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

by Nikki Castle

  Tristan's eyes bore into mine even as I feel Jason's face against my skin. There is an intensity—a fury—that I've never seen in him before.

  I hold his gaze, unwilling to back down. I don't shield my own anger from him, either. Let him see how much I hate him right now.

  "Yes, you definitely seemed to make an impression on her at that party," Tristan drawls. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a cruel, condescending smirk.

  The leash on my fury snaps. With every patronizing comment, I feel us dragged further and further back to where we were before I moved into the house. Where he's once again the arrogant, boorish womanizer that I always thought he was.

  The realization that I may have been right about him hurts worse than the pain of losing the man I thought he was.

  "Some of us need more than a quick fuck in a bathroom to keep us interested," I taunt. Without breaking Tristan's gaze, I interlace my fingers with Jason's on my waist. I don’t miss the way his eyes flash down to the contact. "Jason understands that women are worth more than that, that they deserve more than that."

  Tristan laughs mockingly. "It's cute that you think Jason wants anything more than to bend you over and fuck you into submission. I can assure you he doesn't want you for your mind." He looks me up and down with a scoff, as if disgusted by my very presence. My blood freezes at the glance before he's even finished his thought. "After all, the only thing men want from women is pussy. That's all most women are good for, anyway."

  I feel everything in me freeze, from the tip of my nose down to my toes. I inhale a sharp breath, trying to still my heart and stop my lungs in an effort to hold myself together, even as every piece of me wants to shatter onto the floor.

  All the fight leaves my body. It seeps out of my pores as if I had sweat it out from Tristan's single blow. I'm left without any anger, without any urge for revenge, or disappointment that he could be so cruel.

  I'm left with only pain—mind-numbing, agonizing pain.

  I look at Tristan, uncaring that every last piece of my façade has fallen. I let him see my pain. I let him see what his words do to me. I'm so numb that I can't even manage any tears, though I would probably let him see those, too—let him see what those words can do to a woman.

  Jason laughs awkwardly from beside me, taking a small step away. "Damn, dude, way to demolish any hope of a good night. For both of us." Sure enough, the blonde has pulled away from Tristan with an angry pout and walked away without another word. I don't blame her, because I can't bring myself to care about the fact that Jason just admitted he, too, only wanted me for the night.

  Tristan doesn't react—to the girl leaving or to Jason. His eyes haven't left mine. Where his gaze looked both victorious just a moment ago, he's now studying me with a small frown. He straightens and takes a step toward me.

  "Remy…" he starts, unsure. I can tell he's seeing the pain in my eyes, and thankfully showing at least a shred of humanity by seeming to care. His glance darts across my face, taking in the true depth of what I'm showing him, and I can tell he's realized he went too far.

  "Remy…" he tries again, this time with a small break in his voice. He takes another step toward me.

  I shake my head and look down. "Well, I guess you'd know better than I would," I say quietly. I take a deep breath, then look back up at him with a tight smile. "I'm sure you're right. I guess I was an idiot to think differently. Excuse me." I turn away from Tristan and make my way toward the exit.

  "Remy, I didn't mean—" But I don't hear the end of it because I'm already out the door.

  22

  Remy

  I spend the rest of the evening getting shitfaced in my apartment by myself. I've never been any more than a social drinker, but in this moment, I just want to escape from my reality—or at least dull the edges of it. Anything is better than feeling what I feel right now.

  Tristan's parting comment plays on repeat in my head, and every time it does, I feel my heart splinter a little more. I can't decide what hurts worse: his words, or the fact that I was so epically wrong about him. I alternate between hating Tristan for being so heartless, hating myself for being such an idiot, and fighting the pull of a downward spiral of sheer heartache.

  Occasionally I remember my work troubles, which spikes a welcome distraction of panic through my thoughts. I have no one to blame but myself for what happened and I'm fairly certain I'm getting fired on Monday. So, on top of everything, I'll be jobless.

  I down another shot of tequila at the thought.

  Jax calls me at some point but by then I'm already a few shots deep and I can't bring myself to talk to anyone. I pour myself another shot as I let it go to voicemail.

  Sometime later, I pull out my computer and attempt to write something. But I'm drunk enough by then that it's just an angry stream of consciousness that doesn't make any sense, and it barely provides any relief to my overworked brain.

  I slam my computer shut and throw my head back against the couch, a single tear rolling down my cheek.

  I somehow manage to sleep through the night, but after chugging some water and forcing down some toast, I go right back to sleep. My exhausted body happily gives into the blackness.

  I wake several hours later, my head pounding with a vicious hangover and my phone beeping with incoming text messages. I groan and squint at the screen with one eye.

  There's another missed call from Jax this morning but it's Hailey that's blowing up my phone right now. I frown and try to focus.

  Hailey: I hate Steve

  Hailey: I hate him so goddamn much

  Hailey: I don't know what I was thinking moving in here

  Hailey: I need to get out of this house

  Hailey: Are you around this weekend? Can I come over?

  My eyes widen at the texts. I always knew Hailey would reach the wakeup point eventually but I was definitely not expecting it with this much intensity. I immediately type my response.

