My breath quickens. Why does he have to keep asking that and putting the responsibility on me to reject him? Why can’t he be like any other douchey guy who’d ignore what I want and flirt anyway? Because while I can’t date him, I enjoy exchanging hot looks across the gym floor and I don’t want it to end.
“No, I haven’t,” I say, something fizzing in my chest. “I need more time to think about it.”
“Okay, then.” He grins crookedly. “Can I ask what’s holding you back?”
I drag a hand down my face and battle to pull myself together. Dare I be honest with him? I moisten my lips. “The thing is, I’ve recently gone through something that makes it hard for me to trust people, and I’m not denying that I’m attracted to you, but you seem like a good-time guy and that’s not what I’m looking for.”
He cocks his head, the humor fleeing his expression, and his eyes become uncharacteristically serious. “I could be more than a good-time guy for you, Harley.”
A lick of heat runs down my spine. His gaze is so intense. So honest. But from what I’ve seen of him, I’m not sure whether to believe him. The fact is, I hardly know Devon. I knew Thaklaew much better, and I still didn’t see his betrayal coming. Why should I think I’m any better at reading this guy?
“Think on it.” He touches his glove to mine. “Ready for round two?”
Devon
Before heading to the stadium to watch the fights, I drop by my parents’ place for a visit. Jamal and Rochelle Green live in a solidly middle class neighborhood, surrounded by houses that are nice but nothing fancy, and they’re likely to stay there until the day they die. Even if I make it big in MMA and start raking in the amount of money that Gabe and Jase do from sponsorships, I doubt they’ll want to move. They fit here, and that’s important to them. I, on the other hand, never fit. I used to try to squeeze myself into their templated idea of who I should be, but eventually I gave up, and so did they. Perhaps they decided to blame our differences on the fact I’m not biologically theirs, but who knows? All I can say is our relationship has improved a hell of a lot since we accepted that we’re not built of the same stuff.
I knock on the door and wait for Mom to open it. She’s a short lady with rich, dark skin, a pixie cut, and a no-nonsense tone.
“Well, hello. Fancy seeing you.” She steps aside. “Come in.” She eyes the t-shirt I’m wearing, which has the logo for the gym printed on the front. “Are you on your way somewhere?”
“One of our guys has his first professional fight tonight,” I tell her. “Gotta show my support and be there to ice his shins if they need it.”
She shakes her head. “When are you going to choose a safer, more stable career? You’ve been trying this MMA thing for a while now. Surely it’s time to move on.”
She starts up the hall, leading the way to the living area, and I follow. This is a common conversation for us. Try as they might, she and Dad just can’t understand my choices or my dreams. They seem to believe that MMA is a phase I’m going to grow out of, but I’m persistent as hell, and while I’m not a household name yet, all it will take is a couple of big opportunities to break through the barrier to fame.
“MMA is it for me. Sorry, Mom.”
She shakes her head, and gestures for me to take a seat at the dining table with my dad while she puts the kettle on. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Coffee, please.” I smile at Dad. “Hey, Pops. How you doing?”
He sets down his book—a biography, by the looks of it—and returns my smile. “Good to see you, son.” Like Mom, his gaze drops to my shirt. “Still repping the gym, I see.”
I wince at his use of the word “repping”. There are some things people over fifty just shouldn’t say. “That’s right. Life’s too short not to do something you love.”
Although neither of them can fathom that. Dad is a dentist, and Mom is a church secretary. She’s constantly praying for my eternal soul.
His lips press together. “I’ll never understand why you love being punched in the face and inflicting pain on others.”
Gritting my teeth, I try not to say anything I’ll regret. “Maybe if you came to one of my bouts and watched me, you’d get it.”
Mom pours two coffees and a tea and places them on a tray. “I don’t need to watch my baby get hurt.” She carries the tray to the table and distributes the drinks. “Why must you keep tempting fate? You’ve survived—”
“A car wreck, a fall from the roof, and a run-in with a burglar,” I interrupt, knowing exactly what’s coming. This is a common refrain from her. The trouble is, she and I view it differently. “I survived all of those things because it wasn’t my time to go. When it’s my time, it’s my time, regardless of how often I get into the cage.”
Her lips wobble, and her eyes gloss over. I mentally kick myself, feeling like an asshole. I know she’s genuinely worried, but I’m never going to give up my passion just to pacify her. She sips her tea and we sit in silence for a long moment.
Finally, she asks, “Have you met a nice girl to settle down with?”
Despite myself, I chuckle. This is our other regular discussion, and she’s used to me shutting it down quickly. I’m about to shock the hell out of her.
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
She gasps, then claps a hand to her mouth before she can spray tea all over the table. “Dev!” she chokes as she swallows. “Couldn’t you have had the good grace to wait until I didn’t have a mouthful of liquid to drop that bombshell on us?”
I shrug, feeling all kinds of gleeful. I’m not one of those guys who needs his mommy’s approval but damned if it isn’t nice to have it from time to time. “You asked.”
