KAGE (KAGE Trilogy #1) Read Online Free Page B

shit out of another guy, and someone was going to lose. Someone was going to have to limp home with a broken ego, possibly even some broken bones or scars.
    It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once, and as I watched through eyes stretched wide, my teeth dug painfully into my bottom lip, I thought maybe I was already addicted.
    I decided to try to get some action shots of the fights, but it became clear soon enough that my photos were not going to be anywhere near Sports Illustrated quality. Cell phones were great for taking selfies and posting them on social media sites, but if I was even going to try to pretend to be a sports reporter, I’d have to have a good digital camera. That would be a perfect gift to ask my parents to get me for my twenty-first birthday coming up in a few weeks. Until then, I’d just have to make do with blurry fight shots.
    I was particularly interested in chronicling the fight between two Brazilians— Kage’s future opponent, Davi Matos, and some guy whose name I didn’t bother committing to memory. Honestly, I didn’t care about Matos beyond getting his name right for my assignment. Somehow I’d gotten locked in on the first guy I’d come in contact with in the world of mixed martial arts, and now everything was about Michael Kage. Already my brain was trying to figure out how to spin this whole project to focus on him, and he wasn’t even fighting.
    After Matos finished wiping the floor with the other Brazilian, I got an uneasy feeling. The guy was impressive. It made me nervous for Kage, who had the demeanor of a fighter, but whose face looked entirely too pretty. If this match was any indication of things to come, Kage would probably be the one limping home when it came to fighting Matos. Maybe this fight would scare him enough to back down.
    I scanned the crowd for him, but there were too many faces to sift through. I couldn’t find him— couldn’t see if he was scared.
    After watching two more fights, I’d come to the realization that I knew virtually nothing about mixed martial arts fighting. Sometimes Braden ordered a keg on pay-per-view nights, and we watched the fight and got smashed. I’d always been an armchair spectator, more concerned with keeping a full beer in one hand and my girlfriend’s ass in the other than what was going on inside the octagon.
    I could recognize a few submission moves, knew the basic kicks and punches like anyone would, but the rest of it had flown right over my head. Fighting just wasn’t my thing. I was more of a ball man, myself. Give me a basketball, football, baseball, soccer ball— hell, even a tennis ball— and I knew what I was doing. But fighting was foreign territory for me. I felt bad for the thoughts I’d had earlier about Layla, about how she knew nothing about the sports she cheered for, because tonight I was no better.
    As the last fight was ending in a knockout, I began to make my way out of my seating area and into a stream of people madly dashing for the door. I knew the parking garage would be mayhem within minutes, and I wondered where Braden and Miranda were. Then I realized I didn’t have to wonder, because I had one of those newfangled communications devices in my pocket. I pulled my cell phone out and texted Braden.
    “Where are you?”
    Nothing. He probably couldn’t hear the alert on his phone in the noisy arena.
    I noticed reporters from the press seating area were all moving in the same direction down a hallway off the main lobby, so I followed. They led me to a large conference room with a hand-written sign on the door that read Press .
    Yep, this is my stop.
    I hovered for a few minutes outside the press room so that I could at least listen to the questions other reporters— real reporters— were asking the fighters, but I was afraid to go in. I was also afraid Braden was going to leave without me.
    “Don’t ditch me,” I texted, belatedly wishing I’d driven myself.
    I opened the browser on my phone