Nolan lumbered into the break room, sweaty and winded, to find an assortment of fighters all gathered around Bridget, who had a big, embarrassed grin on her face.

“Right here, y’all! Ima say it right here and now—y’all are looking at the next featherweight women’s champion, right here! Birdie girl’s gonna take it to the bank all day long!” The whip-thin fighter with blue hair and tiger-striped leggings bounced around Bridget like a hyperactive Jack Russell terrier, playfully cuffing her on the chin.

“Guys, we don’t even know if it’s a done match yet,” Bridget protested. “SoPro just said they were interested.”

“Raptor’s already running his mouth, talking trash, Bridg. Look.” Dig shoved his phone into her face. “Kowalczyk’s chiming in, too. This thing is blowing up. SoPro would be stupid not to book it now.”

Nolan thought he saw her smile waver just a bit, and an inexplicable sense of protectiveness came over him. He wanted to push all those other men out of the way of her personal space and whisk her away to somewhere private.

Wait, what?

Bridget laughed, a husky, throaty sound that Nolan thought he didn’t hear enough.

“Stop, guys. Just stop. You’ll jinx it. And don’t you all have something to do, like get ready for your own fights? Sheesh.” She sounded a little perturbed, but she had that shy smile back on her face, so he guessed she was okay with whatever they were ribbing her about.

He stood over at a back counter and hoped the other fighters would go away soon. After all, he didn’t need witnesses to his inevitable flameout. He stalled by rearranging the protein containers by flavor profile. Just as he was about ready to scream and prove to everyone he was a deranged nutcase, all the men wandered out, leaving him alone with Bridget, who had no idea he was there.

Excellent beginning, right, Nolan? You are so forgettable that she doesn’t even notice you, even though you’re the size of a teenage bear.

“Sweet Jaysus, this fight is gonna be the end of me before it even becomes official.”

Bridget’s unexpected muttering jolted Nolan from his fussing, sending canisters of protein powder clattering. He succeeded in stopping the skidding jars, but not before causing a lot of racket. He turned and found Bridget with her eyes and mouth popped wide with surprise.

A sheepish “Hey” was all he could manage to say.

“Hey, Nolan. I, uh, didn’t see you come in.”

“Uh, yeah, I just finished my session with C.”

“Good session today?”

“Uh, sure. Yeah.” Breathe, Nolan. You can’t ask her out if you’re passed out on the floor.

“Good. That’s great.” She exhaled noisily and seemed as anxious as Nolan felt.

“So, you got some exciting news, it seems?”

“Oh, oh yeah, potentially. I . . . a big promotion is talking about matching me up with someone for a fight.”

“And that’s good?”

“Yeah, it’s good. It’s what I do, or what I’m trying to do.”

“Yeah, that’s good, I guess.”

She smiled at him and came to stand next to him at the counter. “What? Tell me what you’re thinking, Nolan Harper.”

“I . . . just guess I don’t understand the desire to stand in a ring and get punched in the face for a living.”

“One, I’ll be in a cage, not a ring. And two, I don’t get punched in the face.” She balled her hair on the top of her head into a sloppy bun, which highlighted the graceful curve of her neck and jaw. She wasn’t a delicate thing at all—quite the opposite. Bridget’s arms and back were strong but lean, more like a dancer than anything, and Nolan found himself wondering how tight her muscular thighs could cinch around his waist.

Wait, what?

“I seem to remember you having a black eye and a split lip that first session,” Nolan said by way of deflection.

Bridget waved him off. “Tig got in a lucky hit, though Paddy gave us both hell—him for being too rough and me for letting him get through.”

“Tig? Is he the little one with the blue hair?”

Bridget laughed again, and the urge to move in closer and elicit a different kind of laugh grew stronger.

“So you train with a guy?”

Bridget stopped what she was doing and turned to face him, arms akimbo and eyebrow quirked. “So? Why does everyone think this is an issue?”

“I couldn’t hit a woman.”

“You’re not a fighter.”

“I’m just saying, if you grew up in a home like mine, you’d feel differently.” Nolan snapped his mouth shut. She didn’t need to know about all his dirty laundry.

“And there it is.” Bridget leaned against the countertop and cocked her head to the side, examining him as if she’d never really seen him before.

“What?” He concentrated on straightening the containers in front of him so he wouldn’t have to meet Bridget’s eyes, though he could sense her looking at him.

“You didn’t have a great home life.”

Nolan barked a laugh. What a fucking understatement that was. He generally thought he’d come out pretty unscathed, but every once in a while, something would trigger a flash of emotion that would render him powerless, something like the possibility of Bridget getting her face bashed in, even if she actually invited it.

He didn’t like it at all.

Bridget had moved closer to Nolan, right next to him, and leaned against the counter, resting her weight on her arms, waiting for him to say something.

“You met my dad. He’s a righteous asshole and a violent drunk to boot. I generally avoided his wrath if only because he didn’t think I was worth the energy, but my mother and brothers . . .” Cal cleared his throat, and with a crack of the vertebrae in his neck, dismissed the subject. “Yeah, he’s just a bad person, but there’s no reason to get torqued up about bad shit from thirty years ago, right?”

“Right.”

“And there it is,” Nolan said, turning Bridget’s words back on her. “I guess we’re even, then.”

“Nolan.” Bridget laid her hand on his forearm, and electricity from the contact zinged straight to his balls. “Nolan, look at me.”

He did.

“I’m sorry. I know there’s nothing for me to be sorry for, but I’m sorry. I had friends who grew up like that, and either they got over it or it broke them. I’m thinking you got over it.”

“Most days I think I did, but sometimes . . .”

Bridget nodded. “I get it.”

Just do it, Harper. “So, you wanna go out sometime? You know, since you’re not really my trainer?” Nolan blurted.

Bridget blinked. “Go out? Like on a date?”

 Nolan nodded tentatively. “Yeah, like on a date.”

“Oh, um. Yeah. That’s . . . not gonna be possible.”

Nolan nodded. “Sure. Okay.”

“No, Nolan. Wait.” Another little touch, more electricity. “When we go into camp for a fight, it’s highly regimented. What we put into our bodies, when we train, everything. Some of the guys even move back into the fight club dormitory to stay focused.”

“Oh.” Nolan scrubbed his face with his hand. “Sorry, Bridget. That was inappropriate. I . . .”

Both of Bridget’s hands clasped his forearm, and she leaned in close, so close that her scent of lemons and mint enveloped him. “Not inappropriate. Inopportune. Eight weeks, okay? Let’s revisit this in eight weeks.”

“Sure.”

“Gimme your phone.”

He handed it over, and she quickly called her phone from his. She tapped on the keys and showed him and held her phone up.

“See? All in and ready to call you.” Another gorgeous smile erupted from her face.

“Okay. Then, I guess the ball’s in your court, Bridget Doherty. But now, I gotta head home and bake a bunch of cakes.”

“Cakes?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Oh, okay.”

He shuffled his feet. “So, I’m going. Uh, thanks for giving me your number. I’ll see you around.”

Nolan practically ran out of the fight club. She probably wouldn’t call him, but she had his number, had given him her number. That was something, right?