Not happening. Not on my watch.
A knock on my office door pulls me out of my head. Roman appears in the doorway, gym bag over his shoulder, looking rested and ready in a way that makes me acutely aware of how little sleep I got.
“Morning,” I say, setting down my pen. “Ready for training?”
“Yep, feeling good and ready to work.” Roman leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, and the grin spreading across his face tells me exactly where this conversation is headed.
After yesterday’s disaster with Brooke, I’d kept things strictly professional for the rest of the session, focusing on technique and footwork and pretending the whole ugly scene hadn’t happened. But based on his mischievous expression, Roman has no intention of letting me maintain that fiction.
I shuffle some papers on my desk. “Something on your mind, Roman?”
“Just thinking about how interesting yesterday was,” he says, the grin widening.. “Educational, even. A masterclass in conflict resolution that I’ll treasure forever.”
“Well, I’m glad my professional meltdown was a learning opportunity for you,” I say dryly. “Always happy to provide teachable moments for the next generation.”
Roman laughs, shifting against the doorframe. “So, what’s the actual deal with you two? That seemed like more than the article thing you told me about. I’ve never seen you like that withanyone.”
“It’s a long story,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “We have history.”
History that goes back further and deeper than I’m going to get into with my twenty-three-year-old fighter. The scholarship is the version I tell people when they ask, and it’s true enough. It’s just not thewholetruth. The whole truth involves parking lots and fogged-up windows and the worst mistake I ever made, which was letting Brooke Bennett close enough to actually hurt me.
“Was she your girlfriend or something?” He leans forward slightly, eyes bright with the unmistakable glee of someone who senses weakness and has every intention of exploiting it.
“No,” I say firmly, though it doesn’t sound that convincing.
Roman’s eyebrows shoot up, and that damn smile is back. “Hah, that’s so not convincing.”
“She wasn’t my girlfriend.” I sit up straighter and grab my clipboard from the desk, flipping through pages I’m definitely not reading. “We knew each other in high school and competed for the same scholarship. Neither of us handled it with what you might call maturity or grace. It doesn’t matter anyway because today’s going to be different. I’m not going to let myself lose my cool like that again.”
“If you say so,” Roman says, pushing off the doorframe and grabbing his bag. “I’m just saying, it’s going to be a long couple of weeks if every time she walks in you two start circling each other like two people who desperately need to either fight or fu?—“
“Finish that sentence and you’re running drills until you puke,” I tell him.
Roman laughs, throwing his head back, and raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll go and warm up.”
“Wise choice.” I’m going for stern but I can feel the corner of my mouth twitching, and from the look on Roman’s face, he catches it.
We head out to the main floor together. The gym is quiet at this hour, just a handful of the early morning regulars scattered across the equipment. Roman and I start with footwork drills near the ring, working through fundamentals before building up to combinations. I call out instructions, make corrections, adjust his stance when he drops that left shoulder.
For almost an hour I manage to stay focused on what’s in front of me, my attention narrowed down to Roman’s timing and technique and the fight that’s three weeks away. But part of me keeps drifting toward the door, like I’m waiting for a hurricane to make landfall.
And then she walks in.
I lose my train of thought entirely when I catch sight of Brooke pushing through the front entrance. She’s got coffee in one hand and her bag in the other, and she catches my eye across the gym and lifts her coffee cup in a little wave before heading toward the sitting area to observe.
I try to drag my attention back to Roman, but unfortunately for me she’s wearing jeans that let me know she’s managed to stay in very good shape over the years, and more than a few heads turn as she walks past.
She’s always had that effect on people. Between her looks and her confident,I’d-love-to-see-you-tryattitude, it used to drive guys crazy trying to prove they were good enough for her. Not that I was any better when it came to Brooke Bennett.
I swallow against my suddenly dry throat and force my attention back to Roman, who is watching me with an expression that says he’s filing this away for future mockery.
“Focus,” I tell him.
“I am focused,” he says innocently. “Are you?”
“Drills. Puking. I mean it.”
We work for another two hours, and the whole time I’m aware of Brooke watching from her spot against the wall. When Roman finally heads to the recovery room, I grab my notes from the edge of the ring and make for my office, but Brooke falls into step beside me before I’m even close to the door.
