He raises his brows. “Not bad. Should have just fucking led with that when we met.”
“He was cool. Really liked his wife.”
“Did he train here or something?”
“Yeah, he did for a year. But then dropped out to be with family. Jeremy was so close to scoring that deal.”
Ryder finally lets down most of his mask, his expression tempering to something sincere. “What was your brother’s goal with this gym? If it’s alright to ask.”
“Well… he used to fight as an amateur. Jer realized he was never going pro, so his dreams morphed into coaching at that level. So we both just got together and I agreed to work for him. I really like the sport, so the idea of going professional was really enticing.” I mindlessly flip my phone around in my hand.
He nods, stretching his shoulder as he leans forward. Even with the shirt on, I can see the valleys of his muscles move.
“So, how did Andrew get hired at the gym? He doesn’t talk about that much.”
“Andrew has a past—don’t want to reveal too much, as it’s not my place—but Jer gave him a shot. Andrew performed well. When Jer died, Andrew inherited the contracts of our better fighters, and cue the never-ending dialogue of who gets the gym name.” I steal a glance. “Will you tell me, one day, why you’re in Warlord?”
His gaze slowly trails over me, sending unfair waves of imaginary pleasure throughout me. I can’t decipher what’s behind those eyes, but I can tell he’s considering many things at once… just like before.
Ryder relaxes his shoulder, mindlessly rubbing his wrist. “If I win, I’ll tell you.”
“You better fucking win, then. That’s a long time to wait.”
His chuckle is warm, and he shakes his head, glancing back at the table. “Already got enough pressure.”
Pressure from what?I want to shake the damn man until every truth falls out.
The longer he sits there, I also catch a hint of his alluring cologne. Come to think of it, he’s not sweating at all, despite having been in the basement. It’s like I’m just realizing he’s wearing an outfit similar to when I saw him at the bar.
Curious thoughts take me like a fever as I wonder if he smells nice because he’s got a hot date later, and I suddenly hate whoever that woman might be. Clearly, he’s gotsomekind of social life. He needed his truck the other day because he was “bailing” for the previous night.
I remind myself he’s free to do whatever, or whoever, he wants and that it’s all the more reason I have to get over the fact that we’re on a team, not a date.
But how am I seriously supposed to control this infatuation? His recent behavior has made my crush take serious root, like an annoying weed that no weedkiller can eliminate.
Forcing my attention to move on, I say, “So, just let me know if you have any routines in this house. I don’t want to mess things up. It’s already nice of Andrew to let me stay here.”
“Yeah, he’s got a lot of fucking rooms.” He looks around the house, his thick neck flexing with the movement.
“His daughters used to stay here.”
“Used to?”
“They graduated high school and now live at college.”
“Can’t imagine him being a dad. He’s a hard fucker to read. Really good at the whole coaching shit, but just... different.”
“Andrew wasn’t this much of an ass when he first started. He actually taught me how to do a roundhouse kick when we met. Probably pretty useless since I’m short, though.”
“Why’d he teach youthat? That’s a hard one,” he asks with furrowed brows and a curious grin, leaning his elbows on his knees.
“I wanted to learn something unique. Since I did gymnastics in college, Andrew figured it wasn’t a hard move to learn for me, as I’m pretty limber.”
He laughs, and I swear something darker than I’m used to seeing crosses his eyes. Oh,whydoes he have to do that? Every time I redraw a line in the sand, he just blurs it with a cocky grin.
Whatever flitted through his mind is buried once more in that mysterious, ruggedly attractive head of his. “When did you stop doing gymnastics?”
“When I was nineteen. I competed in college and got a full ride. But then I was at a lake with friends, and we were cliff jumping. Was just normal fun shit, only twenty feet high. I hit a rock just right, though, and broke my left femur and injured my left knee. I never really recovered. By the time the bones healed, I was such a nervous wreck that I did a twist wrong, held on for too long, and tore my shoulder. My coach dropped me after that because I couldn’t maintain the scholarship.”
