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

by Nikki Castle

  Although with the level of chemistry that we clearly have, there’s a part of me that worries that might be a possibility anytime I touch her.

  I frown at that thought. Fucking Remy once was probably a mistake, but twice would definitely be a bad idea. I might be able to convince myself that last night was a result of booze, the thing with Sabrina, and hate-induced passion, but I wouldn’t be able to explain another night. For so many reasons, Remy should be off limits.

  I force myself to accept that fact as I climb out of bed and get ready for the gym. As much as I’d love a repeat performance of last night, I don’t need to overcomplicate things by getting involved with my best friend’s childhood best friend. I need to just write off what happened as a one-time thing that will never happen again. I can’t say I won’t tease her mercilessly for letting her body admit that I was right about her always secretly wanting to be under me, but I can keep my dick in my pants until Jax gets home. I only have one more week with Remy living in my house—surely, I can keep my shit together for that long. After that, we can go back to only seeing each other when there are other people around, where there’s no risk of us accidentally crossing this line again.

  By the time I’m done getting dressed and throwing a change of clothes in my gym bag, I feel better than I did when I first woke up. I feel good about this resolution. As much as I shouldn’t have let last night happen, I can keep it from getting worse. I can keep my hands to myself.

  No matter how badly I want to bend her over again.

  I open my bedroom door to leave, but the second I hit the hallway I realize that Remy is only as far as the other side of my wall. Immediately I’m hit with visions of her smooth skin, her firm ass, her silky brown hair. I remember the way her skin flushed pink after I spanked her, the way the aftershocks ran through her body when she came on my fingers. Her whimpers when the pleasure was too much for her to stay quiet. How tight she felt around me—

  I groan as I feel my cock immediately harden. Fuck. I am so fucked.

  11

  Remy

  I wake up to sunshine and the sound of the city. The feel of a no-alarm Sunday morning in a city I love is enough to let me ignore the alcohol-induced headache that's currently tickling my subconscious. I snuggle back into Jax's pillows with a small smile.

  But then the memory of last night comes back in full force, and my subtle headache becomes a very large, very obnoxious one.

  Fuck. I had sex with Tristan last night.

  I groan and duck my head under the pillow. What the fuck was I thinking?!

  The answer is that I wasn't. The answer is that I let my lust-fueled brain finally act on my attraction to him. And now he'll never let me hear the end of it.

  I cringe when I think about the fact that I just became another one of Tristan's conquests. All the shit I talked on the women that have fallen into bed with him, and now I'm one of them. Seduced by his arrogance and that goddamn smirk.

  Another groan falls from my lips. Not only do I have to deal with his smugness probably showing tenfold now, but I also have another week with him here. Alone. With the memory of being bent over that couch floating through my brain every time I walk downstairs.

  Fuck. This is so bad.

  Not to mention, what will Jax say? Do I even tell him? Will Tristan tell him?

  I frown, assuming the answer to that last question is probably a no. I doubt Tristan has a death wish, since telling Jax that he fucked his basically-sister is a good way to get a beating. But the only way he won't figure it out is if nothing changes between Tristan and me.

  I sigh, knowing that's probably the best way to deal with this entire situation. It's not like it'll ever happen again. Partly because Tristan is a once and done kind of guy, but also because God knows I never need to let that happen again. So the best thing to do is to just act like it never did.

  I sit up in bed, mentally steeling myself. I can do this. I can treat Tristan the same way I always have. I just need to glare at him and yell a few insults. Easy. Maybe after ignoring him for a few days, I’ll be able to get the image of him pulling a screaming orgasm from me with his fingers out of my head. He practically lives at the gym anyway; it shouldn't be too hard to avoid him for a few days. And if I do see him, I'm just going to act like nothing ever happened. No problem.

  And I'm just going to ignore the fact that it was the best goddamn sex of my life.

  I groan and fall face first back into the pillows.

  I manage to avoid him for almost two days. Miraculously, he's already left the gym when I show up on Monday night, so I fully expect him to be passed out by the time I get home. I even linger with Lucy in the parking lot after class to make sure I get home as late as possible.

  Instead, I open the front door to see him sitting at the kitchen island. I freeze.

  "Hey," I force out.

  Fuck. I really did not want to have this conversation now.

  He looks up from his phone with a lazy smirk. "Hey," he says.

  "I thought you'd be asleep already," I stammer awkwardly as I force myself to walk into the kitchen to make my dinner.

  The grin on his face grows. Of course he can tell I'm flustered. "Hoping to avoid me another night?"

  I glare at him and start digging through the cabinets. What's the quickest protein-dense meal I can make in about ninety seconds? I need out of this room.

  I spot the peanut butter and decide this is going to be a PB&J night. Good enough.

  "So how long are you planning on ignoring me? Forever, or just until Jax gets home?" he asks, returning his attention to his dinner but keeping that stupid grin plastered on his face.

