I nod. “Sounds good. Be there in a moment.”
He goes into his room and emerges with a laptop, which he connects wirelessly to the TV. Meanwhile, I serve portions of pad thai into two bowls and carry them to his sofa, which is positioned behind a coffee table. I place one bowl in front of him and keep the other for myself.
“Seems like they taught you something other than fighting in Thailand,” he says as he takes his first taste. “This is better than any of the takeout places around here.”
I laugh. “Of course it is. I didn’t have anything to do except exercise and cook.” And screw my coach. We kept that on the down low though, because it’s hard enough getting respect as a female fighter without earning a reputation for being easy.
He brings up an image on the screen. “This is Katy Collins. Six pro fights. Three wins, three losses.”
Except for her killer arms and shoulders, the girl on the screen looks like she’d be more at home in a cocktail bar than a cage. She has twinkling blue eyes, platinum blonde hair, and dimples. She looks nothing like the Thai warriors I’ve been facing off against for the past eight years.
“Don’t be fooled by her smile. She has a mean right hook and two of her three wins were by knockout.”
“Huh.” Mentally, I slap myself. I should know better than to judge a book by its cover.
He brings up a photo of another woman and explains that she’s Dutch, with a background in kickboxing. As we eat, he introduces me to all seven of my potential opponents. I’ll only be fighting three of them myself—presuming I make it to the final—but as for who I’ll be facing, it’s the luck of the draw. Amongst the possibilities is a black woman built like a tank, a girl with a shaved head and tattoos up her arms and neck, and a fan favorite who has been consistently doing well for herself over the past few years but still falling short of any major wins.
Once we’ve gone through the options, we discuss tactics. By the time I make it to bed, I’m exhausted and barely remember to brush my teeth before my head hits the pillow. The time difference is messing with me. Unfortunately, as soon as I close my eyes, a face flashes into my mind. Gorgeous brown eyes and a mischievous grin. Chiseled abs. Muscular calves.
Devon Green.
I try to shove him into a mental closet, but I can’t turn off my curiosity. Sighing, I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand. It seems I won’t be sleeping until I’ve satisfied my need to know more about him. I enter his name into Google and get thousands of hits—most of them are actually him, even though the name is relatively common. Scrolling through images, I see shots from his fights and weigh-ins, and a bunch of him at parties, dressed nicely with a different girl hanging off his arm each time. His eyes seem to twinkle, but my heart takes a dive.
He’s a player. Of course he is. He’s too good-looking not to be, and while he was definitely flirting with me at the gym, I should know better than to think there’s something special about me. He probably flirts with every girl he meets.
Disgusted with myself, I click onto a YouTube video of him fighting a blond guy the caption identifies as Karson Hayes, hating how relieved I am not to have to see him with other women anymore. It’s crazy and ridiculous, but my mind keeps telling me that him being with them is wrong. The date on the video shows the fight was a couple years ago, but even then, Devon was good. His style is unpredictable. A little strange, but effective.
On the screen, Karson’s foot whips up and strikes the side of Devon’s head, and he drops like a rock. I wince.Eesh. At least, hewaseffective until that happened. The referee counts to eight, then calls an end to the fight. I shut my phone down and place it back on the nightstand, trying to erase Devon—and the memory of how electric it felt to spar with him—from my mind.
Then I dream of him.
Fuck.
Devon
“Yoohoo! Anyone home?” I call as I enter Jase’s house—or should I say mansion? “The door is unlocked. I’ll just make myself at home.”
I settle on the sofa, which is huge and comfortable. Jase is accustomed to me and Gabe crashing his place unexpectedly. The three of us have been training together at Crown MMA Gym for years now, and they’re the closest thing I have to brothers. I know they feel the same, even if they don’t come out and say it. There’s a noise somewhere in the private quarters, and I lean back, stretching my legs out in front of me.
“Fuck off!” Jase yells from the direction of his bedroom.
I grin. He’s probably getting it on with Lena, his girlfriend. Those two can’t keep their hands off each other. “It’s cool, bro. I’ll wait. I’m sure it won’t be long.”
He swears again, and a few moments later, he and Lena emerge, each righting their clothing. Lena’s face is the color of her hair—red.
“Hi Devon,” she says, grinning in a way that says she knows I know what they’ve been up to, and she doesn’t care. That’s what I love about Lena. She’s got fire. Not as much as Harley, though.
“You didn’t have to hurry on my account.”
She rolls her eyes. “Tell that to Jase. Apparently, you’re quite the distraction.”
I nod. “I hear that all the time.”
Jase groans as he tugs his t-shirt over his head, covering up the tattoos across his chest and shoulders. “Why, bro? Why couldn’t you let me have one night of peace?”
“Because.” I pause for dramatic effect. “I’m in love.”
His eyes bug out of his head, then he snorts. “With who?”
