I meet his eyes. “Meaning?”
“I know about your little heart-to-heart with Lyla during our date. I’m not an idiot. Almost feels like the universe is throwing you a bone.” He nods toward the sand circle. “That intense conversation you just had with Lyla. Now this.”
I turn to face him square. “Or maybe it’s giving me the chance to back up what I said.”
“And if you lose?”
In the Corps, that word doesn’t exist, isn’t an option.
“I won’t.”
His smile is thin, sharp. “Careful, Scott. Confidence isn’t a strategy.”
I step into his space just enough to be intimidating. “I made her a promise. This is me keeping it.”
“Fighting for someone isn’t the same as fighting over them.”
I brush past him, my shoulder clipping his lightly. “Good thing I can do both.”
The beach setup is simple but brutal. A fifteen-foot circle etched in sand, rope boundary, cameras circling like vultures. The morning sun climbs toward noon; heat is already thick, pressing.
I strip off my shirt. Lyla tries not to look and fails spectacularly. Her gaze drags down my chest, slow, hungry, before she seems to catch herself, notice I’m staring back, and her cheeks bloom red.
That’s right, little one. Look at what you’re trying to deny.
“Ball draws. Whoever’s colored ball matches with another person, is assigned as their opponent. Whoever draws a white ball, will sit out of the challenge.” a producer calls.
I match with Sean—a perfect warm-up. Damon draws Nick. Zayne gets Trevor. Bradley is the odd man out and he stands beside the female contestants.
“First match: Scott versus Sean!” Miranda announces.
Sean bounces into the circle, all cocky jitters and misplaced swagger. Behind him, Lyla grips Valerie’s arm—knuckles white, eyes wide.
Is she worried about me? The thought sends a dark, possessive thrill straight through my veins. Good. Let her watch what happens when someone threatens what’s mine.
“Ready to get your ass kicked?” Sean taunts, circling with a grin that’s all bravado.
Fuck around and find out, bozo.
I stay silent. In Afghanistan, the loudest guy was usually the first to die.
The whistle shrieks.
He charges—straight line, all power, predictable as hell. I wait until the last second, feet planted, then pivot hard. His momentum carries him past; I clamp an arm around his waist and redirect, using his own force to spin him off-balance. He staggers, catches himself, and spins back with surprising quickness.
“Lucky move,” he growls, wiping sand from his cheek.
We lock up properly this time—chest to chest, forearms braced. His strength is real—gym built, determined. For a second, he gains leverage, shoving me back toward the rope, breath hot against my neck.
Then I catch Lyla leaning forward, lips parted, eyes locked on me like the rest of the world has vanished. Her chest rises and falls faster than it should, thighs press together under those denim shorts.
That’s all I need.
I drop my center low, break his grip with a sharp twist, and explode into a hip throw. The impact sends sand spraying in a wide arc; he hits hard on his back with a grunt that echoes. Before he can scramble up, I clamp his arm, roll my weight, and drag him across the line in one controlled, relentless pull.
“Winner: Scott! Fifty-three seconds!”
The crowd erupts—cheers, whistles, a few gasps. I rise, chest heaving, sand clinging to my sweat-slick skin. Lyla still stares, cheeks flushed, fingers digging into Valerie’s arm like she’s anchoring herself. Her lips part on a silent breath.
