5 Rounds: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance (The Fight Game Book 1)

by Nikki Castle

  "I'm going home," I announce, looking everywhere but at Tristan. "Aiden's right, I've had enough excitement this weekend. I'll just see you… around the house." I turn to search the bar for the remaining friends in our group.

  I feel Tristan gently grab my wrist before I can walk away. "I don't want you out there alone," he says gruffly. "I'll take you."

  I finally turn to look at him. I don't know if it's the alcohol that's driven away my need to fight, or the protective tone in his voice, but I nod my acceptance.

  Without letting go of my arm, he downs the remaining double shot before pulling me after him. "Let's get the fuck out of here," he murmurs.

  We quickly realize that Aiden and Max are the only ones left from our group. They're both heavily invested in a drunk debate—most likely about boxing versus wrestling, if I know those guys at all. Only an attractive, single female could tear them from their conversation.

  Instead of interrupting them, we pay our tabs and head outside. I stand awkwardly on the sidewalk as Tristan calls an Uber on his phone. And I suddenly realize: I have no idea how to act around him right now. I feel like I have whiplash from the evening as a whole, and when I said I was leaving it was mostly because I wanted to come outside for a breath of fresh air and to clear my thoughts for a minute. But now Tristan is with me and I feel like I can't accomplish either of those things.

  Between him protecting Hailey and then what happened with Sabrina, are we supposed to be friendly now? I feel like we had a comfortable, not-quite-aggressive flow going with his game at the bar before the fake-girlfriend act completely threw me off of that. I don't know if Tristan's gotten sexier or if I'm just tipsier than I realize, but either way I can still feel the taste of desire choking me. I can't even look at him without blushing from the memory of his hands tightening on my hips and pulling me closer.

  As I'm standing on the sidewalk waging an internal war with myself, I notice a familiar face out of the corner of my eye. I turn slightly and realize Sabrina is on the other side of the street with a group of her girlfriends.

  She sees me at the same time that I spot her. Her eyes dart from me to Tristan and I realize with a jolt that what she thinks she’s seeing is Tristan taking me home for the night. And even though we'll both get in the car and we really will be going home to the same place, my fake girlfriend story from earlier probably won't sell very well if I'm standing awkwardly to the side with my arms wrapped around myself. If I were his girlfriend with the promise of sex, I'd most likely be all over him.

  I only hesitate for a heartbeat before I grit my teeth and steel myself for what I'm about to do. I make a quick wish that my drunken attraction to Tristan doesn't carry me away in my performance this time.

  I step up to stand in front of him and nervously wrap my arms around his waist. I tilt my head up to appear like I'm demanding his full attention.

  Tristan looks up from his phone in surprise but moves his arms out of the way so I can move my body closer to his. My skin tingles even through my dress where the hand not holding his phone comes to rest on my hip. He looks down at me in confusion, and I can’t help but feel the same way, even as I feel a comfortable warmth being this close to him. It vaguely registers in the back of my mind that this is now the second time tonight we’ve been this intimate, and neither of us has seemed very put-off by it.

  "I… um… I thought…" I stutter. I have so many things I should be saying right now. I want to tell him that Sabrina is watching us and that I assume he'd want me to keep the charade going—that we should probably try to look like we're going home together. But the tequila is running through my veins now and I can’t tell if I’m feeling drunk or just drunk on his closeness. Suddenly every single thought flies out of my mind, and all I can think about is that his blue eyes are boring into mine and his lips are only a breath away.

  At that thought, my gaze drops to his mouth. My heart starts beating so loud that I'm afraid he'll hear it, but I don't think I could avoid the pull of my body to his even if I wanted to.

  My gaze darts back to his eyes to see him studying me, looking equal amounts surprised and hungry. That look is what gives me the confidence to push up on my toes and press my lips to his.

  My eyes close at the contact. His lips are soft and warm, and a comfortable buzz runs through my body. I feel Tristan's hand tighten on my hip as his mouth starts to move against mine. I sigh and settle into the kiss.

