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The whimper I was sure I’d heard last night. The knowledge that he’d jerked off after I took the girl home. The way he’d fucked up his game-ending kick.

I’d meant to get into his head. Somehow, the fucker had gotten into mine.

“Just saying,” Dalton continued. “Meet the guy and check him out. Avila likes him for this.”

Leave it to my uncle to rely on the idiot friend of his he’d hired to referee the fights three years ago. While Hugo Avila was good at his job, he was shit for brains when it came to literally anything else. Too many years’ fighting had taken its toll on his cognitive ability.

But he and his brothers, Daniel and Benicio, had used their powerful connections to help Dalton start the Pit. They’d also given him seed money for the first few purses, and their collective fighting experience had been invaluable.

“Avila doesn’t know shit,” I muttered, wiping the back of my wrist over the sweat on my forehead. “Jack Youngblood’s reckless as fuck. Every time I’ve ever seen him, he’s been high on something. He’s about as reliable as that fucking power ratchet over there.”

“Don’t fuck with Big Bertha,” Dalton said with a laugh. “That bitch is just moody, that’s all.”

I fiddled with the mixture screw and listened for the effect. “Maybe invest in a new one so you can stop stealing mine.”

“Ha. Hey, you tune that for better throttle response? Davey’s picky about that bike.”

I didn’t bother answering. Not only was I the only person Davey Mickelson let touch his bike, but I was also pickier about a clean carburetor and pristine tuning than anyone I knew, including my uncle.

“Youngblood’s an idiot,” I said finally. “He’s only in it for the money.”

“Good. That’s what I want. Because guess what, Ells. We’re in it for the money, too,” Dalton said. “Look, last night’s take wasn’t bad, but it could’ve been better. Jack could make it better.”

I gritted my teeth together to keep from snapping at him. Last night’s take had been fucking stellar.

“Jack’s come to every fight for a year,” he continued. “Shows an interest in how it works. Seems to know everyone on campus. So, who cares if he smokes a little something here and there? Shit should be legal anyway. And you’re graduating. I need someone to take over after you’re gone.”

I shot Dalton a look. It wasn’t the first time he’d brought this up, but that hadn’t been the original plan. The whole point of the Pit had been to pay tuition for me and Grace. He didn’t need to keep it going after we graduated. The man was just being greedy.

“Right.” I slammed the drawer of the tool chest shut. “So now I’m not just fighting and promoting, I’m also babysitting Youngblood.”

“Hey! What’s with the attitude?” he demanded.

I blew out a breath.

Dalton wasn’t an easy guy or even a nice guy, most of the time, but he was the closest thing to a father figure Grace and I had had, since whoever had gotten my mom pregnant fled the scene before we took our first breaths.

He’d taught me everything he knew about engines and let me use his garage to customize my own bike. He’d inspired my dream of building my own custom bike restoration brand. He even let me use his garage to work on some private jobs for others, to start building my reputation.

Plus, he’d taken on tuition for me and Grace when he didn’t have to… even if his solution had required me to work even harder for it than he did.

It was none of my business what Dalton did with the fight ring next year since I wouldn’t be involved. I had enough on my plate worrying about my future and Grace’s without taking on Dalton’s choices, too.

I rubbed a cloth over my hand, trying to remove some of the engine grease. “Nothing. Sorry. Just… distracted.”

Dalton had turned the game on the shop radio while he worked on an engine rebuild. I’d listened to Demere snatch defeat from the jaws of victory by letting it all come down to one man and one field goal attempt.

The commentators had gone feral after McNeely’s miss, speculating wildly on his inability to hit an easy distance, as if one missed kick meant the man was no longer capable of making a field goal, even though he’d nailed the harder one in the first half. Not to mention the three seasons of successful kicking before this one.

I kind of felt sorry for the guy.

Which was ridiculous. If anything, his screwup meant my plan was working.

But the media had spent the next hour taking him apart, sparing no mention of the team that had let him down by not scoring a touchdown on the previous plays. There’d even been speculation about whether this early season loss would impact NFL scouts who had McNeely in their sights.

It felt like a big overreaction for one missed field goal. The whole thing was fucked-up.

It did give me a little satisfaction to know this was one area where Daddy’s influence couldn’t make it better for him, though. He’d missed the kick and had to suffer the consequences.