  Remy: Yea I'm home. I'm moping too so come join the party.

  Her response comes quickly.

  Hailey: I'm already on my way

  I glance at the time. It's almost 4:00, which means I've somehow managed to waste almost an entire day. And yet, when everything from this week comes rushing back, the only thing I want to do is curl up under the covers and go back to unconsciousness.

  That plan is indefinitely put on hold when I hear Hailey fumbling with her keys in the hallway. She opens the door with a bang.

  We both stare at each other with raised eyebrows—me because of Hailey's whirlwind entrance and her because of my very obviously hungover and pathetic state on the couch.

  "It looks like we both have some issues to work through tonight," she finally mutters.

  "Damn straight," I agree gruffly. "Tequila is on the far-left shelf if you've reached that point."

  Hailey shudders at the mention of alcohol. She's never been a big drinker, though I've also noticed that she's even more opposed to it since she started dating Steve. I've never gotten an explanation about why he hates drinking so much but it's obviously affected Hailey's feelings for it, too. I can't remember the last time I saw her actually drunk.

  "No thanks, I'm good," she answers as she pulls her sweatshirt off. "I just need to vent." She plops down on the swivel chair next to me with a huff.

  I sit up with a wince and say, "That's fine, but let me go pee. I've only moved off this couch once since 7:00 last night."

  Hailey's eyes widen at that. I know she knows that I've been fucked up over Tristan, but it was never so bad that I didn't leave the house. She has no idea that everything imploded yesterday.

  In typical caretaker Hailey fashion, she's waiting for me with two aspirin and a big glass of water when I sit back down on the couch. I give her an appreciative smile and swallow the pills. Then I lean back with a quirked eyebrow and stretch out my arms to rest on the back of the couch. I look at my sister expectantly.

  She pulls her legs up to sit cross-legged on the s
eat and places her elbows on each knee, dropping her head into her hands with a groan. "I just hate him so much," she mumbles. "I don't know how I got into this situation."

  "Living with him?" I ask tentatively.

  Her head shoots up in frustration. "Being with him!" she exclaims. "Why did I ever start dating him? We don't even mesh. We never did." She sighs, the fight leaving her as quickly as it came. "I just feel like I'm starting to realize that he's Prince Charming on paper, but the polar opposite in real life. I feel like I was somehow convinced to be with him."

  I don't bother correcting her—the right word is actually manipulated. She needs to figure this out herself before she can see Steve for what he really is.

  I stay quiet and let her vent.

  "He's just not the same person he was when we started dating," she explains, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "It mostly has to do with how he is with me, which is what made me think it was just the honeymoon phase. I thought maybe I just bore him now. But I've noticed lately that it's more than that. He's actually kind of mean. He used to worship me—he would give me compliments, buy me little things that let me know he was thinking of me. Now it seems to be the opposite. He rarely ever texts me during the day or does anything to let me know I'm on his mind, and when we are together, he says things about me that I hate. He tries to play them off as jokes but they're all just barely-disguised insults. He constantly brings up my past relationships, as if he's trying to make me out to be a whore for loving someone before him. And he makes subtle digs about my cooking, my career plans, even my appearance. But by the time I'm ready to be mad at him, he makes it seem like I just can't take a joke. Then he turns the charm on and ten minutes later I forget I was even mad. I get whiplash almost every day."

  She drops her head back against the chair with a groan. "I couldn't figure out if it was just a phase or if he was always like this, but I'm starting to think this is just who he is. Which makes me wonder how I ever started dating him." She sits up with a wince. "And then how I get out of it."

  I look at her with a sad smile. "I'll tell you the same thing I told you a few weeks ago. If he doesn't make you happy, he's not worth it. It doesn't matter if you live together, or if you've been together for years, or if you have a pet together. If you don't want to be with him then don't be with him."

  She sighs and looks down at her hands. "I just feel like I only feel this way when he's angry at me," she mumbles. "Like today. I said one wrong thing and now he's giving me the silent treatment." I snort at that. If any guy I dated began acting like a teenage girl, they would immediately be cut loose.

  Hailey either ignores it or doesn't recognize the ridiculousness of her comment. She turns to look at me. "That doesn't happen often, though. Most of the time we're fine. Our relationship is fine." I raise an eyebrow at the fact that she repeated the word twice.

  A word that should not be used to describe a relationship that anyone should be in.

  But again, she ignores me. Her expression becomes desperate. "How do you end a relationship where you can't exactly pinpoint a problem? There's no one thing I can say is wrong. I can't even give him a specific example of what he says that makes me feel bad. All I have to go on is my feelings. I can't end a relationship without a reason."

  "Hailey," I say sternly. "You can do whatever the fuck you want. If you want to dump Steve because you don't like his haircut anymore, do it. You don't need a specific reason to get out of a relationship if it makes you unhappy. That's the reason. And it's more than enough."

  She looks back at her hands, her face flushing pink with an ashamed blush. "I know," she whispers. She winces and rubs her temples with her fingers. "I'll do it eventually. I already know it's heading in that direction. I just need to do it." She sighs and looks up at me. "Let's move on from my shit and talk about you. What's going on? You look like you spent the night drinking from the bottle."

