Luke’s powerful chest rises and falls as he stands up straight, crossing his built arms. “I bet he’s here for Warlord.Hasto be. Would be a literal godsend after Sean destroyed his ankle.”
Leaning in, I keep my eyes on Ryder, like he might vanish if I look away. I wipe my coffee mug against the ruined spot of my shirt, preventing it from dripping. “Why did he comehere, of all places, though? Like, does he think we’re a different gym? And I got coffee on him. It was a good caramel macchiato, too.”
Luke shakes his head, half-grinning. “I bet it’s because of Andrew. He trained under Mike Lowers for a time when he moved to coaching, and that’s Ryder’s old coach. Was a big deal when Lowers tapped out for retirement, but if Ryder wants to fight—” His enthusiasm wanes, as if a realization came to him. “I bet he wants someone who knows his old coach and style. He’s probably here to train.”
That can’t be right.
I rub my eye with my free hand. “I mean, I don’t know… Maybe? Itiswhy Jeremy hired Andrew in the first place. But I didn’t think Andrew would havetheseconnections,” I reply, a high-pitched laugh escaping me. “But are we even capable of Warlord at Ryder’s level?”
Warlord—the notorious MMA battle royale that combines some of the weight categories for competition’s sake, raises the already dangerous stakes: men punching outside of their narrow weight class. It’s a three-tiered, winner-take-all tournament hosted every five years with a novice, semi-pro, and pro category. Winners of the novice and semi-pro leagues get half a million in winnings. Winners of theproleagues get a million each.
Even the final championship is called Hell Week, which takes place a little less than seven months from now.
Then again, that’s not really here nor there, because we have to get through thefirstround, which takes place in six weeks. The one fighter we had for the amateur league destroyed his ankle two weeks ago, and we assumed we wouldn’t be entering this season.
There’s no way any of the other guys could compete. Not necessarily because of a lack of skill, but because of pure raw demand. Warlord requires a certain edge and tolerance of destroying one’s body, something only true professionals and the uniquely gifted can endure.
Ryder, however,iscapable of tolerating such damage.
Luke begins, “It’s a shame that your brother ain’t here for this—”
One of our other coaches yells out to the gym, “Alright, ladies, you can quit your gawking. Get back to hitting each other and make this place look like a real gym because if he wants to come here, he’s gonna need sparring partners. Make it look like he’s got something worth his time.”
When things pick back up with its usual atmosphere, Luke pats me on the shoulder and returns to his routine.
I make my way around the gym, eyeing the men as they train in quick movements, checking their stances and ensuring I don’t spot anything concerning. I specialize in therapy for the injured, provide massages, and help with conditioning. Once the rest of the gym gets back to work, and Luke’s on the ground with his opponent wrapped between his thighs in a pin, I decide to pause and properly process everything.
Sighing, I glance at Andrew's closed window, and then walk to my office—clearly thinking about nothing other thanJoey Ryder is in my gym.
I know I’m not the only one in the sports world to fawn over Ryder. He has that brooding look that’s more appealing than odious, and that man canfight. He has a complete knack for judging his opponent, his determination and vigor nearly unmatched. The men love him for how he riles them up during a fight, and the ladies fawn over how he riles them up below the belt.
And he’s standing in my brother’s gym. With my coffee on him.
It’s entirely surreal, honestly. I used to have a raging crush on that man in my very early twenties. Jeremy would watch nothing but fighting channels, so of course, I’d take a peek or two at the muscled men.
It’s also only natural that I developed favorites—
No, maybe he’s visiting the area and needs to keep in shape for a week or two.
I place the cursed coffee mug on my desk. My office is small, but it’s enough for a desktop and a collection of my things. One of the narrow walls has a bookshelf with all my college books, and my degree hangs on the wall behind my desk.
Of course, anyone dreams of entering the big leagues in their profession. I even thought that, one day, we could compete pretty strongly in the amateur scene.
But notthis.
Thiswould launch the gym into sponsorships and recognition. It’s exactly what we need. The concept excites me so much that I can’t figure out how to stand or sit, going between my chair or pacing in my tiny office.
This is a literal dream for Jeremy.
I frown, breathing deeply as I finally sit behind my desk. I rearrange the fake succulents in the corner, like it’ll somehow help calm me down.
Joey Ryder is in Andrew’s office.
Plugging in my phone, I glance next to my desktop, where a picture of Jeremy and me stands, capturing the day that the gym opened. I miss spotting my brother here, who’s the male version of me: pale skin, chestnut hair, and average height. His haircut has always been short and simple, while mine is often in two braids that dangle past my shoulder blades.
I sigh and absentmindedly stare at the image before glancing at my phone, picking it up to trigger the lock screen, which is of the mountains in upstate New York, where my family lives. I unlock it to see the mess of apps and click on the internet.
The temptation to research Ryder is strong, to see if I can find anything about him that might suggest why he disappeared or why he is here at all.
