FIGHTING FOR REDEMPTION

AN MMA FIGHTER ROMANCE

CITY LIMITS MMA

BOOK 1

OceanofPDF.com
EMMA MARIE CORMIER

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Copyright © 2022 by Emma Marie Cormier
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems,
without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.

ISBN:
978-0-473-56741-5 (Paperback)
978-0-473-56742-2 (Epub)
978-0-473-56743-9 (Kindle)

978-0-473-56744-6 (PDF)
978-0-473-56745-3 (iBook)

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 CONTENTS

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue

Fighting for Control

Thank You
Acknowledgments
Free Read: Fighting for Her
Join Team Alpha Mail!
About the Author

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 PROLOGUE

Sammy

“What the actual fuck?” I ground my teeth together as I

slammed Scotty’s phone back down on the receiver. Scotty
had been talking to one of the Paramount Fighting
Championship matchmakers about the next round of
Regional Challenger Series fights. He obviously hadn’t
been aware that I had overheard him from the hallway,
because from the sounds of it, he was about to turn down a
match.
My match. My shot at finally turning legit pro.
Over my dead body.
Rage boiling, I’d run into his office, snatched the phone
from his grasp, accepted the fight, and hung up—too pissed
off to care about the contract’s terms. The details didn’t
matter, anyway. Not when the reward was a potential
contract with the biggest mixed martial arts organization in
the world.
Scotty sighed, looking at me incredulously. “Do you have
any idea what you’ve just done?”
I shot Scotty a glower in return. If he didn’t watch the
next words out of his mouth, Sammy “Spitfire” Crawley
wouldn’t even begin to cut it. I’d live so far up to my cage
name I’d spew fucking lava at the guy.
 “Yeah,” I replied. “I’m pretty sure I just gave myself a
shot. A shot you never would have believed in me enough to
take.”
Scotty leaned back in his chair, shaking his head slowly
from side to side. “No, Sam. You just gave yourself a death
sentence. And you’re right—I damn well wouldn’t have
taken it.” Scotty’s tone escalated, his voice cracking on his
last words.
My stomach sunk. I'd heard a lot of things from Scotty—
the guy seriously didn’t know how to shut up sometimes—
but I’d never heard his voice crack like that before.
Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to backdown, so I just
rolled my eyes at him. “Jesus, Scotty—enough with the
dramatics. Whatever it is, it can’t possibly be that bad.”
“Oh, dramatics, huh? Yeah, well… I wish these were
dramatics.” Scotty shot out of his high-backed office chair
and paced back and forth across the room, picking up a
newspaper and twisting it violently in his hands as he did
so.
Yep, Scotty still read newspapers. Or at least, he
pretended to. And he kept a landline—one with a spiral
cord and a mechanical ring. His protectiveness over his
prized, ancient possessions and his relentless dated pop-
culture references betrayed his affection for bad eighties
boxing movies. His almost maniacal adherence to a
staunch, old-school vision for his gym was, at times,
unsettling. Especially for his small roster of female fighters.
“Welcome to the big show, cupcake.” Scotty exhaled,
slamming the newspaper down on his solid oak desk. “You
just played yourself.”
I put a hand on my hip, jutting it out to the side. All sass,
zero class. At least, that’s what my ma used to tell me
whenever I’d assumed a similar stance as a teenager. “And
how did I do that, exactly?”
Scotty looked around wildly as if searching for how I
could be so stupid. “Asking who your opponent was going
to be just… didn’t occur to you at all when you accepted
that fight, did it?”
“No.” I pouted, crossing my arms over my chest. “But I
didn’t think—”
“Exactly—you’re goddamned right you didn’t!” Scotty
pointed an accusatory finger at me before slumping back
down in his chair. “And now we’re both going to suffer the
consequences. Because your shot? The one you’ve been
busting your ass for? It’s against Isla.”
I frowned. That couldn’t be right. Isla “The Entangler”
Valentina had been my lead training partner for all three of
my professional fights. Not only were we friends, but she
knew everything there was to know about my fighting
style… which also meant that she knew everything there
was to know about kicking my ass.
“What? But Scotty, there’s no way,” I scoffed. “The PFC
matchmakers don’t pair sparring partners from the same
gym together for fights—especially not Challenger Series
ones.”
I tensed, my anger quickly turning to anxiety as Scotty
slammed his fists down onto his desk. He left them there
for a moment before resting his forehead on them, his
groan of frustration reverberating around the room.
My stomach lurched. In the two years I’d been training
as a mixed martial artist at City Limits Gym, I didn’t think
I’d ever seen Scotty look so defeated. And he’d been
through some serious shit, too—the gym had been
perilously close to closing at least three times since I’d
started training here.
After a long pause, Scotty raised his head. His blue eyes
pierced mine as he ran his tongue across his teeth, hurt
and disgust emanating from every pore.
“You’re right, Sammy. They don’t.”