  Now it's my turn to wince. "I kinda did," I admit. She raises an eyebrow and waits patiently for the rest. Ignoring the pang that slices through me at the reminder, I tell her, "I ran into Tristan at the bar last night."

  Both of her eyebrows shoot to her hairline. "You saw Tristan? And you were at a bar?"

  I nod stiffly. "Those are actually the two parts of this particularly depressive episode. He was flaunting another woman in front of me, and I was only at the bar because I'm being charged with copyright infringement and needed to meet with that lawyer Jason to see how much trouble I'm in."

  Hailey's mouth drops open in shock.

  "Yeah," mutter.

  She continues to stare at me with wide eyes and a slack jaw. "You… I don't… I don't even know what to ask about first."

  I look toward my kitchen, debating grabbing the tequila again. Talking about Hailey's problem was a welcome distraction but now that we're talking about me, all the pain from yesterday comes rushing back—the issue at work, the sight of Tristan picking up another woman, and the hurt I felt when he implied that I was only good for a quick fuck. All of it brings back the bone-deep pain that makes my chest ache.

  And I once again think about how this hurts way more than I thought it would.

  So I tell Hailey everything. I tell her about my fuckup at work, and my upcoming Monday meeting with the company's lawyers. I tell her that I think I might get fired but that maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing because I'm realizing I hate my job. I even tell her I've been writing again and thinking about giving my dream a real shot.

  I tell her about realizing that I’m in love with Tristan. About seeing him with another woman and feeling like my soul was being pulled out of my chest even before he put the final nail in the coffin. She sits next to me on the couch when I tell her that I don't understand how I could fall so hard when he clearly didn't. She holds me as I finally break down for the first time when I tell her that it hurts so fucking bad.

  And we stay that way for the rest of the weekend. Hugging each other and crying, laughing and eating junk food, sleeping on the couch and watching trash TV. We ignore all phone calls from Jax and Steve.

  We're just two sisters, holed up in an apartment for the weekend, comforting each other and readying ourselves to face the world again on Monday morning.

  I look up at the building in front of me and take a deep breath. It's Monday morning and I'm about to walk into work.

  And deal with my colossal screw-up from last week.

  I breathe in again as I steel myself for the situation that's waiting for me on the 12th floor. I've been reminding myself all weekend that a) it was an accident that could've happened to anyone, b) I hate this job anyway, and c) I'm good with money and have enough saved to be okay for a few months. It isn't the end of the world if I get fired this morning. It definitely won't look good on my resume, but it's not the end of the world.

  I've barely had enough time to set up my laptop before my boss appears in my cubicle.

  "Remy, we're ready for you," he says without any kind of greeting.

  I look up at Brian and swallow nervously. He's been my manager for about a year and a half, and while I don't exactly have anything bad to say about him, I'm not really a big fan, either. He's just kind of useless. Doesn't seem like he knows what he's doing, doesn't ever offer any feedback or help, never cares enough to ask how things are going. I don't think he's ever even asked me if I like my job. And he definitely never helped with career progression. He's just… useless.

  "I'll be right in," I say with a nod. When he walks away without another word, I close my eyes and steady myself with a deep breath.

  It's okay, you're okay. It was an accident, and you hate this job. Whatever happens, you'll get through this.

  With those affirmations running on repeat in my head, I stand and make my way toward the conference room.

  There are three people sitting around the far end of the conference table: my boss, my boss' boss, and someone else I don't recognize. I take a seat, my nerves buzzing with the intimidating position of be
ing the only person on this end of the table while three powerful people sit across from me. I clasp my clammy hands together in my lap.

  "Remy, good morning," my boss' boss Will Templeton starts out. "You know Brian and myself, obviously, but this is Sam Hancock, our company's corporate attorney. He'll be involved in this meeting for obvious reasons." I nod stiffly.

  Mr. Templeton pauses to study me for a moment. I don't know anything about the man except that he's damn good at his job as the VP of Sales, so I have no idea how hard he's going to come down on me about this. But this moment of thoughtful attention gives me hope that he'll be understanding.

  He smashes that hope immediately.

  "Remy, you obviously know what this meeting is about. Our competitor has contacted us with a copyright infringement notice for a datasheet that you created. If they were anyone else or if this was any other situation, it most likely would've just been a 'Cease and Desist' request. But because they're a competitor, they're using this as an opportunity to hit us as hard as they can. This could potentially cost us a lot of money." His frown deepens. "Can you explain what happened here?"

  I open my mouth to answer but I'm so nervous that my mouth is completely dry. I swallow and try again. "Unfortunately, the only answer I have for you is that it was an accident. I do a lot of research on the technology and that often means I end up on competitors' websites. The phrase must've stuck in my subconscious and I added it to the datasheet without realizing. I would never knowingly plagiarize anything, Mr. Templeton. It was a complete accident."

  Brian leans forward on the table and clasps his hands in front of him. "Why would you need to do any research, Remy? Why aren't you just working with the materials the engineers give you? That should be more than enough to fine tune and make marketable."