end, Tully, the largest of the lot with his thick beard and probing eyes. Boner gives me the one-finger salute as good luck, and Tully waves.
They all came. Jesus, I’d better fucking win.
They like to drag things out in here, so my opponent hasn’t entered the ring yet.
I shouldn’t look at the crowd. I should be getting ready for the fight. But then my eyes fall on a row of women sitting front and center, and I know immediately who they are. Vivian’s women.
I try to keep my gaze casual. I try not to think about what it means to win this fight, but I know. Winning this fight means I get my pick of any one of them. I’ve already decided I’m going to win. I might as well figure out which of them is coming home with me tonight.
There’s a lovely woman with high cheekbones and sleek black hair, utterly gorgeous. Beside her sits a brunette with an ample bosom and full, cherry red lips. They’ve lovely, every one of them, and unique in their own special way, but when I get to the very end of the row, I stop and stare.
I know those eyes. I fucking know that woman. Does she remember me? She’s got the same wild and crazy blonde hair, the same fetching and vivacious eyes, though there’s a hardness about her that wasn’t there before. When her eyes meet mine, they widen. She gets to her feet, but her mate looks up in surprise, grabs her hand, and yanks her back to sitting beside her as the announcer’s voice booms over the speakers again, announcing my opponent.
“And now,” he says, “A huge stadium welcome for our returning champion, none other