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 ONE

Ames

I drained my glass, tapped it twice on the bar, and pushed

it back toward the bartender.
How many drinks was this now… five? Eight? I’d
stopped counting. Not that it mattered. The bartender at
Harvey Dime’s hadn’t once turned me down for service, no
matter how many drinks I’d ordered. It was clear from the
paint peeling off the walls and the godawful ass-bruising
barstools that the man couldn’t afford to.
The bartender, Harvey—or whatever his name was—
placed my refilled glass back down on the paper coaster
without a word.
“Good m-man,” I slurred.
He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and returned his
attention to the screen above the bar.
I grunted and grabbed a handful of stale peanuts.
Tonight, I’d shell out the extra twenty bucks to rest up in
the trailer Harvey kept out back—my bad knee wasn’t likely
to hold out for the five-mile stumble back to my cabin.
Three… four more drinks, then I’d stagger out to the
trailer, splash some milk in the bowl out front for Dixie—the
stray cat who always seemed to follow me everywhere—and
pass out.
 I sighed.
Hell, maybe I’d even shoot for a couple extra.
Considering what I’d just witnessed, I’d need the extra
alcohol just to be able to sleep.
Because the light heavyweight division—my division—
had a shiny, new champion. And the fight that had just
earned Jason “The Nightmare” Ferguson my belt was
burned deep into my retinas.
My gaze flicked back up to the screen above the bar.
Fights like this always tore at me the most. Yet here I was,
hunched over on my usual rickety stool, drink refilled,
tipping my baseball cap down a little. None of the handful
of regulars paid me any attention, though. I’d received the
odd look when I’d first arrived in this neck of the woods,
but now I was just as much a fixture of this place as
Harvey’s damned taxidermy deer head, mounted above the
restrooms.
I sniffed back my self-disgust. This was exactly the kind
of shithole I’d busted my ass trying to leave. Now? It was
the only place I felt comfortable calling home.
The fight had finished a good five or so minutes ago, but
the commentators continued on with their inane banter.
As they always did.
There was a new one tonight—a kid who was obviously
fresh from some college degree that supposedly qualified
him to commentate on a sports broadcast. Whoever he
claimed to be, he wasn’t a fighter, that was for sure. His
face was too pretty, and his ears were intact, showing no
sign of the cauliflowering sported by high-level grapplers.
“And this will surely be a bittersweet win for our new
light heavyweight champion, Jason ‘The Nightmare’
Ferguson. With that second-round knockout, The
Nightmare falls just short of besting the record for the
longest first-round stoppage streak in Paramount Fighting
Championship history. Which, of course, is still held by
Ames ‘The Anesthetist’ Anderson.”
 My lip quirked—an involuntary reaction to the mention
of my name. I tipped the rim of my glass to the screen.
“Better luck next time, kid.”
Raising the glass to my lips, I saluted the latest threat to
my legacy—a relative newcomer, but a stupidly active
fighter, still undefeated in the PFC.
At least he was somewhat worthy enough to be my
successor. Unlike Harvey “The Boulder” Harrison,
Ferguson had enough skill that it wouldn’t feel like a
complete insult for him to wear the belt that should still, by
rights, be mine.
Jason was tough. Well-rounded—albeit not as strong in
his ground game as he was on his feet—and he had a
decent chin on him. Still, he wouldn’t have given me any
trouble. At least, not back when I was in my prime. Now—
with my bad knee and all the aches and pains that came
from recently discovering the wrong side of forty—well,
hypothetically he’d prove a bit more of a challenge.
Even so, I could have taken out Harvey in round one.
The idiot who had warmed my belt for the past year had
left himself wide open to an easy armbar, barely three
minutes into the first round. Only, Jason—who was now
parading around the cage, asking for my belt with his
cornermen in tow—hadn’t seen the split-second opportunity
for what it was.
I grunted, slamming my now half-empty glass back down
on the paper coaster. The fight had ended with Jason
breaking Harvey’s jaw in the final thirty seconds of the
second round. The finishing move? A jab that had snapped
The Boulder’s head back, followed by a powerful left hook.
The commentators paused, scrambling to fill the
awkward space as they waited for the announcement of the
official decision. The live feed cut to the two of them sitting
at a table next to the cage, the cameras shying away from
the brutal reality of Harvey’s jaw—hanging, bloody and
unhinged, the cage-side doctor taking barely a second to
confirm that it was right broken.
The newbie cleared his throat. I took another gulp of
beer, trying to feign indifference, even as my gut churned.
“Whatever happened to Ames Anderson, John?”
“Now, isn’t that the question on everyone’s mind,
Christopher. Quitting the game after the longest win streak
in Paramount Fighting Championship history, Ames ‘The
Anesthetist’ Anderson is still officially missing-in-action
from the mixed martial arts scene. Anderson hasn’t been
seen or heard from since his stunning title defense against
‘Vicious’ Steve Harrison, just over three years ago.”
I snorted into my beer.
Quitting. What a joke.
Yet, according to the official version of PFC history, I
was a quitter.
Same line, different day—yet it still hit like a stiff jab to
the solar plexus every time I heard it.
I swallowed hard against the lump embedded in my
throat, its raspy dryness a solid indication I was in dire
need of another beer.
The newbie commentator faltered again as he collected
his thoughts. “Well, tonight, John, I bet he’s for sure
basking in the glory of his incredible unbroken record.” He
grinned, right into the camera—and although the smile was
genuine, no doubt the big boss would still aim a couple of
choice words at him afterward about his lacking PFC
history.
Behind me, a sharp, familiar exhale caused my shoulders
to tense.
“Sure, or he’s anesthetizing himself in some bar in the
middle of buttfuck nowhere.”
I clenched my jaw. I knew exactly who it was before I
even turned around.
Scotty fucking Dawson.
 I turned and scowled at him, and Scotty’s eyes flew open
in surprise. “You err… you got a little something on your
face, there, buddy,” Scotty said, pointing at my chin.
“Well, there’s not much point in shaving when you’re in
the middle of buttfuck nowhere as you so politely put it, is
there, asshat?” I growled, quickly draining the dregs of my
drink.
Wherever this conversation was headed, I didn’t want to
be here for it.
Scotty rubbed the back of his neck. “You take up
lumberjacking in your retirement, Ames, or just jacking
off?”
A muscle in my temple twitched, but I ignored Scotty’s
jibe. “I chop enough firewood to keep me in shape.” I
crossed my arms over my chest—if only to prove my biceps
were still as impressive as they had been during my many
years in and out of the cage.
Scotty nodded. “So it would seem. Looking good, buddy.
That right brachioradialis is certainly looking impressive.
Might want to work on the grip strength on your left
there.”
I snorted. Scotty may have been as quick-witted as he
was quick-tempered, but his penchant for dick jokes left a
lot to be desired. “Fuck you, numbskull.”
Scotty raised an eyebrow at me suspiciously, no doubt
assessing my current state of inebriation.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Look, I don’t know what
you’re doing here, but whatever you want, the answer is
no.” I rose from my chair, suddenly feeling far more sober
than I had any right to be.
“Aww, come on now, Ames. That’s no way to treat your
old sparring partner now, is it?” Scotty clapped me on the
back, hard enough to emphasize that he wanted me to sit
back down, and simultaneously flagged down the
bartender, pointed to my beer, and indicated for another
round.
 I stayed standing. Then, I pulled out my wallet to settle
my tab—plus the extra twenty. As much as I liked the guy,
Scotty “Scrubs” Dawson hadn’t tracked me down for shits
and giggles.
Harvey slid a key in my direction, his face turned away,
feigning captivated interest in the snore-fest that was the
after-fight commentary. Obviously, the guy wanted about as
much to do with this conversation as I did.
“I got myself a gym in the city now, did you hear?”
Scotty continued, tenacious as ever. “City Limits MMA.
We’re doing pretty well. Got a couple of fighters signed up
for the Paramount—a couple more who are close to signing,
including one I thought you might be interested—”
I groaned, grabbing the key and storming toward the
back door, Scotty trailing behind me. “Don’t care. Never
will. Whoever he is, he’ll never be as good as me. Besides,
you know why I can’t come back.” I shot Scotty a look.
Scotty paused, rubbing the five o’clock shadow on his
chin.
I growled. I was too quick to rise to his bait. Too eager
to cut him off—already emotionally invested in what he was
going to say next.
“Come on now, Ames. Surely you miss the lights;
sweating it out in the gym…” I shot Scotty a sarcastic look.
“Fine, then. Surely you miss a decent bloody beer! The stuff
in there looks like stale piss water.”
I paused for a minute as I fumbled with the key to the
trailer. The slippery, rotting boards on the tiny makeshift
porch made for perilous ground, but Scotty squeezed onto
the thing next to me regardless, holding his position.
Finally, I jammed the key into the lock. “I can’t, Scotty. I
have to stay here. I have… responsibilities. Things I gotta
take care of.”
Scotty cleared his throat pointedly. “Responsibilities.
You don’t say.”
 “Yes. I’ve got—” I looked around, searching for
something—anything—that could get this reminder of my
old life out of my face. Thankfully, one just happened to rub
against my leg. “I’ve got… the cat.”
“A cat? Seriously, Ames?” Scotty replied incredulously.
“You’re going to turn me down for some stray pussy?”
“For fuck’s sake!” My already bristled temper raged out
of control.
The last person in the world I should have to explain
myself to was Scotty fucking Dawson! Wasn’t he there,
cornering me for my last fight? Wasn’t he the one who had
to scrape the damned pieces of me off the floor and shove
me back together again when my life fell a-fucking-part?
“Yes, dickwad. A poor, sorry-ass, chicken-killing cat. And
before you ask, no. There ain’t no one else who’d feed her if
I left.”
Scotty half smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Chicken-
killer, huh? Sounds like she can manage just fine on her
own.”
I crouched down and rubbed Dixie’s paper-thin ear, all
scabbed up from fighting off her competition. Or from
slaying her last meal—it didn’t matter to her; she was
always willing to fight, no matter the adversary—no matter
the consequences. “There ain’t none of us in this world who
can manage just fine on our own,” I mumbled. I bit down on
the inside of my cheek. I didn’t know where those words
had come from exactly, but I sure as hell started to regret
them as soon as they’d left my mouth.
A pause settled between the two of us. Sodden,
uncomfortable.
I swallowed, and the porch was so silent I could hear the
pop in my ears when I did.
Then, Scotty sighed. “Please, Ames. You know I wouldn’t
be asking if it wasn’t important. She’ll never make it to the
PFC without a decent defensive wrestling coach, not
against the opponent they have lined up for her.”
 “She?” I frowned.
Scotty nodded.
My guard wavered as Scotty thrust his phone in my face.
“See? She’s talented. Enough for a PFC contract,
anyhow.”
My heartbeat increased as I watched the recording of
Scotty’s fighter’s bout. At first glance, she had a firm
stance, good upper body movement, and seemed to read
her opponent well. Then, she bobbed her opponent’s
straight right and fumbled through a maneuver to create
space instead of going for an obvious, easy takedown.
I grunted. “She don’t know shit about wrestling.”
“Exactly why she needs you. She needs help to get her
in and out of the scramble. Or enough at least to defend
against it. Otherwise, she has no shot in hell of making it
through her Challenger bout.”
I paused, considering the screen further. She was tall
but lean, a strawweight, perhaps a flyweight at a stretch.
Even so, the strikes she was landing were hitting well
above her weight class.
Even I couldn’t deny the girl had potential. And
something else, too—something mesmerizing, almost
hypnotic, about the way she moved. There was a freedom
to it, a grace that defied popular form.
Scotty spoke again. “The Paramount media team want to
feed us to the wolves on this one, Ames. I can’t let that
happen.”
I shook my head and ripped my eyes away from the
screen.
“If not for her sake, then for mine. Will we still lose? Yes
—that outcome’s more or less inevitable. But I don’t think
my little gym can survive a televised ten-second
submission, either. We’re on the financial ropes as it is.”
I glowered at him, but Scotty continued, pouncing on his
opening. “Give me six weeks. All I need is for you to coach
her through her training camp before her fight. Four
sessions a week, even—just get her good enough to survive
the first round. And you can come back to this shithole
three days a week to tend to your responsibilities.
Whatever they happen to be.”
I took a deep breath in. If anyone could convince me to
come back, it was Scotty. My sparring partner for the best
and worst five years of my career, Scotty “Scrubs” Dawson
was the closest I’d ever had to family. But I couldn’t go
back to that world, not knowing the relentless questioning
that would follow.
The word that would follow me back.
Quitter.
“No, Scrubs. I’m sorry. I wish you and the girl all the
best. But my answer’s still no.”
I stood square in the doorway to the trailer, blocking
Scotty from entering. This was the end of the road for him
—there was no moving forward. Still, something about the
casual way he leaned against the rotting porch railing set
my teeth on edge.
Scotty licked his lips. “You’ll never guess who her
opponent’s coach is. Started his own gym across town a
few months back, trying to cause a drama big enough to
stir up the PFC media machine. Metro Unlimited, he called
it.” Scotty scoffed as his hand tightened around the railing,
little wooden splinters falling to the ground below. “He’s
trying to fuck me over, Ames. Poached one of my own.
Sammy’s training partner, no less—God knows how he
convinced her to do it.”
My stomach dropped to the dirt.
And there it was: Scotty’s ace.
I didn’t need to hear him say the name. I already knew
it.
Knew it because Scotty knew there was only one man
who could bring me back from the MMA walking dead.
The man who’d ended my career. Who’d savaged my
shot at securing my status as the Greatest of All Time. And,
from the sounds of it, who was now trying to end Scotty’s,
too.
I swallowed, clenching my jaw with teeth-cracking
pressure as I thought about the girl in the video.
I had no choice.
“Three sessions a week. And I ain’t staying for the
fight.”
Scotty quickly nodded, relief flooding his eyes.
“I keep the beard. One-on-one training sessions with the
girl, only. No one from the PFC finds out I’m there. No one
at your gym even breathes my name.”
“Deal.” Scotty’s shoulders relaxed and his face broke
into a broad, relieved grin. “It’s good to have you back,
brother.”
“Don’t get used to it.” I grimaced, every part of me
screaming to run in the opposite direction.
As it turned out, the devil came to me disguised as a
smart-assed, five-foot-eight lightweight from Colorado—and
I’d just signed a deal with him I would no doubt live to
regret.

