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and no wonder.
    Gage glanced around at the young men who, just a few years ago, would have been hanging on the street corner looking for trouble. Now they had some direction in their lives, the attention they craved, decent role models, and a good way to expend energy. But the rec center was just a small part of Cannon’s goodwill.
    Whenever he got back to town, he continued his efforts to protect the neighborhood. Gage had enjoyed joining their group, going on night strolls to police the corruption, to let thugs know that others were looking out for the hardworking owners of local family businesses. Actual physical conflicts were rare; overall, it was enough to show that someone was paying attention.
    It didn’t hurt that Cannon was friends with a tough-as-nails police lieutenant and two detectives. And then there was his buddy at the local bar, a place where Cannon used to work before he got his big break in the SBC fight organization. The owner of the bar had more contacts than the entire police department. He influenced a lot of the other businesses with his stance for integrity.
    Yeah, Cannon had some colorful, capable acquaintances—which included a diverse group of MMA fighters.
    Saint suited him—not that Cannon liked the moniker. It wasn’t nearly as harsh as Gage’s own fight name.
    Thinking about that brought his attention back to Harper. She watched the TV so he saw her in profile, her long lashes, her turned up nose, her firm chin.
    That soft, sexy mouth.
    He liked the freckles on her cheekbones. He liked everything about her—how she looked, who she was, the way she treated others.
    He smoothed Harper’s hair and said, “Most women like to call me Savage.”
    She snorted. “It’s a stupid nickname.”
    Pretending great insult, he leaned away. “It’s a fight name, not a nickname. And it’s badass.”
    She disagreed. “There’s nothing savage about you. You should have been named Methodical or Accurate or something.”
    Grinning, he shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
    “Well,” she muttered, “you’re not savage. That’s all I’m saying.”
    He’d gotten the name early on when, despite absorbing several severe blows from a more experienced fighter, he’d kept going. In the end, he’d beaten the guy with some heavy ground and pound, mostly because he’d still been fresh when the other man gassed out.
    The commentator had shouted, “He’s a damn savage,” and the description stuck.
    To keep himself from thinking about just how savage Harper made him—with lust—he asked, “Want something to eat?”
    She wrinkled her nose. “After those last few fights? Bleh.”
    Two of the prelim fights were bloody messes, one because of a busted nose, but the other due to a cut similar to what Gage had. Head wounds bled like a mother. During a fight, as long as the fighter wasn’t hurt that badly, they wouldn’t stop things over a little spilled blood. Luckily for the contender, the cut was off to the side and so the blood didn’t run into his eyes.
    For Gage, it hadn’t mattered. If only the cut hadn’t been so deep. If it hadn’t needed stitches. If it would have been somewhere other than right over his eye. If—
    Harper’s hand trailed over his thigh again. “So, Savage, ” she teased, and damned if she didn’t get close to his fly. “Want to help me bring out more drinks before the main event starts?”
    Anything to keep him from ruminating on lost opportunities, which he was pretty sure had been Harper’s intent.
    “Why not?” He stood and hauled her up with him.
    They had to go past Armie who stood with two very edgy women and several teenagers, munching on popcorn and comparing biceps.
    Armie winked at Harper.
    She smiled at him. “We’ll only be a minute.”
    The idiot clutched his chest. “You’ve just destroyed all my illusions and damaged Savage’s reputation beyond repair.”
    Gage rolled his eyes, more than willing to ignore Armie’s nonsense, but he