Chapter 2
The gym smells too clean and girly…flowery, like the fucking cleaning crew had a dance off with Febreze after their tropical wipe down competition on the machines and equipment.
The scent makes my head hurt.
Gyms like this are fake. They’re not supposed to smell like women pamper themselves here. They’re meant to smell like men and woman have sweated their asses off and shed blood with determination covered by the scent of cleaning supplies. Bleach. Not potent flower fucking petals. I don’t need to feel like I’m rolling around in freshly cleaned girly sheets.
Paige’s soft snicker warms my ears and I peer down at her. “You’re hating it right now, aren’t you?”
“It’s going to collapse my airway,” I jest.
She rolls her eyes and mischief plays on her lips. “I need to find out what scent this is. I think it smells so good I want to use it at home.”
I smirk, arching a brow. “Careful what you wish for. I may find a bunch of men to make the living room the new gym.”
“You wouldn’t?” she gasps with a small giggle.
I puff a chuckle. “Your girly candles are enough. No need to add more odors to the mix.”
The front of the gym is packed. Men and women using different equipment—running on treadmills, at the bench press, leg press—all watching me walk through like I’m their sexy as hell king. What? I can’t help I’m just that sexy. They should take me as an example. I’m the epitome of hard work.
Toward the back, a glass partition slices the area in two and it’s a much different scene on the other side—one I’m most comfortable with. Mirrors and pads line the walls while rubber and foam mats edge the floor. Grappling dummies rest against an open cabinet with protective padding. Three heavy bags hang from the metal rafters and there stands the one man I’m looking for.
He’s knocking the leather, his hair a sweaty mess and his scarred face sporting heavy stubble. Dark eyes land on me. He stops punching and squares me up, puffing his chest out.
Great. Shithead thinks he’s something else.
I tip my head. “You Murphy?”
“Yeah,” he gruffs.
“I’m going to sit over there,” Paige points to the wooden bench along the back wall.
Amused and cold eyes shift to her. “You must be Paige? Yeah. Cory said you’d be our babysitter.”
Anger bursts through my vision, the force tensing my body. “Who the fuck—”
She pivots on her heels toward him. “More like your babysitter, especially when your mouth gets you in trouble. I’m the only one who can stop him from ripping your limbs off one by one,” she says, pointing to me and sounding sweetly level-headed.
I smirk. Yeah. That’s my girl.
“Pretty fucked up way to start this off. You need me. I don’t need you for shit,” I bite.
He smirks, his top lip sporting an ugly scar, and nods. “We’ll see.”
I’m three seconds from pummeling this asshole. “I didn’t fly out here to have some punk be a disrespectful dickhead. Either we stand on the line together, or we don’t stand at all.”
He breathes a deep chuckle, rolling his head forward and shaking it. “Look. My coach got caught up in some shady shit. Ever had it made and then the next minute it’s all gone? Everything a deception? You’ll understand if I don’t trust easily.”
“Your coach’s problem isn’t mine. You specifically asked for me. Here I am and you’re fucking it up by your chip on your shoulder.”
He narrows his eyes and the image of me laying his ass out flashes behind my eyes. “Yeah. I asked for you. One of the best fighters this association’s got. Heard you can coach. I’m ready to climb the charts and quit sitting neutral.”
“Am the best fighter the association’s got,” I correct him with smugness. “You want me to help? Get your head out of your ass. Cocky is one thing, being lucky is another.”
His brows furrow. “Lucky?” he asks with skepticism.
“You talk to my girl like that again, and you’ll see how quickly your luck runs out.”
We share a hostile stare—one I’m not backing down from. This punk doesn’t scare me. He’s nowhere near my size and definitely doesn’t have any of my years of training. He wants to sword fight, I assure you my dick’s bigger.
Breaking first, he looks away. “So how does this work?”
I smirk victoriously and tip my head to the boxer’s ring behind us. “Let’s see what you’re working with.”
Paige’s perfect ass is on the bench watching us…well, me. My girl loves to watch me in action. Works her up for me to work out later…
Nick’s sparring with something bigger to prove. He’s focused, desperate to land a punch. I haven’t let him and I don’t plan on it. You don’t act like you’re better than me, and then disrespect my girlfriend, and then get to punch me. Not at all. Not for one second.