  I gently kiss his top lip, then his bottom. I pause, feeling unsure of myself for only a moment before I open my mouth to deepen the kiss. Our tongues touch and my breath catches at the sensation.

  It seems to affect Tristan, too. The moment our kiss intensifies and our tongues begin to tangle, a deep groan rumbles through his chest. His grip tightens on my hips and he pulls me forward so that there isn't an inch of space between us. He tilts his head and greedily demands control of the kiss. I give him that power with a grateful shiver.

  He licks my lips, coaxing them to open further. Every swipe of his tongue drives a bolt of lightning through me, another rush of liquid heat to my core. It doesn't take long for the power of this kiss to destroy me so thoroughly that my head spins and my knees grow weak, and I'm left breathless and clinging to Tristan's waist.

  I somehow manage to end the kiss before I demand he drag me down an alley to finish what I started. I pull back just far enough so I can look at him and tell him… something that I need to tell him but can't quite remember right now.

  He's just as breathless as I am. We stand there, completely oblivious to the fact that we're blocking the sidewalk and forcing people to walk around us, and stare at each other as we suck air into our lungs and try to make sense of what just happened. He looks completely confused, but his hands stay holding my hips, as if he doesn’t want to give me more than an inch of space.

  Because he looks like he wants to go in for round two.

  We're shocked out of our mess of thoughts when Tristan's phone rings. He looks down at the phone in his hand as if he's never seen one before and is now trying to figure out what to do with it.

  The shrill sound snaps me out of my trance. I shuffle out of his embrace, still dizzy from the tequila or lust-drunk haze. I feel my senses come back to me along with the memory of what I was trying to tell Tristan. "Sabrina was watching us," I tell him hurriedly. I'm not sure why I need him to understand that there was a reason for what I did but I suddenly feel the need to explain my actions.

  He raises his eyebrows in surprise. Then his eyes dart around, looking for the girl in question, and it seems like he finds her because his gaze immediately hardens and a scowl forms on his face. I think it's intended for Sabrina but when he turns back to me, that angry expression grows even angrier when it's aimed at me.

  He finally answers the phone with a terse, "Hello?" He looks away from me and down the street.

  I swallow roughly as my face flames with embarrassment. I thought I was helping the situation by kissing him but based on his reaction, it seems I've misjudged everything. I step further away from him.

  After a short phone conversation, he turns back to me, jerking his head over his shoulder and signaling the car that's currently pulling up in front of us. "That's us. Get in," he says gruffly. There's definitely a bite in his tone.

  The ride home is a quiet one. The last shot from the bar seems to have finally made its way into my bloodstream because despite my lips still tingling and the feel of Tristan’s fingers imprinted on my hips, my shoulders relax, and I forget about the scowling man sitting next to me. I even forget about the sudden desperation to escape Tristan that shot through me when he became angry after our kiss. I can see the rigid set of Tristan's jaw out of the corner of my eye and the tense way he's gripping his thighs. If I were sober, I'd probably try to figure out how he went from seductive gentleman to his usual emotionless, pain-in-the-ass self in under a minute. But I'm not, so instead I sigh and close my eyes.

  When we pull up to the house, Tristan thanks
the driver and gets out of the car. I follow quietly behind him as he starts walking toward the house. We're almost to the door when I trip—on thin air, like a cliché drunk—and fall forward.

  Tristan catches me before my face can meet the pavement and pulls me upright. "Jesus, watch it," he barks, steadying me on my feet. "Can you not be a klutz for just one second?"

  I study him for a moment, then sigh and decide not to fight him. I blame—or credit?—the alcohol for my lack of anger and aggressive comebacks. Instead of feeling defensive, I realize suddenly that I just don't care.

  Without thinking about what I'm doing, I step closer to him and run my fingers through his hair, trying to understand the sudden shift in his mood. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but he stands still and lets me play with strands of his hair. Without the tequila coursing through my veins, I never would have let myself touch him like this. But right now, I can’t find it in me to care.