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 TWO

Sammy

I killed the engine of my rust bucket car in the City Limits

Gym parking lot at 3:45 a.m. I closed my eyes for a
moment. I was a solid hour and fifteen minutes early for the
first day of my training camp.
I took a deep breath in as I downed the last swig of my
terrible gas station coffee. This fight would be the biggest
of my career. Even so, never in the two years that I’d been
training with him had Scotty ever asked me—or any other
fighter, for that matter—to turn up at the gym this early.
He was obviously punishing me.
Punishing me for undermining his authority with the
PFC. Punishing me for taking a fight he didn’t think I was
capable of winning.
I balled my hands into fists.
Well today, the joke was on him—because Scotty hated
morning training sessions far more than I did.
I bit the inside of my cheek, subduing my familiar tingle
of pre-camp jitters. Pre-camp jitters… or perhaps it was the
coffee. I was on my third cup of the stuff already. Cold and
black, it was the absolute opposite of my usual sugar-laden,
three-pumps-of-whatever-seasonal-flavor-was-going milky
morning beverage.
 I rubbed my clammy palms on my shorts. Like me, the
coffee was only there to do a job. Nothing more. Nothing
less.
I pulled my key from the ignition. Usually, I’d be
dragging my feet on the first day of training camp—turning
up late, even—far too aware that this would be my last
pain-free moment for weeks. More often than not, I’d still
be full and bloated from my traditional final cheat day
binge the night before, too—stuffed to the brim on
pepperoni pizza and vanilla custard donuts.
But this time was different. Today, I was arriving ready.
Rested. Fasted. My cardio game already the strongest it
had ever been.
I clenched my teeth and swallowed back a surge of
anger as I snatched my training bag from the back seat.
Drawing in breath until my lungs hurt, I pulled myself back,
reining in my anger just short of slamming my trusty rust
bucket’s driver door closed.
Poor Trumpet. My car didn’t deserve to be on the
receiving end of my rage.
My coach, on the other hand…
I narrowed my eyes. I had to use my anger strategically
and save it for the people who deserved it the most. I had
to bottle it and turn it into fuel instead of letting it consume
me and rip me to shreds.
And in six weeks, when I was in the cage? That was
when I’d finally be able to show Isla exactly how much her
betrayal had hurt.
And when I was finished…
I closed my eyes, savoring the thought of the moment I
would relish the most. The moment when I would finally be
able to let my anger go for good—by turning it toward the
person who truly deserved it.
Scotty-fucking-Dawson.
That lying rat bastard.
 He didn’t mean for me to overhear him, but his words
before I’d barged into his office had still hurt more than a
fractured orbital.
… simply not ready… not about to send her into the cage
like a lamb to the slaughter… barely competent on her feet,
let alone on her back…
Those words had haunted me for weeks now, torturing
me by replaying over and over in my head every night since
I’d heard them. Scotty knew that I needed a shot at the
PFC. He knew I was running out of time, money, and the
energy to keep training for a shot I didn’t know if I would
ever get.
At thirty-two, I was getting too old for the Paramount
Fighting Championship. Not too old to fight, but too old to
join the PFC and have any hope of securing a belt before
people started talking about my retirement. It was now or
never. Besides, I’d already had three professional fights—
and three professional wins, too—plus a boatload of
amateur experience to boot.
When we’d last discussed it, Scotty had promised me
that he’d take the shot when it came, regardless of what
package it came in. And yet, when he’d picked up that call,
he still hadn’t believed in me enough to say yes.
Fighting alongside a coach who didn’t believe in you…
well, that was tantamount to boxing with broken arms. And
although I didn’t like the guy much, I had trusted him—his
betrayal hurting me more than any punishment I had ever
taken in the cage.
Had there been other fight opportunities before this?
Would he even have told me about this one, had I not
overheard him? Or would he have just let me continue
giving my all at the gym for nothing, turning down every
opportunity that came my way?
I sighed, scanning my security card at the gym doors. I’d
racked up two whole years of training with Scotty “Scrubs”
Dawson in his gym, and yet I knew in my heart that he
never would have told me about that call. He would have
strolled into the gym from his office, thrown me a thumbs
up and an “atta-girl”, and then zippity-fucking-doo-dahed
straight back again to tell the next guy that I had “more
hope of walking around a PFC cage holding a sign between
rounds than seeing the inside of it.”
Slippery son of a bitch.
At least I would have plenty of opportunities over the
next six weeks to clock him one.
I massaged my jaw and clicked my neck from side to
side before I laced up my sneakers.
So what if my coach didn’t believe in me? How was that
anything new? No one had believed in me throughout my
whole fighting career—I’d been dealing with that shit for
longer than Santa Claus.
Dealing with people who didn’t believe in me.
Dealing with people who looked down their noses, who
thought what I did was wrong, or dangerous, or
“unbecoming.”
People who told me I was wasting my life.
So what?
I’ll show them.
I wiggled my toes, shaking out the tension in my body as
I stood in the center of the deathly silent gym.
I had the skills.
I was determined.
And I knew I landed the heaviest leg kicks in my entire
freaking weight class—pro or no.
So, the next time someone underestimated me?
It would be over their dead body.
Stretching to limber myself up, I headed over to the row
of cardio machines against the far wall of the gym. Over
the past month, I’d spent so much time here in the gym’s
off-hours that the eerie morning silence of the place now
felt comforting.
 When the lights were dimmed, and the only noise I could
hear was my feet pounding against the treadmill, that was
where I found my peace.
I stepped up on the machine. I’d just found a rhythm—
music flowing, mind floating—when a voice behind me
almost caused me to jump out of my skin. I wasn’t due to
meet Scotty for another hour, and it was unlike him to turn
up for a training session with me a minute earlier than he
had to.
But it wasn’t Scotty’s voice that reverberated through
me like a shockwave.
“She’s a might shorter than I would’ve hoped.”
Something in the gruff reluctance of the voice behind me
made me shiver.
I gripped the handrails to stop myself from flying
backwards and stabbed at the emergency stop button on
the treadmill before turning around. A man—tall, built, and
bathed in shadow—stood behind me. The hood of his hoodie
was pulled down, casting menacing shadows over his face.
My stomach lurched as a flash of silvery light caught in his
cold eyes. Beside him stood Scotty, yawning, looking for all
the world like he didn’t want to be there.
A flash of indignation tore through me.
Of course he doesn’t want to be here. Hasn’t he proven
that to me already?
Scotty shrugged a reply to the guy behind him. “Isla’s
only five-five. She has a two-inch height advantage.”
Gruff shot Scotty the kind of killer side-eye that would
stop a freight train in its tracks. “Ain’t gonna do her much
good on the ground, is it, numbnuts? How about her
reach?”
Scotty screwed up his nose. “Meh, about on par. She has
a killer kick, though. And long legs, so a definite reach
advantage there.”
I looked from one smartass to the other. “Um, hello?”
Both ignored me.
 I stopped myself short from grinding my teeth together
—the last thing I needed before the biggest fight of my life
was a cracked tooth.
Typical male fighters.
Scotty slapped the guy on the back as he retreated a
little to give the man a better view of me. My shoulders
tensed and my upper lip twitched as he assessed me,
looking me up and down like a slab of prime meat.
I wiped the sweat off my brow, clenching my jaw, then
releasing. “You going to tell me who your new boyfriend is,
Scotty, or are you two just going to stand there with your
dicks in your hands?”
Scotty’s lip quirked up in a half-smile, revealing a boyish
dimple that had no doubt made him a hit when he was
younger with the girls on the playground. “Might be able to
fault her reach, but you can’t fault her spirit.”
Gruff growled, stepping a little closer, but not entirely
out of the shadows. “You can if she doesn’t think before she
acts.”
I scoffed.
What the hell? Who does this guy think he is?
Scotty scratched his chin, the three of us eyeing each
other up a moment longer.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I squinted,
trying to make out Gruff’s features behind the peak of his
hoodie and his cloak of shadow.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” Scotty said, yawning.
“Sammy, meet your new coach. Listen to what he says and
you might just stand a chance of not tapping out to Isla in
the first round.”
Gruff stepped forward, pulling his hood off at the same
time, finally giving me a good look at his face. Something
sparked inside me. He was familiar, but I couldn’t place
