A challenge from the current heavyweight champ, Silas Scott.
The Irish Snake, Silas Scott, is the true King of the Ring. The fossil of a fighter, Erasmus Cress, wouldn’t dare face me in the square.
He’d read the post, then, as if his hands had a mind of their own, he’d hammered out a reply.
Name the time and the place, wanker. I’ll be there.
He’d hit enter, and with one tap of his finger, he’d ignited a sports-media frenzy.
Turns out, Silas Scott has a couple million followers—followers that included prominent promoters. The internet exploded, and before you could say Bob’s your uncle, he’d agreed to fight.
The Snake versus the Lion.
The matchup of the century.
This fair-haired, Irish-born Silas Scott was five years younger than him, two inches shorter, and slippery like his moniker, but he wasn’t unbeatable. He had weaknesses. While the Snake could bob and weave and duck a punch, he couldn’t handle a pummeling. A smart, well-timed combination could lay the bloke out flat.
The question was, was Erasmus Cress the fighter who could execute that punishing takedown? Oh, he was still as strong as an ox. Strength wasn’t his problem, but they were back to Aug’s words again.
Tighten up, boyo. You’re wobblier than a thirteen-year-old who snuck his first pint.
Aug saying that he was wobbly was being generous.
Thanks to the bloody soundtrack in his head, he couldn’t tap into his inner control—that focused balance he’d come to innately before the world crashed in on him.
One thing was for sure. He wouldn’t beat Silas Scott without it.
The camera flashes continued as he danced around the bag, throwing a right hook, then a left, and giving the media what they wanted. This promo blitz was a taste of what was to come—a little piece of the dog and pony show that was modern professional boxing. He continued with a round of uppercuts when his phone buzzed an incoming text from over on a shelf that housed a row of towels. He looked from his mobile to Aug, and the man gave him a slight nod.
Unless it was an emergency, there was a good chance it wasn’t his granny Fin calling. Seven hours ahead, it was barely three thirty in the morning in the UK, but it could be Madelyn Malone. Like it or not, he’d been on pins and needles since she’d mentioned she’d found his nanny match.
Augie planted himself in front of the bag and eyed the press. “I think we’ve worked the British Beast long enough tonight. Any questions for me, boyos?” the trainer called, taking the spotlight.
“Are you training the Lion as hard as you used to?” came the first question.
Augie huffed. “What do you think I’ve been doing with the Lion for the last five months? Playing patty cake and whipping up a little Yorkshire pudding?”
A low chuckle floated through the room.
For a crotchety old geezer, Augie knew his way around the press. With his arms still folded and a drip of mustard on his wrinkled white button-up shirt and the sleeves rolled to his elbows, he came off as that cantankerous uncle everybody secretly loved, and the media wasn’t immune.
Raz stepped out of the ring and removed his gloves. Using his teeth to unwind the tape from his fists, he checked his phone. There was a text, but it wasn’t from Madelyn or Granny Fin. He surveyed the room as another chuckle escaped from the men gathered around his trainer. He could take a few moments. Aug had the press eating out of his hands. He had a second to breathe and deal with the gits texting him—gits who were as chatty as a bloody sewing circle. He plucked his hoodie from a hook on the wall, zipped it over his bare torso, then opened what he liked to call the bloody prick group chat.
Bloody Music Prick Landon Paige: Have you talked to Madelyn? Did she introduce you to the nanny yet? It has to happen soon. Your son’s coming in a couple of days, right?
Two days, to be exact.
Bloody Nerd Prick Rowen Gale: Let me know if you want to sign your son up for any summer camps. We’ve got Phoebe signed up for a few in Denver and a couple in Aspen.
Raz’s pulse kicked up as a thread of anxiety wove its way around his heart.
He didn’t know if his son would even be interested in a summer camp. He loved his son. Of course, he did. The boy was as smart as a whip. He could do anything he wanted—be a doctor or a scientist. But over the last several months, the lad had fixated on boxing, and the last thing he wanted was for the boy to follow in his footsteps.
That was never the plan.
Boxing was a brutal sport, but it was all he knew.
On the other hand, Sebastian had options that didn’t include bruised ribs and bloody noses.
But the older Sebastian got, the more the boy wanted to be like him.
And he couldn’t have that.
He didn’t know what else to do besides put distance between them.
He hadn’t seen his son since he’d left five months ago to train with Augie. Yes, he could tell himself that Sebastian was in school and that he didn’t want to disrupt the boy’s schedule. But now the lad was off for the summer, and with Granny Fin insisting they come to the states, he’d run out of excuses. The clock had run out on his reclusive respite.
Change was on the horizon, and he’d need to adjust to life with not only his granny and his son again but a nanny under his roof. He swallowed hard.
He’d have to remember one rule with whomever Madelyn matched him with.
Under no circumstances could he shag the nanny.
It shouldn’t be hard to follow.
But the stats told another story.
Out of the nanny match men’s group, two of the men, Rowen Gale, a nerdy tech wanker, and Mitch Elliott, a famous chef wanker, had already been matched with nannies.
But there was more.
Rowen and Mitch were currently engaged to those nannies. Yeah, Rowen and Penny Fennimore and Mitch and Charlotte Ames were nauseatingly happy.
Cheers to them. Truth be told, Penny and Charlotte were terrific women. But he wasn’t looking for that type of match.
No bloody way was he falling for a nanny.
When Madelyn had messaged him about finding a suitable candidate, he knew one thing for sure. He wouldn’t be proposing marriage to this woman. No way! He’d had his one perfect love, and despite his strength and with every resource at his disposal, he’d still lost her.
He’d lost his Meredith.
Christ, he missed her every day.
She would have known what he should do to bond with his son. She would have understood how to guide him in the right direction. Meredith was intelligent, artistic, and valued volunteering and community service. Those qualities were part of Sebastian’s DNA. The boy would have to see the better path was to be less like his father and more like his mother.
His beautiful, vivacious mother.
Raz banished the thoughts, tucking away the memories of her not quite blue and not quite green eyes and her dark flowing hair.
She was gone.
As far as he was concerned, women were for fucking and forgetting now. That’s the way it had to be. And it had been that way right up until a pair of amber eyes lassoed his pitiful soul.
Stop.
He stared hard at his mobile, trying to get Libby Lamb out of his head when dots appeared on the screen.
Bloody Nerd Prick Rowen Gale: Regarding your pending nanny situation. I could hack into Madelyn’s phone and see what I could learn. Once I have the nanny’s name, I can hack into her accounts. It would take less than five minutes.