The guy was someone who went to school with Chance, but they weren’t close. For some reason, my friend saw something in Javier Hernández. The only thing I saw in the mixed-race man was a problem keeping me from making up with my girl.
“Dude, I’ve got to get out of here,” I said in a lowered voice. “I’m supposed to see Kaya. We might be getting back together.”
Chance’s furious gaze whipped to me. “Fuck! Why didn’t you say something, man?”
“I—” It was the first thing I said when he demanded I go with him. Honestly, he hadn’t needed me. I was sure Chance figured he might need an interpreter. That could have been true if it had been another trainee. But our fighter spoke fluent English—he was born and raised in the U.S. with parents from Ireland.
“Never mind, dude.” I raked a hand through my hair. “Are we done here?”
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