him. He was also freaking spectacular. With cheekbones so
sharp they could cut through a ribeye, eyes so hazel they
shone a predatory gold, and a full, thick beard—dense and
unkempt.
My heart jumped into my throat as Scotty turned to
leave.
“Wait, so you’re just… dumping me? On some… some
mountain man who looks like he’s fresh from wrestling
bears in Russia?”
Scotty chewed at a hangnail, not even venturing to make
eye contact with me. “It’s been a few years since he’s
wrestled any bears, eh, buddy? When were you in Russia
last… five, ten years ago?”
“Something like that.” Gruff shrugged his agreement.
My eyes widened. I looked back and forth between the two
of them like they were crazy—because, clearly, they both
were.
Scotty cleared his throat. “Actually, he’s fresh from, err,
lumberjacking. That, and wrestling… with other things.
Like fear, self-control, and chicken-killing cats, on
occasion.” Scotty raised an eyebrow in Gruff’s direction.
Gruff bristled and scowled at him in return, but Scotty
just shrugged, as though the sharp edge of Gruff’s perilous
anger rolled off him like water.
How long had these two known each other, exactly?
“You’ll still be working with me on conditioning and
sparring,” Scotty continued. “Old Lumberjack here will be
working with you on takedowns, grappling, and wrestling
defense. Three sessions a week—one-on-one, off-hours only.
Thus, the horrifically early morning. Definitely not my
training preference, that’s for sure.” Scotty yawned yet
again.
Gruff crossed his arms over his chest. He was broad
across the shoulders, built out with strong, durable-looking
muscle, and much taller than Scotty. And although I
couldn’t see much of his frame under his oversized hoodie,
the tension of his crossed arms pulled his shirt up to reveal
a sliver of his tapered hips, a flash of ink, and a hint of the
trail of hair that stretched from his naval down to more
interesting locations.
I shivered. He had a touch of the wild about him—pine
and petrichor, smoke and fire. The natural kind of wild, not
the type found on inner-city streets. And he had the body of
a fighter. The body of someone who had seen the right side
of a real, professional cage enough to be comfortable in it.
Of that, there was no doubt in my mind.
“Don’t worry, Sam,” Scotty said, patting my shoulder.
“He’s not as vicious as he seems.”
Scotty’s smarmy, self-satisfied grin did little to endear
him to me—or, by the sour look on his face—to Gruff, either.
“You really do have a fucking death wish, don’t you?”
Gruff growled. He stalked past Scotty, jostling him on the
way, and paced around me, the muscle at the base of his
rigid jawline working overtime. “You know what? Fuck it.
I’ve changed my mind. She ain’t good enough for the PFC.
Find her someone else. I’m out.”
Fury boiled inside me, so hot and heavy it couldn’t be
denied.
I didn’t know what it was—if it was something in the
tone of his voice, the way he instantly dismissed me, or in
the way he looked at me with those predatory hazel eyes.
Perhaps it was just the inevitable result of Scotty’s
relentless underestimation—or their combined desire to
tear me apart and find me wanting. Maybe something
inside me just… snapped. But whatever the reason, the
moment Gruff tore his eyes away from mine, I attacked.
Instinctually, I pulled the trigger on the most powerful
weapon I had in my arsenal—a short, sharp kick, right to
the outside of his left knee.
Gruff’s own instincts were on point. His eyes widened
for a split second before he pivoted, stooping to catch my
ankle in his right hand, his firm grip threatening to throw
me off balance before he tossed my leg, spinning me to face
away from him with my own momentum.
 Kicking someone when they didn’t expect it. It was a
move that would’ve had me instantly booted out of any
other gym on the planet. Hell, it was a move that would
have gotten me booted out of this gym had I aimed it at
anyone else, under any different circumstances.
My fury rose, unbridled, relentless, and unapologetic—
years of being under-appreciated finally coming to a head. I
turned and stepped forward into Gruff’s guard, risking the
full fury of his retaliation.
I closed my eyes, taking in a deep, shuddering breath
before fixing him with a deathly stare.
“You can doubt my range. My reach. My grappling skills.
Hell, I’ll even take a critique on my kickboxing. But if you
ever—ever—doubt that I’m ready for this again, I will
fucking end you, you conceited, puffed-up billy goat.”
Something flickered in the shadows behind Gruff’s eyes.
Some demon surfacing, solidifying, and then retreating.
Behind him, Scotty’s disinterest faded, mild amusement
taking its place. Gruff towered over me, his eyes burning
into mine. Neither of us flinched. Neither of us moved.
“Does she always fix straight on her opponent’s weak
points?”
Scotty’s dimple came back with a vengeance. “Yup.
That’s why I picked her up from the amateur scene. Her
game needs some rounding, sure, but she’s as savage as
they get.”
… weak points? I frowned. I hadn’t even realized Gruff
had an injury. Not consciously, anyway.
“Fine,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “I’ll train you.
But you kick me like that again, and it’ll be your fucking
funeral.”
“Well, that’s just brilliant.” Scotty clapped his hands
together. “And what a joyous place my gym will be, with the
both of you in it. I’ll start planning our pivot into funeral
services now, shall I?”
 Gruff and I both scowled. At each other. At Scotty. Gruff
and I may have been at loggerheads, but it seemed there
was one thing we could agree on: neither of us was going
to dignify Scotty with a response.
Regardless, Scotty continued with his incessant
monologuing. “Yes, City Limits Funeral Parlor has quite the
ring to it,” he said as he walked toward his office. “Have
fun, you two. I need to make a few calls.” Scotty stretched,
yawned, and slammed his office door closed with his foot—
obviously more interested in taking a nap than in anything
remotely resembling work.
The tense silence in the gym continued long after
Scotty’s departure.
So much for my peaceful morning warm-up run.
“So. You have a name?” I ventured. “Or are we going to
forgo normal human pleasantries and fly straight to Russia
to wrestle bears?”
Gruff’s eyes widened in alarm. “Just… call me Billy,” he
said. “Though you can forget the goat part,” he added, a
little too loudly. Then he ran a hand through his hair and
sighed.
“Ohh-kay. Noted.”
“I just… don’t much like goats,” he growled.
“Also noted.” I nodded. “Anything else you want to
weirdly proclaim before we begin, Billy no-name who, for
some reason, hates small, harmless farm animals?”
Gruff sighed again, shoulders deflating. “This really isn’t
starting out the way I expected,” he mumbled, scratching
the back of his head.
I thought for a moment. To be fair, this wasn’t how I had
expected my day to start, either. And having a dedicated
wrestling coach wasn’t something I could afford to let slip
through my fingers—not when I was six weeks away from
staring down the best submission artist I knew. “Shall we
blame it all on Scotty and start over? Preferably without
the goat-hating and awkward stare down assessment?”
 Gruff’s nostrils flared. He avoided making eye contact
with me. “Fine.”
I held out my hand. “Hi. I’m Sammy. Nice to meet you,” I
started.
Gruff looked around as if trying to locate an escape
route.
“Wow, okay. You really don’t want me to know who you
are.”
“Not if I can avoid it.”
“Okay, then.” I smiled. “I guess I’ll just have to use my
incredible powers of deduction. Perhaps you can think of it
as payback.” I circled him, assessing him like he had me.
Gruff tensed.
“Well, you obviously know Scotty well—very few around
here have the stomach to tolerate his shit like that.”
I circled him again, tapping my chin. “So, perhaps an old
coach, maybe a sparring partner?”
“Maybe,” he ground out.
“And you’re obviously a fighter. A good enough wrestler
to train in Russia—what was it, five, ten years ago? A pro at
some point, then. Scotty doesn’t make a habit of messing
around with amateurs.” I raised an eyebrow, hoping to
glean some morsel of truth from his reaction.
Gruff faltered under my gaze. “Let’s just get to work.”
“Ahh, so I’m close,” I jeered. “Then there’s the question
of weight class. That should help narrow it down a bit
further. Definitely not the frame of a lightweight.” I
deliberated, still circling. “Perhaps middleweight, with a
significant weight cut. Too lean for heavyweight, so… Light-
heavy?”
Gruff growled, rolling his eyes and ripping off his hoodie
to reveal the most iconic ink of anyone who had ever fought
in the PFC.
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly bone dry.
Intricately designed sleeves, a set of broken, feathered
wings that crossed over from his back and stretched
around to his collar bone, and a looming, cloaked, skeletal
figure running the length of his spine—carrying a staff with
two entwined serpents at its side.
It looked like Isla had just dropped in the rankings of
best submission artists I knew, because there was no doubt
the man before me now was one of the greatest of all time.
The angel of death—The Anesthetist.
Ames Anderson cleared his throat. “Does this answer
your question?”