Nick’s quick. He’s good, but only decent. He’s not Levi quality. Yeah. I come with a label. I’m not a pro for nothing. I didn’t fight my way through the ranks rocking heads half-assed. Nope. I rose to the top with incredible purpose, determined to be better than them all. And I am. That’s why I’m undefeated at the pinnacle and the rest of the losers are all beneath me.
I step in and rock him with a hard right that snaps his head to the side. It also lights a fire in his eyes and he tries to reciprocate the same brain rattle into me.
Not going to happen.
Problem is he’s got a habit of glancing where he’s going to strike accompanied by a slight twitch of his hips proving which direction he’s taking. If I see it coming, I’m moving. Simple as shit.
“Quit looking where you’re going and surprise me,” I say.
He blasts off in a chaos of punches.
He strikes with a left jab—I block it.
He throws a right hook—I move.
He kicks—I feign.
Frustration crawls across his face.
With my fingers, I point to my eyes. “You’re still advertising where you’re going. Look at me. Lock your eyes on my face and trust yourself.”
Finally, he does and I let him land his left hook. Most people learn faster when offered a reward. Good job, Johnnie.
Twenty minutes go by and his hits are getting better. He’s landed a few. He’s even gotten so confident, dumbass tries wrapping me up. I don’t go down. I hate the ground and will buck like a bull to stay away from it. My discipline isn’t wrestling. My passion is blow for blow because there’s nothing like the adrenaline you get when you trade the punches.
He strikes with a combo—left jab, right hook—followed by a solid kick to my thigh. It shuffles me back. He doesn’t allow me to regain my footing when he advances forward, continuing his assault. I’m ducking and weaving, grinning like a bastard because he’s finally making me work.
But now it’s his turn.
I side step and then lead in. Lefts. Rights. Combos. Although he’s moving, he’s predictable and I’m landing more than I should. I back up allowing him to gain his bearings. No need to batter him. I have nothing to prove.
He circles me, his hands up, and then the fucker grins. “Whatcha think, coach?”
“I haven’t agreed to it.” I toss a soft jab and he moves.
“I’ve got four words that will guarantee you’ll coach me.” He kicks and I move out of its way, stepping back in with a right hook that meets his cheek.
His head snaps, malice dripping from his eyes when he slides them back to me.
“Yeah?” I ask. “And what would they be?”
“Ryker’s on my roster.”
His words. They snap my spine straight and I drop my hands. “Where the fuck is the dotted line?”
I’m stupefied with excitement and a boost of adrenaline when Nick takes advantage and sucker punches the fuck out of me. Caught the fuck off guard, it causes me to stumble backward several steps before I recoup.
He chuckles, dropping his arms to his side. “I knew that’d get you.”
“Yeah. Well, if you don’t straighten up, Ryker will slaughter you in the ring.” I puke Ryker’s compliment. “He’ll feed on every one of your weaknesses, and trust me, you’ve got enough of them. You’ll be destroyed.” I puke that one too. “When’s the bout?”
“Three months.”
“That’s a lot of work in a short amount of time. You want me, you come to me. I’ve got a small gym equipped with everything you’ll need. There’s a hotel down the street or if you need something more permanent, find a house to rent. No matter if he’s on your schedule or not, I’m not traveling,” I say.
He nods. “What’s the training schedule?”
“Four to five hours a day, six days a week, until just before your fights. Then it’ll be soft training. No worries about tearing muscles and wearing yourself down before kicking ass.”
“When do I start?” he asks, tossing his gloves to the side.
“When can you fly in?”
“Next week. It’ll give me time to shift around a few things,” he tells me.
“The day after you land, you’ll be at my gym. I’m strict. I won’t put up with bullshit,” I warn. “Your last coach failed you miserably. How you’re still in the MMAT is a miracle. You need to show them you’re here to stay.”
“Precisely why I want you. We’re on the same page.”
“And because I’m the best,” I grin wickedly, “I’ll have your contract written up by the time you get there. For now, get your shit together.”
His chuckle is laced with fascination. “Rumors are you hate him, but you truly hate the Striker that bad?”
Let’s see. Rewind the tail of the tape.
For years that fucker has talked so much shit. He thinks he’s better than me, acts like he’s better, and had the audacity to prey on the vulnerable and lay his lips on Paige. Then tried using that shit to garble my thoughts during our championship fight…
“Hate is an understatement. I abhor that motherfucker with a passion.” I nod my head. “I’ll see you next week.”