by Celia Crown
It is another cheap tactic by the owner to rattle the egos of these fighters.
All the matches have been posted on the announcement board. But the championship match will be in another city where hundreds of people will have seats and millions more will be watching via the live feed.
It is going to be a pain in the ass. I am not a big fan of crowds, even worse when it is people who have no concept of what civility means.
The fight people are really interested in is the one between the two remaining competitors at the top of the bracket.
It will be Reese going against another prominent boxer.
I would be lying if I said I look forward to the fight.
I have no idea what the rules are, and do not care for the bloody sport many die-hard fans adore.
My job is to protect this hunk of a man, and that is it. I don’t have to be enthusiastic about his accomplishments. They are impressive, but the suppressed dullness in my chest proves I simply do not care for boxing.
Not a lot of things can get a fire of interest to spark in me. The way Reese looks at me is the first time I can remember in the last couple of years.
It is as if he is trying to eat me.
What a weird man.
“Allow me to check your room, Mr. Reese,” I suggest, not waiting for an answer when I step inside as he unlocks the door.
This is his private quarters, including a personal training room and a kitchen. The community shower shared by everyone is a bit further away. But Reese does have his own bathroom.
I dread the level of pride that is going to be heightened by steam and toxic masculinity in the men’s shower room.
It is embarrassing to know grown men are willing to fight naked with each other. I can guarantee it has happened before.
It happened in a facility like Cypher, so it must have happened here too.
“What are you looking for?” he asks from behind me.
The door is automatic and closes after a few seconds when it doesn’t sense an obstacle. It sounds heavy with air hissing as it clicks shut, but I’m more interested in the structure of the room.
It’s the standard hotel setup: a bed at the center, a door leading to the bathroom, a closet to store his belongings, and a television mounted on the wall with a dresser right under it.
I study the things scattered around the room, starting at the entrance as Reese sets his bags on the floor.
He packed light, and I appreciate it; less hassle when we leave. I have had clients pack their whole house in their suitcases because they’re so indecisive about what to wear.
A fundraiser does not need to be so complicated that it takes three hours to get ready or require three sets of jewelry.
I sigh and track around the walls of the room, noticing what needs to be studied up close and things that look too heavy.
I know this facility prides itself on its cleanliness and the amenities offered, but I don’t trust anything they advertised.
Picking up a fake flower and examining the details, I just ruined a beautiful piece of art by plucking it out of the plastic bouquet.
“Do you like flowers, sir?” I ask as I wave the flower at him.
“No,” he says slowly, pausing his unpacking.
I hum and twirl the plastic between my fingers, finding a space to jam it behind the other flowers in the vase.
It is an odd place for a bouquet and even stranger that this facility uses plastic flowers. I assume it is a welcoming gift or part of the décor.
I must say, though, it is a very ugly decoration.
Well, I should not be saying that. I have no taste in anything; I just need things to be practical and comfortable. Plastic flowers make my stomach gurgle with unease.
I better not find a bouquet in my room.
“Would you like me to dispose of this?” I ask, gesturing to the flowers.
“If you don’t mind,” he says as he nods.
It is refreshing to have someone as polite and grounded as Mr. Reese. He knows what he is worth, but he doesn’t flaunt it or draw attention to himself.
I have had my fair share of unreasonably obnoxious clients who think paying for my services means they get to be assholes.
I wish more clients were like Reese.
“Please rest now, sir,” I say as I hold the flowers.
The plane ride was rough, to say the least.
The flirtatious flight attendant never gave up and constantly asked Reese if he needed assistance. All he wanted was to sleep, but the universal “Do Not Disturb” signal did not deter her.
She kept trying to speak louder than the music in his ears.
He finally had to insist so firmly that her knees nearly buckled and sent her onto his lap. I doubt she would have complained about his rudeness while sitting on the lap of the man she found so attractive.
“I’ll come with you,” he suggests as he drops the clothes from his hands.
“I’m taking these to my room, sir,” I comment casually.
I just want him to rest because I have first-hand experience with cranky people who don’t get enough sleep during their travels.
This man does not take the hint and steals the bouquet from me. I just go with the flow and have him follow me to the room next to his.
My place looks just like his and has the same furniture. It is smaller than his, but I don’t find anything wrong with it. I only need it to sleep without any interruptions.
“Your clothes,” he mentions as he hands over the plastic-wrapped clothes my father got at the duty-free shops.
“Thank you, Mr. Reese.” I nod and accept them.
He sets down the bouquet, and that one hideous flower is staring right at me again. I don’t like that specific one I had already removed, and it is making my skin tighten with discomfort.
I stroll closer to him and subtly turn the bouquet with a small nudge of my fingers.
“Are you tired?” he wonders out of curiosity.
“Is there something you have in mind?” I question back.
