The Pittsburgh man fires a few harsh punches, which Ryder either dodges or absorbs with his forearms, his thick body flexing with every movement. It amazes me that even after fighting seven other guys today—and now this dork—Ryder still carries the fight with ease, his footwork phenomenal.
He’s the real thing.
Intently watching, I rub the front of my neck while cheering Ryder on.
The bearded man sharply drives his knee into Ryder’s chest, but the legend absorbs the hit with a grimace while wrapping his arm around the other man’s leg to destabilize before releasing him, Ryder elbowing the man’s gut. They both groan and grunt, a raspy growl escaping Ryder’s throat when he uses the flat side of his foot to kick his opponent square in the chest, sending him tumbling back. Our champion is hot on him, picking up the disoriented man with a strained groan, Ryder’s muscles flexing to their fullest extent before slamming his opponent on the mat.
The gym erupts with cheers, and Pittsburg trash rolls on the floor, Andrew climbing in to help him up.
There’s just something to watching Ryder manhandle someone like that in person, with all those angry sounds… I look down at the floor.
Ireallyneed to stop.
This is getting out of hand.
They both exit the ring, the rest of the guys high on a fight as two more get in.
The bearded man stumbles by me. Ryder is a few feet away, wiping his face with a towel, raising his thick, tatted arm, revealing the hair underneath; it’s such a mundane detail, one that I see all the time here, and yet it’s sovirilewhen it’s Ryder.
The Pittsburgh man passes me, panting as he says, “Definitely gonna need that massage now, doll.”
Ryder, still wiping his neck, speaks without looking at either of us. “You guys want to keep coming back down here,” he warns, finally looking at the man he just flattened in the ring, “then you leave my sports therapist alone. She’s on my team, dipshit.”
The guy sucks his lips to his teeth and scowls, going for a towel without saying a word. Ryder’s eyes slice across the room, asserting his dominance over the gym in a single expression. Rock music blares on as the men cry out when the two new fighters get locked in a pin.
Well, shit. No, he can’t do that to me. That’s entirely unfair. How in the hell do I not swoon over him defending me?
Ryder faces me as he throws a towel in the bin, an aura of power still radiating off of him, his furrowed brows creasing the lines between his eyes. My stomach flips like I’m just another fangirl in the crowd...
Stop it—I don’t like him. He’s an empty shell for a stereotypical fighter.That also bought me a freaking latteand fought that twerp for me.
He grimaces, rolling his shoulder. “You got a minute?”
“Yeah,” I murmur.
Ryder sits on a nearby bench, rolling his shoulders, pronouncing his traps. “Muscle fucking hurts.”
I push on his shoulder until he stiffens, locating the tension in his body.
“Yeah, it’s called you fought everyone in the gym, so now your body is angry. Go ahead and take off your shirt.”
He snickers as he removes it, putting it down next to me. I position myself and say, “It’s just a knot. I’m gonna push.”
He grunts, the sound raspy after using his vocal cords all day.
I lean into his warm body with my elbow. He smells of sweat, which mixes with the sterile scent of the gym from all the cleaning we did this morning. I press down and hold, feeling the muscles slowly release until the swelling reduces. He tenses, as I know this part hurts like a bitch.
“I enjoyed watching you deck that dude,” I say, attempting at small talk.
“Yeah, well, he’s a fucking idiot. If you’re on my team, I’m going to dosomething.” His voice strains when I hit a difficult knot. I note how he spoke with sincerity, like he really would take care of his own.
That damn fluttering flaps harder, spreading illicit thoughts through my veins like liquid heat.
I back off and rub the surrounding areas, increasing blood flow as I touch his dewy skin. Maybe I need to jump into a tub full of ice water to remove my unprofessional fantasies. That might help.
The gym still moves with its usual life around us, and he rolls it again. He raises an unsuspecting brow. “Thanks. Actually feels better,” he admits, as if surprised by that.
“It’s almost like I’m a sports therapist or something.”