  "It must be exhausting being so mean all the time," I observe thoughtfully. Something flashes in his eyes, but I can't put a name to it, and then it’s gone just as quickly.

  I turn away from him, completely oblivious to how much I just overstepped our normal boundaries. "Not to mention you would be so much hotter with just a little less snark," I call over my shoulder. I'm too busy drunkenly fumbling with my keys in the lock to notice his eyes widen at my honest comment.

  "Ha!" I exclaim triumphantly, pushing the door open and stepping inside. But before I can take more than two steps in, I feel myself being pushed to the wall, Tristan's body pressing tightly against mine. "Hey!" I cry. His moody expression is gone, replaced with the smug face that I know so well.

  "You would hate me if I was a nice guy," he drawls.

  I roll my eyes at him, trying to push him off me. "Guess we'll never know, because you being a nice guy is as likely as me using the word 'literally' wrong." He grins, knowing how much I hate when girls use the word to describe something that is very clearly not literal.

  "Admit it," he says softly, pushing me harder into the wall with his body. My breath catches as his face nears mine. "You like me the way I am."

  "I—I don't—" my brain no longer seems to be able to form a coherent sentence. All I can do is stare into his hungry gaze and try not to picture what it would feel like if he fucked me against this wall right now.

  His lips brush against my cheek, at the same time that he kneads my hips with his fingers. Every touch, every whisper of his breath, is further uncoiling the heat that's growing between my legs.

  "You don't want someone to pull your chair out for you, or ask you what you want to eat," he continues. "You want someone that doesn't need your permission. Someone that will call you on your shit." He tangles his fingers in my hair and pulls my head back. I gasp in surprise. "You want someone that will spank you when you're acting stupid."

  I can't contain the whimper that slips from my lips. I squeeze my legs together, trying to think of a response but failing. When he pulls back to wait for my reply, I know that no words could answer his unspoken question.

  There are so many things that I hate about this man—he’s arrogant, and selfish, and rude. He’s a player that uses women for sex, and the only thing he actually gives a shit about is fighting. He’s the definition of self-absorbed. I should be shoving him away from me, telling him to fuck off and to stay on his side of the house for the rest of the week. I shouldn't be thinking about what he tastes like, or how his cock might feel inside of me. I shouldn't be wondering how hard he could make me come.

  But his words remind me that the same alpha qualities that make me hate him... are also the ones that are making my knees weak.

  I realize in that moment that every insult, every prank, every teasing comment, is exactly what ratcheted up our sexual tension this week. His alpha personality is what drives the fire between us. We couldn't have one without the other. And I am so desperately, achingly, tired of fighting that fire...

  So, whether it's the tequila or the need to finish the kiss that we started, I decide I don't want to fight it anymore.

  I learn forward and roughly press my lips against his, my hands fisting in his shirt. I press my body as close to his as possible—suddenly, I can't seem to get close enough. The tension between us steals my breath away. It feels like every place we touch is on fire. I part my lips, my tongue darting forward to stroke his.

  He groans and opens his mouth. He pushes me harder against the wall—it feels like he can't get close enough, either. His kiss is brutal and aggressive, and I know my lips will bruise but I don't care. In this moment, I want all of his roughness.

  As if reading my mind, his hand shoots up to grip the front of my throat and push my head back against the wall. I moan in pleasure. He grins at my response and kisses me again.

  "You might regret what you just started," he growls against my lips. "Hate sex can be intense. And with the way you and I feel about each other, I might actually kill you with pleasure.”

  His arrogant promises make my cunt pulse, because I have zero doubt that he is going to do exactly as he says.

  "Just shut up," I snap—and pull his lips back to mine.