My itinerary is dictated by his; I choose my words carefully, so I don’t affect the schedule.
“Are you?” he repeats, there is a tone of authoritative control that demands an answer.
I find myself complying with his demand with a shake of my head. “No, sir.”
“Come with me,” he offers. “I want to familiarize myself with the facility.”
I blink and nod, but other thoughts are flickering through my head. He is attentive when he stares down at my face, and he is sharp enough to pick up on the traces of emotion there.
“I don’t want you to ever suppress your opinion, Ezra. You can tell me anything,” he proposes.
That would be unprofessional, and I want to keep the record clean in my file. But I think it is already too late for that because a lot of clients have complained I was not flexible about their needs.
I had a stupid complaint about refusing to babysit their child during a job. I must have been too aggressive when I said I get paid for protecting them, not their family members.
They must pay extra for each person. But Cypher Security’s policy is to have a ratio of one security person for each individual covered in the contract.
Covering more than one person at a time is a recipe for disaster that can lead to job failure.
“I will,” I concede with a smile.
The tension in his broad shoulders eases as he breathes softly. His amber eyes flicker, searching for something behind me. I guess he does not see what he is looking for, and his eyebrows furrow.
“Do you need a break before we go?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, we can leave right now.”
I shrug off my winter coat, but this room doesn’t have a chair for it. So, I put it on the counter under the television.
The room is a smaller version of the one Reese is staying in. It helps me visualize his room if anything were to happen. I doubt danger will reach him here, but I can’t le
t my guard down when fans are known to have unrestricted access.
I follow him as we pass my Dad’s room. He wanted to catch up on his rest, so that leaves Reese and me to explore the facility.
It has multiple floors. We are standing on the main level where it has everything we need, and our rooms are on this floor too. Card access will call the elevator, but there is a keypad on the side as an alternative method.
We pass one of the bulletin boards showing each fight and who the boxing opponents will be. There is only one fight for the championship title; the rest of the boxers are fighting for the next best thing.
I am not familiar with how the hierarchy of the sports world works, but this is one of the bloodiest out there.
I didn’t notice them before, but the fading bruises on Reese’s body are now exposed since he took off his jacket. I could not tell earlier because of all the ink on his body.
As we near the gym, the sounds of a ruckus hit us. We give each other a look of confusion and head for the commotion. We slip through the door and join the people gathered to watch two fighters.
It’s controlled and isn’t as aggressive as some I have seen in videos. I was studying them to understand how to work better with Reese, but I almost fell asleep during some of the matches.
The only ones that held my interest were the ones with Reese in them. I compared his early matches to the last fight that qualified him for the upcoming championship match.
It was a close call, but I never once doubted that a man of his caliber would defeat an opponent with poor footwork.
I might not be well-acquainted with the boxing world, but close-combat fights are a weekly thing for me. One of the notable differences in boxing is that they are shackled by rules.
Cypher uses fighting as a justifiable excuse for violence.
“Brought your girl as a cheerleader, Reese?” a man jeers with a crooked grin.
His head is shaved to show off a large scar on his skull, likely from a recent injury judging by the healing skin around it.
I remember seeing him on the news when the final fight was announced.
Stein. The newscaster was not fond of saying people’s full names, so I only got part of his. That is fine, I am not looking forward to being near this man since he is Reese’s opponent.
The best thing for both parties is to steer clear of each other.
Reese doesn’t fall for the taunting but does shift his colossal body, so I’m partly hidden behind him. He stands tall, almost frightening as he looks the other man in the eyes.
I do not need protection. They are professional fighters, but so am I.
Every fighter has a preferred style. It’s hard to change what their bodies are trained to do. That means I would have the advantage if things were to go spiraling down.
I categorize my fighting style as “improvisation.” My only goal in every fight is to force the enemy into submission as quickly as possible.
Time is of the essence; I do not have time for silly pride or honor.
That is going to be my downfall, especially when it is our lives on the line.
Personally speaking, it is not gratifying if I don’t crush their spirits.
“Isn't she too young for your taste?” the man snarks with a scoff.
The muscles at the corner of my eyes are starting to coil tightly as a quiet growl resonates in my keen ears.
I raise a hand to touch Reese’s stiff back. Not to encourage him to throw the first punch, but to gauge how annoyed he is.
It is safe to say Reese does not take lightly to distasteful taunts.
“I am his girlfriend,” I remark with a bright smile as I step out of Reese’s shadow.
Stein tips his head down as the corner of his lips curl. “How old are you, kid?”
“Please refrain from unnecessary commentary, Mr. Stein.” I watch him closely and the side of his left eye twitches.
“We are adults here, do act like one,” I reckon. “It would be a terrible disappointment for your fans.”