OceanofPDF.com
 THREE

Ames

“Let’s get to it,” I said, extracting my T-shirt from my

hoodie and shoving it back over my head.
Sammy’s eyes practically bugged out of her skull. Likely,
she was full of questions—questions I had zero intention of
answering.
“A-absolutely,” she stuttered, swallowing.
While she was shorter than I had expected, Sammy had
the right frame for kickboxing—with a compact torso and
long limbs. And from the kick she’d tried to strike me with
earlier, she obviously knew how to use it—though, she
relied heavily on her power and not enough on technique.
She also had the clearest, bluest eyes I’d ever seen. Not
the pale blue of dawn like Scotty’s, but a deep,
mesmerizing cerulean. The kind of blue that invoked both
turbulence and calm—the Mediterranean Sea in a spring
storm.
“I thought we’d start with some interval training, then
move on to some sparring. I know Scotty said he’ll take you
for strength and conditioning, but I want to get a feel for
your strengths before I start homing in on your
weaknesses.”
“Okay,” Sammy replied.
 I didn’t know if it resulted from her finding out who I
was or Scotty’s leaving, but Sammy’s attitude had pulled a
complete one-eighty.
“Alright, well… treadmills. Guess I’ll join you. Three five-
minute rounds to see how your cardio holds up over the
length of a normal fight. We’ll take it easy, though—just a
steady run.”
“Sounds good.”
Huh. I scratched the back of my head. She really was all
business now, the piss and vinegar—no, it was more like
fire—fading into intense concentration. Had Scotty really
wound her up that much?
Sammy completed her three five-minute intervals with
no issue, hardly even breathing harder, her pulse rate
recovering well after each round. For my part, I fell into a
comfortable rhythm beside her, our pounding feet the only
sound in an otherwise easy, companionable silence—a stark
contrast to our painfully awkward introduction.
“Go for the championship rounds?” Sammy asked as we
stepped off after our third.
“Might as well. Your cardio’s decent.”
Sammy scrunched her nose. “I’ve been avoiding Scotty,
after the, um, incident. With the call. When I’m on my own
in the mornings, it makes more sense to focus on cardio.
So, yeah. That’s what I’ve been doing most of the time.”
“Incident?” I asked as we stepped on the treadmills
again for our mock fourth round.
“Oh, he didn’t tell you?” Sammy’s gaze flashed to me
briefly in surprise. “Well. Apparently, he had no intention of
me taking this fight. Even told the matchmaker that I had
more hope of walking around a PFC cage than stepping in
it,” Sammy huffed, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair
behind her ear as she jogged. She took a deep breath in.
“I’ve been training here for two years now. I should be used
to comments like that, but for some reason, that one really
stung.”
 I balled my hands into fists, a flash of venom ripping
through me before I could stop it. Goddamnit—Scotty
needed to learn to think before he opened his mouth. There
was no excuse for chewing out your own fighter like that.
“I’ll talk to him,” I replied, hoping she’d give me a
decent excuse to rip him a new one.
Sammy waved a dismissive hand. “Nah, it’s fine,” she
said, stepping off the treadmill at the end of our five
minutes. “I mean, I get it. I perhaps… haven’t been taking
training as seriously as I should have.”
Sammy grabbed a water bottle from the floor and took a
quick sip. “I understand why he thinks I don’t have a shot
against Isla. She’s by far the best submission artist I know.
She started grappling when she was only ten.”
I arched an eyebrow at her. “Oh, really?”
“I mean… she was the best submission artist I knew,
right up until a few moments ago… obviously,” Sammy
added hurriedly, her cheeks flushing redder than they had
on the treadmill. She sighed.
A smile played on my lips. “Still,” I said, “there’s no
need for him to treat one of his own like that.”
Sammy shrugged. “It did light a fire under my ass.
Though I’ll happily admit that, any time I see his face at the
moment, I want to put my fist through it.”
“Well, that makes two of us,” I mumbled. Regardless of
my own feelings toward my former sparring partner, I had
to be careful. Fire was good in a fighter—but it could also
lead to overtraining and burning out. I’d have to watch
Sammy and keep Scotty from getting under her skin too
much. It was clear from the fear in Sammy’s eyes when she
thought Scotty was dropping her that she didn’t need to be
riled up any further. Might be she just needed a gentle
hand—someone who could push her hard but still have her
back.
We finished our final championship round together—
Sammy barely breaking a sweat, and me puffing a sight
more that I should’ve been.
Been out of the gym too long, I thought, as I caught my
breath. Next time, we’d have to dial up the intensity.
“So. You really had no idea who I was?”
“Not until I saw the ink,” she replied. “It’s the beard, I
reckon—it hides that distinctive jawline of yours.”
Distinctive? “Hmm.” I thought for a moment. “What
made you go for the left knee, then? It wasn’t an obvious
strike to take.”
Sammy shrugged. “Instinct, maybe? I don’t know—I
just… felt it. I can’t really explain.”
I scratched a rogue beard itch. “Running on instinct is
fine, but you gotta have the knowledge to back it up, too.”
“Meaning?”
“Where do you usually aim your leg kicks?”
Sammy shrugged. “Wherever I can, whenever I can find
an opening.”
“Okay, that’s one answer,” I replied. “But a great fighter
—a truly great fighter—creates their own openings. They
pick their opponent apart, forcing them to lower their
guard—they create the opportunity instead of simply
looking for the obvious strikes.”
Sammy snorted. “You’re saying I’m a basic bitch?”
“No, I’m saying someone needs to give you an anatomy
lesson,” I replied.
“Oh, great.” Sammy rolled her eyes dramatically. “And
I’m guessing you’re going to be the one to teach me…
about anatomy?” The mock cinder to her tone set my teeth
on edge.
“What? No, not like that… I’m just—” I sighed, shoulders
deflating. Where was I going so wrong with this woman?
“Look—here. Why do you aim for the outside of the knee
rather than the thigh or the calf, or even looking for an
inside kick?”
Sammy shrugged again. “I guess because the joint’s
more vulnerable.”
 “Wrong.” I sniffed. “Well… sort of. It doesn’t have
anything to do with the joint. Have you ever been kicked in
the leg so much it’s gone numb?”
“Yeah, a few times.”
“Okay… What do you think is the cause of that
numbness?”
“God, I don’t know,” Sammy groaned, growing
frustrated. “I never really thought about it. It’s just… numb.
It is what it is. You deal with it at the time.”
“No, it ain’t what it is. It’s what your opponent made it,”
I reached for Sammy’s leg. “See this lump on the outside of
your knee, here? This exposed nub of bone hides a secret.
The common peroneal nerve. Hit that enough times, with
enough force, and your opponent won’t be able to keep
their feet under them.”
Sammy frowned. “Huh,” she said, her abrasive
defensiveness finally subsiding.
“This nerve here is as exposed as nerves get. There’s no
muscle to protect it, and it runs right against the head of
the fibula. There are a few MMA fighters who are masters
of hitting right on this nerve. It doesn’t usually do any kind
of long-lasting damage, but if you take out the common
peroneal nerve, you take out your opponent’s muscle
control. They won’t be able to pick up their foot or move
properly. ’Foot drop’—it’s the kind of thing that can down
your opponent and end a fight.”
“So, it’s not about the joint, or doing damage to the
tendons or the ACL?”
“Nope. It’s about taking your opponent’s mobility from
them and investing early in the rounds to slow them down.
Although, the kind of knee damage you’re talking about is
certainly possible, too.” I swallowed, biting the inside of my
cheek. “An ACL tear can take months to recover from.
Multiple surgeries, months of physiotherapy… an injury
like that is the kind of thing that could not just end a fight;
it could potentially end a whole career.”
Scotty stood in the doorway of his office with his arms
crossed, looking as smug as ever. He nodded at me as I left
the gym. The casual students would be filing in soon for
their class, and I wanted to be long gone before that
happened. Sammy was nowhere to be seen—she must have
taken off while I was in the shower. Damn if the woman
hadn’t made me work this week.
We’d just finished up our third session. I’d ratcheted up
the intensity a few notches since that first day, and Sammy
had finally started to break a decent sweat. She showed no
lack of heart during our sparring matches, but she was still
too damn wild—the kind of wild that could get her in
danger in the cage and make her vulnerable to unsavory
attacks.
So, I’d decided to increase her training sessions to five
starting the next week—two in the late evening in addition
to the three morning sessions. Even with the off-hours
training, I still had time to commute out to the cabin to
check on my damn cat every second day or so—but hell if I
wasn’t burning through a ton of gas in doing so.
I didn’t mind Sammy’s company, but I sure as hell wasn’t
looking to make any new friends. I’d be back in my cabin as
soon as her camp was over.
I crossed my arms over my chest as I looked out over the
gym, noticing that Sammy’s death trap of a car was still
parked out front.
Spotting a familiar blonde outside the adjacent café, my
feet beelined toward her before my brain could think better
of it. Doing my job, is all.
“What are you drinking?” I grumbled.
Sammy started, finding me behind her. “Who, me? Oh.
Coffee.”
I arched an eyebrow at her.
 Sammy rolled her eyes. “Oh, so we’re going into diet
specifics, now, huh? Well don’t worry, it’s black. With a
teeny-tiny three-and-a-half pumps of salted cara—” I
grabbed the coffee from her hands and sniffed it. “Hey! I
was joking!” Sammy grinned, snatching her cup back from
me and opening the lid. “It has, like, a splash of milk in it.
That’s all, I swear. I thought I deserved it after the work I
put in this week.”
Sammy took a sip. She was sitting on a little table
outside the pretentious coffee shop, ruffling her damp hair
as it dried in the cool breeze.
Under the warmth of the sun, she smelled fresh and
citrusy.
My stomach lurched. “You need protein after a session
like that. Not stimulants. Ain’t Scotty doing any kind of
nutritional work with you?”
Sammy shrugged. “I gotta be honest with you, boss—
since you showed up, I haven’t been training with Scotty at
all.”
“What?” I glared back toward the gym.
“He’s always been more interested in training men.
Bigger audiences, bigger paychecks. Besides, every time
I’m around him, he gets my back up—and not in a good
way.”
I sucked at my teeth. Sammy had potential, and it
needed to be fostered appropriately. I cursed myself—I
should’ve had that talk with Scotty already. After all, there
