"Don't know yet. Someone new probably. They like to bring in fresh blood, see if anyone can take me down."
"Can they?" The question comes out before I can stop it. "Take you down, I mean."
Something that might be a smirk touches the corner of his mouth. "Not so far."
"You got hit last time."
"I got distracted last time."
He was distracted by me. Because I was there. Because he saw me and stopped paying attention, and that other guy's fist connected with his face.
"Come Friday," he says before I can respond. "Use the back entrance. There's a door at the rear of the building that leads directly down to the basement. I'll tell Tank, he's security, to expect you."
"Just me?" I ask. "Not Sarah?"
"Just you."
"Why?"
He doesn't answer right away, and I realize I don't actually want him to answer. I like not knowing. I like the mystery of it, the question of what it means that he's inviting me specifically, that he wants me there alone, that he's making arrangements to keep me safe.
"Never mind," I say quickly. "I don't need to know why. I'll be there."
"Ten-thirty," he says. "Fights start at eleven but come early."
"Okay."
"And when you come in through the back," he continues, "everyone down there will know I invited you."
Fuck. He's claiming me. Not explicitly, not in any way that he's actually saying out loud, but that's what this is. By having me use the back entrance, by telling security to expect me, by making sure everyone knows he invited me, he's putting me under his protection.
And God help me, I like it.
I like the idea of being under his protection. I like the idea of walking into that basement and having people know that I'm there because of him. I like the idea of being his in some undefined way that probably isn't healthy but feels necessary all the same.
"No one's going to bother you," he adds. "No one's going to get too close, get too drunk, and forget their manners. You understand?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"Will you—" I stop, not sure how to ask this. "Will you know I'm there? During the fight?"
"I'll know."
"Will it distract you again?"
"No," he says, and there's absolute certainty in his voice. "Not this time. This time I'll know exactly where you are. That's different."
I don't know what to say to that.
The idea that knowing where I am, that being aware of my presence, will somehow make him better instead of worse does something to my chest that feels dangerously close to hope. Hope that this isn't just professional courtesy. Hope that whatever is happening between us isn't entirely in my imagination.
"Okay," I manage. "I'll be there."
I should stand up. Should suggest we continue the lesson or end it early or do literally anything except keep sitting here staring at him while sweat continues to drip down the valley between my breasts and I try not to think about the fact that twenty minutes ago his cock was pressed against me and he did absolutely nothing to hide it.
"Can I ask you something?" I say instead.
