Taking Him Down. Meg Maguire

dropped her pillow in time to scream with Lindsey.

      “Quite the match,” quipped the first announcer. “Though you can bet Estrada was hoping for a knockout.”

      “A bittersweet victory,” said the other announcer.

      “What?” Lindsey froze, not seeing any bitter side to this. “Why?”

      Unlike his bested opponent, Rich hadn’t stood. His trainer and some other staff member rushed into the ring and crouched over him.

      “What’s going on?” Jenna asked.

      “I don’t know. Something happened just before they went down, but…” She fell silent and sat. With help, Rich had gotten to his feet. His foot, rather. He held the other one a couple inches above the mat.

      “We’re waiting for confirmation,” the announcer revealed, “but it’s looking like…yes—”

      “Looks like what?” Lindsey demanded, throwing popcorn at the screen. A medical official knelt by Rich, messing with his foot.

      “Yes, looks like Estrada’s right foot is probably broken.”

      “Oh, no,” Jenna said, while Lindsey opted for a fouler expression.

      They showed a close-up replay of the moment Rich’s kick slammed the top of his foot square into Moreau’s elbow, the impact looking a hundred times worse in slow motion. She swore again, earning a glare from Brett.

      “Calm down, Linds. He won.”

      “Do you have any idea how long it takes a foot to heal? It could take a guy out of commission for months—”

      “This time last year you didn’t even know what MMA was—now you’re a groupie. Give it a rest.”

      A guy with a mike made his way to Rich. “Your second consecutive win since you signed, and your first title. How do you feel?”

      “I feel like I just broke my frigging foot.”

      “Unusual to see you dominate on the mat.”

      “Desperate times,” Rich said, annoyance seeming to give way to exhaustion. One thing was certain—he was not happy. Someone presented him with a flashy gold belt, but he did little more than clutch it to his ribs.

      “Anything else before we let you get that foot taken care of?”

      Rich said what he did at the end of every match. “Thank you, Mamá. Thank you, Diana.” Then he added something he never had before. “See you soon.”

      Lindsey shivered.

      The guy with the mike moved on to Moreau as Rich hopped down from the cage with the help of his corner, belt slung over his shoulder.

      Jenna shook off her alarm. “Rich is healthy. He’ll be back in no time, I bet.” She stood and replaced the throw pillow.

      “You heading out? The main event’s next.” Don’t leave me with Brett.

      “I think I’ve hit my threshold for stress. Plus I’ve got a client first thing, and who knows how late Mercer will keep me up rehashing this.”

      There was more to Jenna’s hurried exit, though, and Lindsey couldn’t blame her. She and Brett weren’t exactly bringing out the best in each other lately. She went to fetch Jenna’s purse.

      “Well,” Jenna said when they met at the door. “At least there’s one rather selfish upside to this.”

      “What?”

      “We’ll probably get to see a lot more of Rich around the office again.”

      “You think?” Lindsey glanced back at the screen, a queasy sensation tumbling around in her stomach. The camera followed Rich as he was led hopping from the arena, supported by his trainer and a medic. His face was pained, glistening with sweat. He didn’t look like a man who’d just won his first title fight. He looked…uncertain.

      “I’m sure he’ll come home during his rehab,” Jenna said. “Mercer said he’s really close to his family.”

      “Right. Yes.” The coverage had shifted to the next match, leaving Lindsey dangling, feeling too many conflicting things: dread and relief, fear and triumph. Pride. Worry. More emotions than she’d felt in the past month combined. The result of Rich’s injury? Partly. And the thought of him coming home.