I love you. I love you. I love you.
He could hear her as if she were whispering in his ear.
“It’ll be a pleasure beating you, Lion, or do you go by Donkey now?” Silas hissed.
Raz opened his eyes. He softened his gaze and read the Snake’s aura. He could see it plain as day—gray and black with a little puce mixed in. He grimaced. “Mate, your spiritual vibe is a cosmic dumpster bin. Blimey, you should get yourself some crystals to clear that psychic blockage.”
Panic flashed in Silas’s eyes. The nervous fighter turned to the cameras, his shoulders slumping a fraction, but Raz saw it. He’d rattled the Snake.
“Erasmus Cress literally trained to fight me by doing yoga and running around the hills with donkeys. What do you have to say about that, donkey lover?” Silas quipped like an angry old man yelling at kids to keep it down.
Unbothered, Raz nodded. “The donkey knows, Silas.”
Wobbly Bob might be banging his granny—and he was absolutely not okay with that—but he had to hand it to the guy. The man knew what he was talking about.
The donkey knows.
He got it. He finally got it.
The donkey knows what matters.
Confusion marred Silas’s expression. “What does the donkey know? I’m trying to make fun of you, mate!”
“I know, but you gave me quite a compliment,” he answered. He took in the sprawling event center complex, the flags, the media circus, and the gleaming ring, then took a few steps away from Silas, removing his hoodie. He inhaled a deep breath and busted out a handstand.
“What the hell are you doing?” the Snake bit out.
He was doing what he had to do.
He lifted one hand and balanced on the other like Libby had done in the police chief’s office to shut him the hell up.
In that slip of time, with every muscle engaged, he understood where he’d veered off the path.
He’d hidden behind his guilt.
He’d wallowed in the pain.
He’d distanced himself from his son—the closest, most tangible link to Meredith.
That selfish shell of a man ready to win at any cost wasn’t the man Mere loved. It wasn’t the man he was meant to be, and thanks to Libby’s slightly psychotic intervention, she’d banged her gong, threw vibrators, and gave him the spiritual wake-up call he so desperately needed. Her wham, bam, Libby Lamb love had brought him back from the brink, had transformed his relationship with his son, and now gave him a new lease on life.
Like a ballerina on steroids, he pressed his outstretched hand onto the stage, gracefully lowered his legs, and stood. He put on his hoodie, then pressed his hands into a prayer position and bowed. “Namaste, Silas Scott,” he said like a blooming Zen master. He crossed the stage and descended the stairs, heading for his friends and family, determination coursing through his veins.
“Where the hell are you going?” Silas screamed like a sullen teenager. “Are you coming back? Will you be here for the fight?”
He shrugged, striding away, a man on a mission.
None of the event staff seemed to know what to do. Cameramen scattered, breaking away from the pack to follow him off the stage. He ignored the gaggle of men and women lugging recording equipment and went to his trainer. “I know what it means to win, Aug.” He surveyed the group, then glanced past the lights where a pair of doors opened into a lobby. “I need everyone to come with me,” he said, listening as Silas threw a temper tantrum. He exited the arena, shaking his head. Silas Scott was worse than Calliope and Callista fighting over a…a Landon Paige T-shirt. Wait, how had he not remembered that?
Landon’s bloody handsome face printed on a T-shirt!
No matter.
He’d give the heartthrob shit later. Now, his Zen-master mind focused on one objective.
Get the girl.
But how did he prove that he got it, that the fight wasn’t what mattered the most?
He stared out the windows, watching traffic as a bus thundered by with a banner splashed across its side.
He read the nine words printed in bold indigo.
Those who can, do. Those who volunteer, do more.
It was as if Mere had sent the message—as if she were guiding him.
“Well, look at that,” he uttered, warmth blooming in his chest.
The clap of posh loafers meeting the tiled floor echoed through the lobby.
“Champ, Raz, how about we return to the weigh-in?” Briggs suggested, huffing and puffing and probably shitting his pants.
Raz watched the bus turn the corner. “You sent the final payment for Libby’s brothers’ schooling, right?”
Briggs sucked in an audible breath. “Yes, of course.”
“Do you know about the program they’re in?”
“Yeah, sure, I know quite a bit,” the man got out, gasping for air. “They take study-abroad courses at uni in Ecuador and work as volunteers building clinics in rural areas.”
He nodded. “And you’re familiar with my family’s foundation?”
“Yeah, champ, I took care of the legal side of donating to Helping Hands.”
“I’m going to need you to do a little more of that kind of work,” he said, nodding to himself.
“Erasmus,” Briggs got out, sounding more like himself. “This is highly unusual.”
“And when Briggs says highly unusual,” Calliope chimed, joining the pair.
“He means bloody bonkers. What are you doing? Are you off your rocker?” Callista finished as the sound of a stampede of footsteps signified the arrival of his friends and family.
He turned to find his kin, and Aug, and Madelyn, Rowen, Mitch, and Landon, the Colorado friends who’d become like family. “I’m doing what I should have done all along,” he answered and removed the wooden box from his pocket.
“Is there something in there for Libby?” Sebastian asked.
He took a knee, coming eye to eye with his son. “Yes, what’s in here is for Libby, but I need you to understand something, lad. I love Libby. I want to be with her. I want her to be a part of our family, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop loving your mum. You don’t have to worry about us forgetting about her.”
All eyes were on them when the air around Sebastian shimmered like it used to when he was a baby in his mother’s arms.
“Why would I worry? I love Mum and Libby, too. We can do that because we have the hearts of fighters. We’ve got big hearts, and there’s always room for more love. See these names on the stool. They’re in our hearts. They always will be,” Sebastian answered, wise beyond his years.
This kid!
The bystanders gave a collective sigh, and he glanced at his wanker chat group, which he should think about renaming.
Mitch dabbed at his eyes. “I’m not crying. It’s an eyelash.”
Landon peered at the chef, biting back a grin. “Dude, you’re crying.”
“I’m crying. Fine! What do you need from us, Raz?” the hothead barked.
What did he need?
“It has to be big. I screwed up, and I need to let Libby know that she can count on me.”
“Agreed! You were a major wanker,” Callista chided.
“Remember, Raz,” Calliope cautioned. “If you go big, you might go viral.”
Viral.