  "I'm not ignoring you," I snap. "But what we, um… did the other night…" Fuck, I'm stuttering. "It doesn't mean I like you all of a sudden. I don't want to hang out with you now." I fumble with the peanut butter jar, trying to rush out of here as quickly as possible.

  "Remy, we fucked," he says bluntly. "You can admit you liked it. We both know the truth, anyway. You can even admit you're a little obsessed with me now." If he grins any harder, I think his face might split in half.

  "Don't flatter yourself," I snarl. I turn my attention to spreading the jelly on the piece of bread in front of me. "I was drunk, and horny. You could've been any guy." I stop, the anger causing my nerves to dissipate and making me feel more in control. I glance at Tristan. "To be honest, the whole night was pretty mediocre. Not quite obsession-worthy."

  I'm lying through my teeth, but there isn't a chance in hell I'm going to admit that to him. He doesn't need to know that I haven't stopped thinking about that night. That I've touched myself three times since then to the thought of him fucking me. That I caught myself touching my lips a few times, remembering how electric his lips had felt against mine.

  No, he doesn't need to know that. He can go on thinking I was unimpressed, that our relationship is the same angry, insult-fueled one that it always has been.

  "You're a liar," he whispers in my ear. I yelp. I didn't even notice him come around the island.

  His hands grip the counter on either side of my arms, effectively caging me in. He's not touching me, but he might as well be—I’m aware of every inch of his body that's close to mine. The fire between us pulses and I shiver as I feel his breath on my exposed neck.

  "You can try to lie to yourself but we both know that night was hot as fuck," he breathes against my skin. "I still remember how wet and tight you felt when I bent you over the couch. My dick's getting hard just thinking about it."

  I bite my lip to keep a moan from slipping out. I squeeze my legs together and try to ignore the heat growing between them. How is it possible for someone to make my knees weak with just his dirty words?

  With his finger he scoops a bit of jelly out of the jar in front of me. Before I realize what he's doing, he spreads it on my lower lip, letting his touch linger for just a moment.

  My tongue automatically darts out to lick it off. He growls at the sight. "I
can't wait to have that mouth on me again," he mutters darkly.

  I turn in his grip to face him, fury burning in my eyes. "Fuck you," I snarl angrily. "I am not one of your brainless fucktoys. Just because I drunkenly fucked you one night does not mean you can now have me in your bed whenever you want. I still hate you just as much as I did last week—probably more. So, if you think I’ll ever let you in my pants again, you are out of your goddamn mind. One mistake was enough."

  To my complete chagrin, his smile grows. He leans forward, lips almost touching mine. But I won't give him the satisfaction of backing away.

  "We'll see," he whispers, just before his tongue slides across my lips and licks the remaining jelly off. With his smirk still fully in place, he turns and walks upstairs.

  I'm still fuming about the run-in with Tristan when I wake up the next morning. I frown and curse my way through the morning, unable to stop his cocky words from replaying in my mind as I get ready for work.

  So much for acting like nothing happened.

  I should've known he wouldn't be able to let it go. He's too arrogant for his own good, and as much as I want to pretend our sex wasn't hot as fuck, there's no denying for either of us that it was.

  I wonder briefly if the sex is that good with every girl he sleeps with. Does he give all of them the best sex of their lives? Was Saturday even good for him?

  I scowl at the direction of my thoughts and go back to styling my hair. Thinking of how I compare to the many women that have been in Tristan's bed is definitely not a productive use of brain power. Plus, it's sex—guys love sex regardless. And it was obviously good enough for him to think about during the following days, or he wouldn't have admitted to it. Well, that and the fact that he can't wait to do it again.

  Which will definitely not be happening.

  Nothing good can come of us having sex again—no matter how mind-bendingly good it was. My Sunday morning thoughts were only solidified by our encounter last night. Plus, watching him pine for something might actually be fun. If I can limit our interactions at the house and stay more than five feet away from him at all times, then I should be able to withstand his stupid fuck-me presence.

  With that firm conviction ringing in my mind, I finish my morning routine and head to work, determined to put Tristan out of my mind and focus all my energy on the job that I'm lucky to have.

  By the time lunch rolls around, I don't feel quite so lucky.

  It's not often that I have days where I hate my job, but today is one of them. Most days I can coast by with minimal bad interactions, headphones in and typing away at whatever it is I need to research or write.

  But today, it seems like someone has spiked the coffee with asshole juice. Everyone is ornery. I overhear more than one snappy exchange in the cubicles around me, as well as heated conversations loud enough to be heard through the conference room walls. It's not long before I'm on the receiving end of some of it myself.

  Paul, the engineer that loves to not-so-subtly check out my legs, appears at my cubicle before I've even finished my first cup of coffee to grumble about some edits I made to his datasheet. Not long after he's gone, Cassandra appears in a whirlwind of high heels and too-strong perfume, demanding to know why her sales playbook isn't done yet.

  I politely remind her that she only gave it to me on Friday, and that it's a twenty-two-page document that needs some serious touch-ups. Hardly a two-day turnaround time.

  She glares at me before exiting with a huff.

