Elias Cardoza needs one chance, just one, to prove himself. He wants to fight Trent ‘The Tank’ Garrison, the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world, but his manager doesn’t think he’s ready.
His sister, Nina, knows that Elias has the killer instinct.
He knows how to survive, because growing up, they both had to.
But she fears for him, because he’s the only person she has in this world.
Harper prefers men in smart business suits, not men covered in sweat. She’s a journalist from the local paper and she’s out of her depth in the boxing gym with her manicured nails and perfect hair.
But she’s about to get the story of her life.
Underdog is the prequel to The Seven Sins.
Blood trickles down my eye and I see red. My heart pounds. I stumble back against the ring bars, trying to keep myself up. I am so damn tired. I hope I’ve done enough because when I knocked the Russian down, it looked like he went down for good. Now he’s struggling to get up.
The crowd are going mad. My heart is still thundering.
And then my opponent gets a second burst of wind and raises himself to standing.
The fight isn’t over yet.
I need to finish him.
He comes at me like a pissed off grizzly bear, and I swing out, striking his ribs. He clutches his side and stares at me, pure fury contorting that ugly old face of his. I try to wipe away the blood. It’s making my eyes sting. And just as I lift my fist to wipe it away, he cuts me with a left hook.
I didn’t see it coming. He hits hard sometimes, when he’s really mad, like now. Igor Koshkin is known for it. He’s famous. I’m not. He’s expected to win.
The fuck I’m going to let him.
We dance around like wary predators. I get a couple of hooks in and dodge his lame-ass ones.
Lou shouts from the corner. His croaky old voice still reaching my ears despite the baying crowd. Koshkin is the favorite. This is his city.
But then the bell goes and we return to our corners.
“You almost had him,” says Lou, his face close to mine as he examines me. The cut men get to work, putting some salve on my wound. I always get cut above my eyes. I’m used to this—getting beat up. I got used to it from a young age. As a child, my butt and a leather belt became the best of friends.
But now I fight back. Hard. I hit like a beast. Because now, I can.
The bell rings again and I rush back to the center. Koshkin looks like a pit bull with bloodshot eyes. I dance around. Being fast is my strength. The Russian has the weight and thick muscles, but I have speed. If you can’t get hit, doesn’t matter how big the opponent is.
It’s pissing him off that I duck and dive and he can’t get at me.
This is how I do it.
I glide around the ring. Wear him out. I’m mad that I didn’t take him down in the last round. I wanted this over in five rounds.
Too bad we’re into the eighth.
I muster a smile when the Russian’s next punch misses me completely. I sense he’s getting tired. That’s another problem with all that muscle and bodyweight. It tires you out, slows you down. I’m big, but I’m not built like a tank. I’m big enough. Defined enough that Athena will give me head any time I turn up on her doorstep.
BAM!
I manage another hit between the Russian’s ribs. The crowd goes mad.
“Eli! Eli! Eli!”
This is fucking new. I thought they were all Koshkin’s people. I hear the change in their loyalty. I hear my name and it lifts me up. At a time like this, there is nothing better than having people believe in you.
Inspired, I deliver an uppercut. It hits the underside of the Russian’s jaw. He staggers, hangs his head, then crashes to the floor.
He’s not getting up. Even I can see that. I walk away, as the ref counts.
I stare out at the crowd. Now they’re rooting for me and going batshit crazy.
Only because I knocked the fucker out.
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