He takes a sharp inhale and sets his scowl deeper. Stein glares at me as if he is trying to intimidate me with his dominance.
He does not know me; I don’t even yield to my father who used to wrestle bears in Russia during his sulky moods.
“Little girls don’t get a voice in this place; it’s for big men only, and damn sure you aren’t one,” he gruffly sneers.
The fact that he called himself a “big man” out loud is cringeworthy.
Reese wraps his arm around my waist. I let him pull me to his side, but I was not going to ask the man for a bit of respect since it wouldn’t be worth the effort.
Covertness works best for me. I get a lot of things done by being in the shadows, but this job takes a small amount of freedom to do that.
Reese is around people who are not afraid to use their fists. My job is to protect him and ward off bad publicity. I understand he has marketing deals and other revenue coming in, so it’s best to steer clear of an encounter that smears his clean image.
The man in front of me seems adamant to create animosity with everyone watching.
A deep voice with a faint accent flow to us. “What’s the problem?”
“Coach,” the man says after flinching.
I turn to the newcomer. He stands out in a way that nullifies the presence of others. But Reese makes sure I do not forget him with his coiling hold around my waist.
Black hair and obsidian eyes, an unwelcoming purse of his lips, and an ominous glint in his glare. He’s tall with bulky muscles like Reese, but Reese has the advantage of a more defined body.
“What is the problem?” the man repeats forcibly.
Stein recoils, visibly terrified of the man as he clears his throat to get his dignity back.
Stein whispers, “Nothing. We’re just making conversation.”
“Get back to training,” the man commands.
My fingers itch to take action, and a flush of manic glee curls in my stomach when the man meets my eyes.
Interesting, I think.
It is a familiar feeling, but I cannot quite put my finger on where it comes from.
I do know that it is not what Reese makes me feel.
This new feeling is more primal—I want to wrap my hands around the man’s neck and watch the life leave his body.
How disturbing, I question myself.
If I had known I would experience something different coming from every direction, I would have taken a second look at the decision to accept this job. However, I don’t regret accepting when Reese’s big hand possessively curls at the curve of my hips.
The man wordlessly walks away, dispersing the crowd with his retreat as murmurs rise to an audible volume.
“These lucky fuckers. A woman in his arms and the former champion as a coach? What a mess this match is going to be.”
Chapter Four
Reese
I decide to question the relationship between Ezra and the former champion this morning.
I have been in denial that there is something more than surface chemistry between the two. They did not seem to know each other from where I stood.
I don’t know anything about her past to make that judgment. So, I have been swallowing the dismay and anger in my heart.
I know this isn’t normal, but I can’t help the possessiveness I feel about Ezra.
She makes me feel things I never expected after just one day together. I can’t believe the control I need to keep from kissing her pouty lips.
“You know him,” I say out of the blue.
Her eyes flash towards me as she watches the people walking up and down the hallway. I am not the only one in the gym, even though it is relatively late in the evening.
Everyone is either at dinner or taking a break before continuing to train. The coach had been hounding me when I was on the treadmill. We take short breaks between each set, but Ezra seems distracted.
“Peters,” I say, reminding her of the name of
the former champion.
No one really knew why he retired from boxing competitions. The press had gone crazy with their theories about why one of the best fighters had retired.
It was the official explanation, but no one with his skills would just retire. Boxing is an adrenaline-filled game of risk, highly addictive and difficult to manage.
Peters’ career had taken a sharp turn just a week after his win, and he would not give up that life unless there had been a disastrous turn of events.
“I can’t associate his face with that name,” she mentions. “He did look familiar, though.”
As someone who was once on top, there is a certain attraction that makes women throw themselves at him without blinking an eye.
I don’t want to think Ezra is one of them, but there are only a few possibilities I can think of.
One night is easily forgettable, but this is Peters, and no one can forget him.
I look up to him and his way of fighting; it is worth studying and understanding the way he moves.
Wiping the sweat off my face with a towel, I hang onto it as an outlet for the steaming irritation running through my clenched fist.
I don’t like the implications of her having a one-night stand with him. But I just can’t stop that envious sensation from gnawing at me.
I want her, and there is no point in denying it. I want her to be mine.
“Excuse me,” she says as her phone buzzes noisily.
She does not wait for my answer as she steps out the door but stays within my sight to take the call. Her expression falls back into neutral as her pink lips wrap around the words.
I take my water bottle and swallow half the contents before she is finished with the call. A figure by the edge of the wall comes closer.
It’s Peters.
My first instinct is to wrap my arms around her.
He walks past her, but she does not look at him. She doesn’t even acknowledge he had come nearby as she returns to the enclosed gym.
“We’re calling it a day,” I mention as my ears note the coach’s grunts and the beanbag being punched.
“I will call the chef to prepare your dinner,” she comments while tapping on her phone.