  10

  Tristan

  It feels like my body is operating on its own accord because I still can't make sense of the fact that she's kissing me. This whole night has been a clusterfuck of emotions, and I think it's taking a minute for my brain to catch up. But the one thing that's undeniable is the fact that I've been hard for Remy since the moment I saw her at the bar. I've seen her in skirts for work, but I've never seen her dressed up like she is tonight. I damn near lost my mind when I looked across the bar and saw her in this tight little dress.

  I wasn't going to do anything about it, though. I wasn’t even going to approach her tonight. I was content to just watch her in her element, tipsy and happy and having a good time with her friends. I realized that I only ever see her serious or angry—but happiness looks sexy as fuck on her. I just wanted to watch her a little bit.

  But then that asshole put his hands on her sister, and I couldn't not get involved. People might think I'm a womanizer but one thing I will never fucking allow in my presence is any sort of disrespect or violence against women. Or anyone I care about, really, but especially a woman like Hailey who doesn't seem to see the abuse for what it is. I am nothing if not protective of the people around me.

  I also felt a thrill of pleasure when I saw Remy about to step in just before I did. I’ve known that she's fiercely loyal to the people she loves but it's another thing to see that she really would've thrown down with a grown ass man for her sister, consequences be damned. If I wasn't so furious at that shitbag her sister calls a boyfriend, I may have sat back with a drink to watch her hand that guy his ass.

  I was impressed, and that feeling multiplied tenfold when Sabrina joined the evening's events. Remy had no obligation to help me get rid of her, but fuck, am I glad that she did. That girl has been nothing but a headache since the very beginning. Yeah, she was good in the sack, but from the first time she tried to convince me she didn't want anything from me, I could tell there was something off about her. The fact that she couldn't leave me alone when I broke it off with her and kept "accidentally” running into me in the city was just further proof that my gut instincts were right. I really thought I was going to have to get a restraining order at some point.

  I like to think Remy helped me out because she felt some respect for me tonight, too. Not just because I helped her sister, but also because I managed to make her feel comfortable around me with that ridiculous assumption game we played at the bar. Maybe she's finally starting to see that I'm not as much of a bad guy as she always thought I was. Maybe she’s realized that I’m not just a selfish bastard, but a loyal and protective one. The same way I’m starting to realize she’s not as bitchy as I once thought she was—she just comes off that way when she’s defensive. But whatever it was that opened her up to helping me, I felt instantly grateful t
he second she straddled my lap. Grateful… and other things.

  I knew she was only doing it because Sabrina was standing next to us but holy shit did she feel right in my arms. I couldn't help tugging her closer any more than I could help the fact that my breathing sped up when she started whispering in my ear. I tried so hard to see if there was any part of her that was enjoying the closeness as much as I was, but I had no way to tell while Sabrina was still there.

  I thought I got my answer when she kissed me on the street. I thought she was acting on the heat that I know she felt between us at the bar. And goddamn, did that heat explode when she kissed me. I'm not typically a huge fan of kissing—it feels more intimate than a lot of other sexual activities—but in that moment, it was all I wanted to do. I couldn't get enough of Remy's lips. I felt such relief that she was feeling the same things I was. And when she pulled away and told me she only did it because Sabrina was watching, that relief morphed into anger and humiliation on a scale that I've never felt before.

  But by the time we got back to the house, I managed to calm down enough to realize that it couldn't possibly be all in my head. I couldn't be the only one feeling the sexual tension between us. And even if it was purely physical, even if Remy still didn’t like me, I knew she wanted to give in to this thing between us. It's been growing for days, probably years—we just didn't know what it was because we hid the truth with our verbal sparring.

  But no more. No more dancing around this tension. No more hiding behind sexual innuendos, or pranks, or condescending digs. By the time she pushed into the house, I had decided she was going to have to make a decision: either admit she felt it too or reject me to my face.

  I needed her to make the first real move. Not only because she'd been drinking but mainly because I wanted her to want me. I wanted her to show me that she needs me just as much as I need her. And now that she's kissing me, I don't think I'll be able to stop.