  I sigh and lean forward to hold my head in my hands, gently rubbing my temples. I can already feel the headache building.

  "Long day?" I hear from beside me. I turn to see my coworker from the cubicle next to me peeking around our wall. A hint of a smile is tugging at the corner of his lips.

  "Something like that," I mutter as I lean back in my chair. I stare up at the ceiling for a moment, debating asking my next question.

  "What did you want to be when you were a kid?" I finally ask.

  I can practically sense his wide-eyed surprise. My question is not one that's ever been included in typical workplace small talk.

  "Umm, I think a fireman."

  "And when you were in high school, getting ready to go to college?"

  He frowns in concentration. He thinks about the question for a few seconds before answering honestly, "I wanted to create a non-profit for kids with trauma that need emotional support animals."

  My eyes widen as I turn my attention fully to him. "Really?"

  He swallows and nods, but doesn't go into more detail.

  "Did you ever go into it? Or do you still want to?"

  He nods again. "I obviously didn't have the means to do anything about it when I was in high school, so the plan was to go to college for business and then maybe figure something out. Then a job fell in my lap that I couldn't pass up and it just spiraled from there. I've been in tech ever since." He sighs and turns to stare off at some unseen target. "I always say I'll do it at some point. It's just… this job is too good and too hard to walk away from, you know?"

  I wince but nod in agreement. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I think about the same thing sometimes." Then, in an effort to lighten the suddenly tense mood, I say, "Then again, some days Cassandra makes the idea incredibly appealing."

  He lets out a relieved laugh. "Very true."

  I grin at the only coworker that I don’t hate. But before turning back to my computer, I pause, wanting to admit one last truth before we're shoved back into the daily grind of Corporate America.

  "I hope you do it one day," I tell him honestly.

  The smile slides off his face and the more serious expression returns. He swallows nervously but nods. "Me too," he says quietly.

  The rest of my workday is fairly uneventful. The coffee continues to stay spiked and the people in the office continue to be on edge, but after Cassandra, the attitude seems to stay away from my cubicle, at least. I force myself to work through another two projects before deciding to actually stop working when I'm supposed to. At 5:00, I head down to the gym in the basement.

  I end up running five miles, my conversation with my coworker running on repeat in my head. I rarely meet anyone in the workplace that regrets taking their job or that wants to be doing something else. Or maybe people are just better at hiding it than I realize, since I had no idea he felt that way. But most people seem to be enamored with the money and comfort of working a well-paying 9-5 where, for the most part, they can just coast through their work. Most of my coworkers will admit that they're not enamored with their jobs, but that they use the time and money gained from it to follow their real happiness outside of work. That's how people end up settling for this kind of job for the length of their entire career.

  I never thought I'd fall into that same category. I even got a tattoo on the day I graduated college that was meant to signify that although I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, I vowed that I would never settle and would find something that makes me happy and makes a difference. Settling was—and still is—my biggest fear, and I never meant to stay with something just because it's comfortable and easy.

  Yet here I am, three years after that tattoo was inked into my skin, doing exactly what I vowed not to do.

  I know I don't want to stay in this job, or in this industry. Not only am I not happy, but often I'm actually very unhappy. I don't want to live like that.

  But the idea of quitting without a backup plan, without knowing what I would do otherwise, is fucking terrifying. If nothing else, it would be hard to come by a job that pays as much as my current one does. And since I'm used to a certain level of comfort in my life—including rent that’s not cheap—I can't exactly just leave my job.

  I need… something before I can leave.

  That frustrating conclusion has me itching for a drink by the time I’ve showered and left the building. When I see the lights of my favorite hole in the wall bar flashing at me down the street, an idea takes root in my head.
<
br />   Slowly, almost hesitantly, I start to walk toward Andy's Dive Bar. It's one of the older bars in the city, and very out of place among the other up and coming bars surrounding it in the Business District. But somehow over the years Andy has managed to keep his bar the same dive that it's always been, never conforming to the pressure that's surrounded it.

  It's also not a place I'd ever see any of my coworkers. It's too rundown for that. Not a lot of people know about Andy's Dive, which makes it the perfect place for what I suddenly feel like doing.

  For the first time in years.

  I order my favorite IPA before settling in at the table at the very back corner of the bar. Since it's a Tuesday night there are not a lot of patrons in the bar, just the usual couple of drunks sitting at the counter. I open my laptop with a deep breath.

  Without letting myself think too hard about what I'm doing or why, I start writing. I write random ideas, scenes, plots, anything I can think of. It's a mess of words on my screen, but it's more than I've done in years. Typically, when I sit down to write, I get stuck because I start to think too hard. But tonight, with a few beers and the determination to avoid a life of regret, I let the words flow.

  I sit there for hours. I barely take my eyes off the computer, doing so only to gesture for another drink every once in a while.

  It's the freest I've felt in a long time.

  For once, I'm not tense. I'm not stressed about work, or meeting deadlines, or feeling frustrated about having to do work that's not mine to do.