was no point in me training Sammy if we were just going to
half-ass it. “You need to hydrate. Plus, you need protein.
Not… whatever this shit is.” I wrinkled my nose at Sammy’s
drink.
“Noted on the protein,” she said, taking a bigger sip of
her drink and curling both hands around the cup. “I have a
packet of the stuff in my bag. But please, please don’t
threaten my caffeine intake. I swear, it’s the only thing
keeping me sane.”
 I glowered at her.
“Nope—nuh-uh,” Sammy said. “You’ll have to pry this
coffee out of my cold dead hands, big guy.”
My nostrils flared. “Fine, smartass. But answer me this:
How long has that protein packet been in your bag,
exactly?”
The look on Sammy’s face told me all I needed to know.
“You know you have to drink the damn things for them to
have any benefit whatsoever, right?”
Sammy bit down on her bottom lip, her eyes darting
around, avoiding my question and my gaze.
I sighed. We’d worked well together over the past week.
She was easy to train, so long as I didn’t push her too hard.
Sammy cleared her throat. “What are you doing here,
anyway? I thought you said you had places to be this
morning.”
“I do,” I said. “I’m thinking of… The new building—” I
pointed toward the apartment complex that had recently
been finished. It was only half a block away from the coffee
shop and in full view of the gym. “I’m thinking of buying
one.”
Sammy looked up at me, her brows furrowed. “Scotty
said you weren’t going to be sticking around.”
I shrugged. “I ain’t. But I kind of need somewhere to
stay in the meantime. All the driving ain’t good for me.” I
said, reflexively feeling for my bad knee.
“Uh-huh. Airbnb not good enough for you?”
I shrugged. “It’s not that. I just… I like my privacy.”
Something told me that Sammy wasn’t quite ready for
the story of the last time I’d attempted to rent an Airbnb. It
was back when I’d still been an active fighter, and the
owner of the place just so happened to be an MMA fan. He
had spent half of my stay asking me to sign random
paraphernalia for his cousin’s stepbrother’s ex-wife’s kids,
and the other half asking me relentlessly why I’d ‘given it
all away’—all while his wife had mentally undressed me
more times than I cared to count.
“Oh, okay. That makes sense. So, this is like a buy-an-
apartment-on-the-fly kind of situation?”
“Yes.”
Sammy snorted. “Well, I guess that’s all fine and dandy
if you’re Ames-motherfuckin’—”
“Shh!” I hissed, pulling up a chair at Sammy’s table and
looking around us madly. “Jesus, woman! Your language is
worse than mine! And what part of keeping this on the
down-low do you not understand?”
Sammy frowned, considering for a moment. “Oh. Yeah.
Because if I was the baddest dude on the whole damn
planet, I’d also hate the idea of people knowing exactly who
I was.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I mean, God forbid,
just the thought of all those compliments from adoring fans
—”
I looked at her blankly. Obviously, her PFC history was
just as terrible as the newbie commentator’s had been the
other night. “Yeah, right.” Despite having the name
recognition of a deity in the mixed martial arts scene, it’d
been a long time since I’d fielded anything that remotely
resembled a compliment.
Sammy sighed. “Seriously. Do you know what I’d give
for, like, one person—just one—to look at me like the whole
freakin’ MMA world looks at you?”
I swallowed, biting back my reply. I didn’t want to spoil
Sammy’s dreams of the spotlight. She could find out that
one on her own.
Sammy looked toward the gym, the blue in her eyes
glassing over. “You know, maybe if I had an ounce of the
talent you’re hoarding in your pinky finger, I might’ve
gotten there by now—maybe I’d even have a belt around
my waist. Instead, I’ve been hauling ass in this gym for
some asshole who believes long-legged blondes should only
exist on OnlyFans, while I stock shelves in a corner store at
night to pay the douchebag for the privilege.”
Sammy worked a night job, too? Huh. Perhaps she had
even more grit than I was giving her credit for.
“I don’t know what you think they’re serving up
alongside those belts, but it’s not all sunshine, puppy dogs,
compliments, and rainbows.”
“Hmm.” Sammy pondered, her eyes suddenly fixing on
mine. I shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe you’ve been so long
at the top, you’ve forgotten what the come-up feels like.
Maybe one day I’ll have that privilege, too—but I hope
when I get there, I’ll have enough pride to continue to hold
my head high.” Sammy nodded once, definitively. “One day,
everyone will know the name Sammy ‘Spitfire’ Crawley.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “And what
about when they get you wrong? What about when the
whole world thinks you just up and—” The bottom of my
stomach dropped out, and I pulled myself short. “Never
mind,” I grumbled.
Sammy and I sat in silence for a moment.
“When’s your appointment? To see the apartment.”
I looked at my watch. “Soon.”
“Well, I could use the distraction. If you wouldn’t mind
me tagging along.”
I shrugged, though I couldn’t explain the sudden
lightness that lifted my shoulders. “Suit yourself.”
“Brilliant!” Sammy shot out of her chair. “It’ll be like a
real-life episode of MTV Cribs.”
“Pfft. A two-bedroom apartment? Pretty short episode if
you ask me.”
“Hey, I’ll take what I can get,” Sammy smiled. “Besides,
it’ll give me some more time to hang out with the great
Mes-Nay udder-cluckin’—”
I cut Sammy off with a raised hand and a pained look.
“No, you’re right; that was never going to work.” Her
nose scrunched up in embarrassment as she laughed.
 My lip quirked. “Y’know, I get the feeling I know what
the issue is between you and Scotty.” I knew I was about to
head into the most dangerous of territories, but I couldn’t
resist.
“You do?”
“Yeah,” I said, barely able to contain my smirk. “You’re
far too similar for your own goods.” My face cracked into a
broad grin.
“Did you just—?!” Sammy started, mouth opening and
closing like a landed fish. “You… you are the worst person I
know,” she said, her pink lips pulled into a full pout as we
strolled toward the apartment block. Sammy waggled a
finger at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so insulted in my
life.”
I sucked my cheek in between my teeth to rein in my
laughter. After barely a week of being around Sammy, I’d
learned how to push all the right buttons. I cracked open
the heavy glass door, and Sammy ducked in ahead of me
under my arm.
“Wanna have some fun?” Sammy wiggled her eyebrows
at me, blue eyes glinting deviously.
I arched an eyebrow back at her in return. “Not if it
involves breaking laws or getting into trouble.”
“Hmm,” she said, scrunching her nose up in distaste as
we waited for the elevator. “Bit of a square in that regard,
aren’t you?”
I shrugged. “I figured making a career out of punching
people in the face makes up for it.”
“Touché,” Sammy replied. We got in and I punched the
button for the fourth floor. In the elevator, Sammy started
chatting away about some gym drama. I failed miserably at
pretending to be interested, and she trailed off, the two of
us continuing the rest of the journey up in silence.
My eye twitched as the doors opened, and I sighed. I
really had to get better at small talk.
I led the way to the apartment.
 “Is this it? 403?”
I nodded, and Sammy knocked on the door. Before I
could react, she’d looped her arm in mine, pulling her body
in close and looking up at me, her cerulean eyes sparkling
with something sweet and intangible, just as the real estate
agent opened the door.
“Ames Anderson?” the agent inquired, looking back and
forth between the two of us.
“And Mrs. Ames Anderson,” Sammy replied, pulling me
behind her as she reached out to shake the agent’s hand.
“How do you do?”
“Um, fine, thank you. Although, Mr. Anderson, I had no
idea you were married.”
Goddamn it. This woman is going to be the death of me.
I cleared my throat. “It’s a… recent development. Real
recent.” I glared down at Sammy.
She entwined her fingers with mine, running her other
hand softly up and down my forearm as she gazed into my
eyes.
I felt myself tense.
Flirting?
This was not the kind of fun I had expected. Not with my
damned wrestling student, anyway.
“Yes, well,” Sammy sighed. “We are just so looking
forward to seeing the place, aren’t we, honey?”
“Right,” I ground out through gritted teeth.
Sammy looked at me, the picture of wide-eyed
expectation, practically begging for me to play along.
I rolled my eyes. Maybe she was right—maybe I was a
bit… uptight.
Before my unwelcome early retirement from MMA, my
life had consisted of training, keeping a strict diet, and
endless, annoying media conferences. After that, I’d
withdrawn from the world— ‘fun’ had never figured into it.
I softened, pulling Sammy’s petite form under my arm
protectively.
 My heart pounded in my throat. Being this close to
Sammy during training was one thing—physical contact
was expected when you were training someone how to
wrestle.
But this?
How long had it been since I’d felt the warmth of a
woman in this way?
Her closeness shifted something in my core. The
softness of her skin. The subtle scent of her—citrus and
salt.
My stomach dropped.
Fuck, the woman smelled like a damned margarita.
She was vibrant. Fresh and alive—at complete odds with
the life I’d carved out for myself since I’d retired, all stale
beer, sticky floors, and second-hand cigarette smoke.
Sammy whirled around clumsily as the real estate agent
mumbled on about social events and the Body Corporate
Committee. She nodded in serious, feigned interest—and
then made some comment or other about spending most of
our time in the bedroom.
I rubbed subconsciously at my clenched jaw.
Let the girl have some fun. I sighed. But although the
thought may have escaped, my scowl sure wasn’t going to.
“Oh, honey!” Sammy crooned. “The view from the
balcony is just delicious!” she giggled, a wickedly soft,
melodic charm, alluring to the point of distraction.
I rubbed the back of my neck, joining her on the tiny
balcony. It was barely big enough for two, so the real estate
agent stayed behind, hesitantly hovering in the kitchen and
rattling off some fact about the insulation.
“You can see the gym from here,” Sammy said. “Look—
there’s Caleb. And his entourage of cronies, of course.”
I peered over the balcony. I wasn’t so fond of heights,
but the sight below was good enough reason for me to
swallow my discomfort and replace it with ire. “Caleb,” I
said, “as in Caleb Rushmore?”
 “‘The Crusher,’ yeah,” Sammy confirmed. “Did Scotty
not tell you Caleb’s his? He’s lining up a light heavyweight
title shot for him against ‘The Nightmare’ and everything! I
wouldn’t be surprised if they sign a contract pretty soon.”
I gripped the balcony railing, my eyes darkening, the
gears in my head suddenly clicking into place. “Somehow,”
I ground out. “Scotty must have failed to mention.”

