“Nah. Uncle roped me in to help with his ‘system.’ Just here for the year. Then it’s back home. Rugby. Real coffee. Summer at the right time of the year.”
He nodded, slow, like he got it. “Guess that’s why you’re killing yourself out there.”
“Something like that.”
The conversation drifted away. For a second, I just sat there, listening to the rhythm of the locker room — the laughter, the cussing, the slamming of lockers. For the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like I was completely out of my depth.
Even if they still called me Coach’s nephew.
Chapter 4
Tori
Thefluorescentlightshummedoverhead, bouncing off the mirrors lining the walls and creating a dizzying hall of reflections. I’d taken up MMA years ago — not for fun, but to keep my temper in check.
Situated in a low-slung corrugated warehouse, crouched at the edge of a tree line and half swallowed by the shadows of the surrounding mountains, this place had quickly become a second home.
Rust was creeping along the edges of the building, but it was still one of the top-ranked facilities in the state. As soon as you stepped inside, you were greeted by the sound of chains rattling where the heavy bags hung and of gloves thudding into pads, the percussive impacts echoing off the metal walls.
I wasn't looking forward to the afternoon ahead, but I didn't have much of a choice.
I didn't ownBlack Bear MMAand I wasn’t the boss. Merely lucky enough to land one of the sought-after positions working here.
Striking, grappling, and the discipline of MMA as a whole had saved me more times than I could count, so losing this job wasn’t an option. It simply meant too much to me.
I sighed, inhaling the familiar scents of sweat, disinfectant, rubber mats and iron. Just like I did when guy after guy hit on me at theNeon Possum, I bottled my feelings up. Swallowed down the resentment for men and their entitlement.
I’d become quite good at this particular skill over the years. My face still seemed to be determinedly set in a permanent resting bitch face, no matter how hard I tried to look friendly.
My thoughts wandering back to the afternoon ahead, I shook my head in derision. Of fucking course, it was me who had to put up with a whole pack of testosterone-driven jocks. The universe’s punishment for whatever I’d done wrong just never stopped.
Huffing out a breath, I parted my hair and began sectioning it off, twisting the strands into two thick French braids. There's nothing worse than having hair in your face while you're rolling around on the mat or trying to keep your eyes on your opponent.
Sunlight was sneaking in through high, dirty windows, cutting thin gold slashes through the dust as I cast a disdainful look at my boss, Rachel, out of the corner of my eye.
“Tell me again why they want to do this?”
“Cross-training is what their coach called it, I think. Something about shaking up the usual drills and making his team less predictable.” She shrugged like she had no concerns whatsoever.
Apparently, it was the BRU football team's summer training camp, and the new coach — my fucking neighbor, incidentally — was experimenting. I still wasn’t entirely sure where he and his nephew were from exactly, since their accents seemed to differ here and there, but I’d heard through the grapevine they had a rugby background.
He’d contacted Rachel a couple of times about training with us, and, to my eternal dismay, she agreed. I get it. It's good PR for the gym and a collaboration like this could gain us lots of new clients.
Didn’t mean I had tolikeit, though.
I wasn’t one for participating in campus life. Between my two jobs, my own training, my classes and Gran, I had more than enough on my plate.
The gym and this part of my life rarely crossed paths with the college side of things, and I quite liked it this way. Of course, there were other students training withus, but I still managed to be more or less invisible on campus.
I was already on the mats when the football team arrived, having just finished a series of shadowboxing combinations and footwork drills. Clenching my fists, my nails biting into my palms, I scanned the newcomers like a hawk.
Some of these guys were going to make the cut. Some wouldn’t. It was all the same to me, I didn’t really care about football. But one of them, in particular, was more familiar than I’d have liked.
Kai.
All of them were tall and broad-shouldered, but none of them had his smile. They waltzed in like they owned the place, noisy and with the particular brand of swagger and confidence team sports seemed to breed.
My toes flexed against the mat as I surveyed them one by one. I made a conscious effort to keep my gaze from wandering back to the one familiar face in the crowd.
