In fact, it wasn't even an amateur qualifier.
There was no prize money, no scouts. All you got were bragging rights, sore ribs and whatever bruises you could hide under long sleeves at work.
Kai leaned over my shoulder to read the sheet, his breath warm on my neck.
“These guys look like they take this way too seriously.”
I huffed. “They always do.”
He didn’t move away. “And you?”
I shrugged, tightening the wraps around my wrists. “I’m here to hit something legally.”
He grinned, and the sight of it sent my heart racing.
But when his gaze slid past me to the actual cage at the center of the rec hall — a regulation octagon surrounded by tall steel fencing — I saw something flicker across his face.
This wasn’t like watching me hit pads in the garage. This wasn’t playful sparring where he kissed my bruises and pretended they hurt him more than they hurt me.
It was bodies crashing into steel with full force, sweat and blood coating the canvas, and people tapping or not tapping quickly enough.
The real fucking thing.
“You okay?” I cast a quick glance at his profile.
His swallow was audible, his warm breath dancing over the exposed skin of my shoulder. “Watching you do this is … different.”
“Different bad?”
“Different ‘holy hell, my girl might kill someone.’”
My girl.
I pretended not to react, while he pretended not to notice I was pretending.
The announcer called my division to warm up over the microphone.
I flexed my fingers, exhaled, and rolled my shoulders. Trying to ignore the roar of the crowd building, the sound of fists hitting pads and the metallic clank of the cage door opening and closing between bouts, I tried to focus.
Kai touched my elbow. “Hey.”
I looked up.
“You good?” his deep voice rumbled from behind me. I could almost feel the heat of his body seeping through my thin rash guard.
I’d become so attuned to his scent and the proximity of his body, I'd almost developed a sixth sense for his presence. Something deep inside me always knew when he was nearby.
Ain’t that a bitch.
I turned and nearly smacked into his chest. Apparently, personal space was theoretical to him. His brilliant white teeth flashed as his full lips pulled into a grin, and I allowed myself to rake my eyes over his body again.
This man was built like a fucking brick wall, and the white shirt he was wearing did nothing to hide it. Thick and impenetrable, stacked with muscles and carrying just the right amount of softness around his middle.
He wasn't trying to show off; he was just so big, even the massive shirt he wore — triple XL, I checked — somehow wasn't able to conceal his bulk. Fuck, I was so here for it.
Jesus Christ, I needed to get a grip.
“Fine.”