I stalked into Scotty’s office, shutting the door firmly

behind me. “Something tells me you planned this all along.”
“Huh?” Scotty swiveled around in his chair, feigning
innocence, eyes wide behind his glasses. He held a folded
newspaper in his hands and was chewing on a pencil as if
he didn’t have a gym to run. “Six across: Dim-witted.”
“Stupid,” I replied, happy to play his dumb crossword
game if it meant I could insult him.
Scotty shook his head. “No, no. Two words: four letters,
then eight.”
I narrowed my eyes. And I’ll admit—it took me a
moment. “Ha, ha. Very funny.”
“What is?” Scotty looked up innocently.
“Your stupid, made-up answer. It’s my name, isn’t it?”
“M-Y, N-A-M-E … Nah. Too short.” Scotty grinned,
lobbing the paper onto his desk with a satisfying slap. “So.
What can I help you with, brother?”
“First, you can stop being an ass.”
Scotty placed a hand on his chest in mock horror. “Me?
You’re accusing me of ass-like behavior? Maybe you should
spend some more time looking in a mirror, my guy.”
My eye twitched. “And more importantly, I need a
training partner for Sammy.”
Scotty froze for a moment, and then started scratching
his chin. “You don’t say. I thought you were set on one-on-
one sessions; couldn’t risk anyone finding out—”
“Yes, congratulations—point to you.” I glowered. I was
not playing this game with Scotty today. “Do you have
someone or not?”
“Perhaps.” Scotty nodded.
“Great. She’ll need to be here in time for next week’s
training sessions—I want to run Sammy through her
offensive paces but sparring with me ain’t gonna do her
much good. I’m twice her damn size.”
Scotty sighed and winced as though this entire situation
was far too much to ask from him. “Oh, so you want
someone in her weight class, too?”
I shrugged. “As near as possible.”
Scotty scrunched his nose. “Okay, well an amateur’s the
best I can do.”
“An amateur will be fine. She just needs to get a feel for
what shots she’ll need to combo to put decent distance
between herself and her opponent.”
“So, you’re going for an avoidance strategy?”
I shrugged. “Easier than teaching her every possible
submission defense in the book in five weeks.”
“Mmm.” There was a pause as Scotty returned to his
crossword for a moment. He looked up again. “Is there
something else I can help you with, Ames?”
“Just… don’t think I don’t see what you’re up to here.” I
sniffed.
Scotty sighed. “And aside from keeping this sinking
bloody ship afloat, what would that be, pray tell?”
“I saw Caleb walking into the gym earlier.”
Scotty narrowed his eyes. “You spying on my gym now,
Ames?”
I shrugged. “Just happened to be in the area.”
“Hmm,” Scotty replied, eyeing me suspiciously.
“You’re training him, right?”
“Perhaps.”
 “And he’s next in line for a shot at the light heavyweight
title. Against Jason Ferguson.”
“That could also potentially be true.” Scotty nodded.
I groaned. “You’re such an ass. You never bought me
back to train the girl—you wanted me for Caleb all along,
didn’t you?”
Scotty bobbled his head from side to side. “I won’t lie to
you; it would be quite beneficial for me if you decided to
stick around.” Scotty arched his fingers together.
“Uh-huh,” I replied flatly.
How could I let myself be played like this?
“But it is also true that Spitfire’s showing a whole new
level of potential.” Scotty sounded almost impressed.
“Maybe you bring out the fire in her.”
“Maybe you do, more like. Every time she sees you, she
looks fit to murder you.” Scotty at least had the decency to
look a little ashamed of himself. “Look, Scotty, I’m sorry to
burst your bubble, but I ain’t going to train Caleb. Or
anyone else after the girl, for that matter.”
“Okay,” replied Scotty, nonchalantly. “Fair enough.”
“I mean it,” I stood up, pointing a finger at him.
“And I hear you.” Scotty yawned, going back to his
newspaper.
“So, you’re not going to try any of your bullshit?”
“No bullshit.”
“No tricks?”
“Nope, no tricks.”
“Well… good,” I huffed. “Because, like I said, I have a
cat to look after. And other important things to do with my
life.”
“A pussy and jacking off.” Scotty cocked a finger gun at
me. “Got it.”
I clenched my jaw. “Sammy’s right. You really have
turned into an uppity asshole.”
“Sammy said that?”
 “Not in as many words.” I slumped back down on
Scotty’s sofa chair. “Which reminds me, I want to take her
on properly. I’ll be her head coach right up until the fight.
And you… you can just sit down, shut up, and leave the
poor girl alone. Alright?”
Scotty grinned, twirling around in his office chair with
all the enthusiasm of a kid in a candy store. “Sounds like
you two are getting on far better than I expected. How
convenient for me.”
I rolled my eyes to the heavens, picked a pen up off his
desk, and threw it at him. “Goddamn it, Scotty! You really
are impossible.”
“I’ll take that into consideration when I complete my
annual performance review.” He waved me off, tapping his
pencil against his newspaper. “See you tomorrow.”

