“If the shoe fits . . .”

My mouth dropped open. Everyone knew Katie could be as blunt as a two by four, but Jesus, that was a little unnecessary. “Katie,” I said, eyes wide.

“You went grocery shopping for him,” she pointed out.

I knew the time she was talking about. Roughly a year and a half ago. “He could barely move,” I protested.

“You did his laundry,” she continued, and the bright purple shirt slipped off her shoulder.

I gaped at her. “He’d had surgery on his chest wall muscle!”

“You actually cleaned his apartment for him,” Katie finished with a clap of her hands. “And who does that? Like, I don’t have a single friend, not even a special friend, who would clean my apartment. You are that friend.”

I snapped my mouth shut. “Maybe you need better friends.”

Katie tilted her head to the side and raised her brows.

“What Katie is trying to say is that you’ve always been there for Brock. You’ve gone out of your way to be there for him,” Abby tried again, and this time Katie didn’t interrupt her. “And he’s . . .”

Abby didn’t finish.

She didn’t have to.

Because she was too nice and Brock was just . . . well, he was Brock.

I drew in a deep breath as I met Katie’s stare. “I did those things for him because he was really injured, and I was just helping him.”

“And he’s all better now.” Katie tugged the sleeve of her shirt up again. “Next weekend is his big return to the MMA scene.”

My stomach knotted, like it did every time I thought about his upcoming fight. He’d been training for his big comeback since the moment the doctor cleared him to return to the cage—the Octagon.

It would be okay though.

Because my father wouldn’t have backed Brock if he thought for a second he wasn’t ready. Not when my father was the Andrew Lima, a ju-jitsu and mixed martial arts expert.

Dad had discovered Brock when he was just a teen, fourteen years old. Brock had a natural talent when it came to mimicking moves. When he was younger, every kick, submission hold, and skill had been self-taught.

I was eight years old when my father brought him into the Lima fold—into our family—and under my father’s tutelage, Brock quickly became the next big thing once he was old enough to compete. Everyone wanted him. Endorsements. Pay-Per-View fights. He was on his way up, and I’d been so happy for him, because Brock hadn’t had an easy life up to that point, and no one—no one—deserved it more than him.