“If my husband looked like that,” another says, “I’d actually want to go to the gym.”
Dominic stands and turns to face the growing crowd with his feet planted shoulder-width apart, and he explains the demonstration in that low, commanding voice he uses when he’s in coach mode, the one that somehow manages to be authoritative and warm at the same time, the one that does something to my stomach I refuse to acknowledge.
“Push me out of the circle,” he says, gesturing at the tape. “No strikes, no throws, just hands and leverage. Pledges get donated for every challenger who lasts sixty seconds.” He flashes a grin at the audience, easy and charming and nothing like the cold hostility he’s shown me lately. “Who wants to try first?”
A couple of dads volunteer, middle-aged guys with soft middles and the confident stride of former athletes who haven’t quite accepted that their glory days ended two decades ago. Dominic handles them like they’re made of tissue paper.
He lets them strain and push for longer than necessary, makes them feel like they almost had him before easing them gently out of the circle, and the crowd eats it up. More laughter, more applause, more of that approachable charm he’s apparently capable of deploying for everyone who isn’t me.
Then the football coach steps up and nearly catches him with a low feint that makes the crowd gasp. Dominic actually has to work for it this time, his feet sliding on the tape before herecovers, muscles straining against his shirt as he pushes the coach out with a grunt of effort. He shakes the man’s hand with genuine respect, grinning that boyish grin that makes him look ten years younger, and the applause is louder now.
“Who’s next?” Dominic scans the audience with that easy smile, that warm approachable expression I have literally never seen directed at me in my entire adult life. “Come on, somebody’s gotta be able to give me a real challenge here.”
The words land in my chest and sit there, pulsing with years of accumulated fury.
A real challenge.
My feet are moving before I’ve fully decided, carrying me toward the circle with a momentum that feels almost inevitable. The crowd parts as I approach, conversations dying into curious whispers, and I set my wine glass on the nearest table before stepping out of my heels.
The gymnasium floor is cool under my bare feet, smooth and familiar, and the room goes quiet in a way that feels weighted with history. Anyone who went to school with us, which is most of the people standing around this circle, remembers exactly who we are.
The rivalry all throughout high school due to our competitive natures, then the scholarship, and of course the apparently legendary screaming matches. And now here I am, barefoot in a cocktail dress, stepping into his circle like I have absolutely no sense of self-preservation whatsoever.
Which, historically speaking, has always been accurate where Dominic Midnight is concerned.
His easy grin vanishes the second he sees me, replaced by a hard, wary expression. His eyes drop to my bare feet, travel slowly up my legs, linger for half a second on the slit in my dress before snapping back to my face.
I step closer into the circle.
“What the hell are you doing?” His voice is low, pitched just for me, and there’s a warning underneath the words that I choose to ignore completely.
“Raising money for scholarships,” I whisper back, sweet as poison. “Seems appropriate, don’t you think?”
His eyes flash with recognition, with old anger. “You’re going to lose.”
“That’s funny.” I tilt my head and give him the sharp smile I reserve for men who underestimate me, the one that’s gotten me through fifteen years of locker room interviews and condescending editors and athletes who thought they could intimidate a woman with a press pass. “I don’t remember ever losing to you, Dominic.”
“You sure you want to do this?” There’s an edge underneath the question that has nothing to do with the balance challenge, a tension that goes all the way back to senior year.
“I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life, you smug asshole.”
His nostrils flare and something hot flickers in his eyes.
One of the organizers, a nervous-looking woman clutching a clipboard like it might save her from whatever’s about to happen, scurries over to explain the rules for the crowd. She keeps glancing between us like she’s trying to decide whether to call for backup or just flee the building entirely, and I can’t really blame her for the concern.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she says, backing away with visible relief.
Someone in the crowd starts a timer, and then Dominic’s hands are gripping my forearms and mine are gripping his, and the rest of the gymnasium falls away like it doesn’t exist.
But he doesn’t know that I’ve been taking Brazilian jiu-jitsu classes for the last fifteen years. I know how to grapple. Iknow leverage and base and how to read an opponent’s weight distribution.
I shift my stance lower, widen my base, and push into him with my shoulder instead of my hands, testing his center of gravity.
Surprise flickers across his face before he can hide it, and the sight sends a rush of satisfaction through me.That’s right, asshole. I’m not the same girl you knew in high school.
He adjusts quickly, countering my pressure with a subtle shift of his hips, but for a second I had him off-balance and we both know it. His hands tighten on my forearms, his grip hot against my skin, and the memory surfaces before I can stop it. Those same hands sliding up my thighs, pushing my skirt higher, his mouth on my neck while I bit my lip to keep from crying out…
I stumble, my focus fracturing, and he uses the moment to drive me back two steps toward the edge of the circle.