OceanofPDF.com
 FOUR

Sammy

By the end of my first evening session with Ames, I was all

around exhausted. My brain was practically soup—I was
almost surprised it hadn’t started oozing out of my ears.
And physically? Well… physically, exhausted didn’t even
begin to cover it. I was so sore that every movement—hell,
even every breath—felt like an effort.
I showered at the gym, rolling and stretching out my
muscles under the hot water. Afterward, I threw on my
work uniform and headed toward the door.
Walking past the offices, I saw a tell-tale sliver of light
emanating from under Scotty’s door and heard the murmur
of low, male voices in muted conversation. My stomach
filled with butterflies as I tip-toed past.
“Y’know, I think she has something.” That drawl couldn’t
belong to anyone else but Ames.
“I told you I wouldn’t drag you back here for nothing,
now, didn’t I?”
“I mean, really has something, Scotty. And it helps that
she’s a good listener—and a quick learner.”
Scotty exhaled loudly. “Steady now, Ames. You keep on
with talk like that and anyone would think you’re actually
starting to like the woman.”
 My pulse quickened, and I heard the creak of Scotty’s
sofa chair. Ames, sitting down, no doubt. For a moment, no
words passed between the two—the only sound the
murmured commentary of some fight playing on Scotty’s
TV in the background.
“If she could just get over whatever it is that’s holding
her back from really emptying out her gas tank, giving it
her all…” Ames trailed off, the rest of his loaded sentence
suspended in the air.
Scotty cleared his throat. “That’s why I called her
Spitfire.”
“Huh?”
“Her cage name—Spitfire. She strikes hard and fast and
has a killer kick that swoops in from fucking nowhere, but
she always bails on the fight as soon as her tank hits half
empty. Like she’s afraid she won’t have enough left to make
it back home on her own.”
I swallowed, goosepimples rising on my arms, the lump
in my throat straining to break free.
I hadn’t thought about why Scotty had bestowed the
name “Spitfire” on me after he’d picked me up as an
amateur. Perhaps I was like that—dipping out of the fight
before it really got hard enough to push me out of my
comfort zone.
Despite my better judgment, I strained to hear their next
words.
My heart beat hard in my throat. I hadn’t known that
anyone had noticed. Hell, I hadn’t known that anyone had
cared enough to see how much potential I had—or how
much I was holding back.
But Ames had.
Ames, with his predatory hazel eyes that pulled
something out in me I didn’t know existed. His vice-like
grip and his almost unnaturally broad chest that, when
sparring with him, seemed to block out the sun—and
everything else in my known universe.
 He’d seen.
And in seeing, he’d confirmed what that tiny voice—the
one almost drowned out by the clutter and noise of the
hundred others—had been telling me my entire life.
That I was worth a damn.
That I had potential—not just to be enough, but to be
exceptional. To be great.
I heard a creak as Ames leaned back in his chair. “Been
thinkin’ I might stay a bit longer. Not to corner her, but I
could watch her fight, at least.”
Scotty’s voice pitched a little higher—hopeful, perhaps?
“You could,” he replied. “I could even set up the office for
you across the hall, if you were interested.”
Ames grunted. “Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.”
The chair creaked again.
I bit down on my bottom lip, my eyes widening—mindful
of both being late for my shift and the growing possibility
that if Ames ran into me in the corridor, he’d know that I’d
overheard their conversation.
Just then, I jumped—at that exact, most inopportune of
moments, my cell started to ring at full volume, right from
the depths of my training bag.
I hurdled down the corridor toward the gym, hoping that
the two would think I’d been there the entire time, but
knowing that the receding ringing would give me away all
the same.
Soon after, Ames appeared in Scotty’s office doorway,
rubbing the back of his neck. His hazel eyes flicked up to
mine, his eyebrows pulled together in a subtle frown.
Face reddening, I scrounged around in my bag for my
phone.
Grabbing it, I swiped at the screen to answer the call
and waved goodbye to Ames as I beelined for the exit.
Smooth, Sammy—as smooth as nails down a freakin’
chalkboard.
 “Ma—hi,” I said, jostling my keys and walking toward
my car, my heart still racing.
Did Ames know I’d overheard him? Hopefully he thought
I’d just walked by, but the look in his eyes suggested
otherwise. I didn’t want him to feel that I was overstepping,
pulling him back to a world he didn’t want to belong in
anymore. I knew all too well what it was like to want to
escape a place like that. “Ma, you’ve caught me at a bit of a
bad time. I’m about to drive to work.”
“Oh, honey. They still have you working those night
shifts? You should ask to work the counter during the day,
like a normal person.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes as I opened Trumpet’s
door, clamped my phone onto the dash holder, and pushed
the speakerphone button. “I like it this way, Ma. It fits in
better with my training.”
My mother tutted at me like I was a small child. “You’re
still on with that fighting stuff, then. Oh, honey—you know
how I feel about that. It’s so… so violent.”
I paused for a minute before I started driving. Usually,
I’d take the bait. Usually, despite having just turned thirty-
two, the entire conversation would turn into some kind of
defense of my life decisions in the Court of Mom.
But right now, I didn’t feel like putting up a defense. I
wanted to keep my joy of fighting, of training, to myself—
and the people that understood why I was doing what I was
doing. The people who believed in my dream.
“How’s Greg, Ma? He keeping well?” Greg is my
stepfather. We had always been distant with each other,
and I asked my ma about him rarely—so it was as surefire
way as any to distract her from asking about my fighting
career.
“Yes, dear. It’s all the same old around here. But you’d
know that if you visited once in a while. Are you coming for
Thanksgiving this year?”
 I rubbed the back of my neck. Thanksgiving was barely
two weeks before my fight. While my training schedule
would probably allow a break for a day or two, my pre-fight
diet sure wouldn’t survive my mother’s constant nagging
about how ‘being so muscled was unattractive for a woman
of childbearing age’. “I’ve got a commitment this year, Ma.
I could maybe come for Christmas?”
The pause on the other end of the phone was thick with
purpose. “Please tell me you’re not passing up the
opportunity to spend time with your family to fight again,
honey. Is family just not important to you? Is that it?
Because Greg and I, we do everything we can, you know, to
make you feel welcome in our home…”
I closed my eyes.
Their home. It was always their home—never ours.
I instantly felt ten times more exhausted than I had after
any of my training sessions with Ames.
Another change of subject. That would help, wouldn’t it?
“And how’s Tyler, Ma?”
My mother’s voice changed—from flat and disciplinary,
to soft and musical—the tone she reserved specifically for
my older brother.
“Oh, yes, darling. Tyler and Angela are doing so well.
He’s due for a promotion at work soon, and Greg and I are
just so excited for him! I expect he may even pop the
question sometime soon.” The girlish delight in my mom’s
tone hit me square in the stomach—like a takedown I saw
coming but couldn’t stop.
“That’s… that’s great, Ma. I’m glad to hear he’s doing so
well for himself.” Although I knew it was a mistake, I
couldn’t help but ask my next question, anyway. “Do you
think he’s happy?”
“Happy?” Ma scoffed, an underlying defensiveness in
her tone. “Of course he’s happy, honey! What a silly
question!”
I pulled up to the curb outside Marvin’s corner store.
 “Well, Mom, I have to get to work—but it’s been nice
talking to you.”
“Yes. Well, Samantha, I wish I could say the same. But
I’m just so worried that you’re headed down the wrong
track—”
“I know, Ma. I heard you. This time, and the last
thousand times, too.” I clenched my jaw.
“You know, I hope they’re not stringing you along out
there. How much are you paying for those people to train
you? Not too much, I hope—you need to save; find a nice
man. You know, you’d have better luck with that if you
worked more reasonable hours—”
I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel.
This was exactly why I liked to prepare myself before
one of my mom’s calls rather than taking them on the fly. It
was exhausting to have to justify every life decision, to have
every move I made undermined. I didn’t have the energy
for this—not when I was fighting against the rest of the
world as it was.
Fighting for a spot at the gym. Fighting to pay for
training. Fighting to be taken seriously in a sport
dominated by men.
“Okay, Ma. It’s been nice talking, but I gotta go. Send
my regards to Greg.”
“Okay, love. Talk soon. And come for Thanksgiving. I’m
not going to take no for an answer.”
Ma hung up first, satisfied that she’d said all she needed
to say to make her wayward daughter comply. Usually,
she’d be right, and I’d spend the last of my energy and
money looking up flights back home after my shift ended.
I breathed in deeply. This time, I couldn’t let up. I
wouldn’t let her get to me, because I couldn’t afford to
continue to leave my gas tank half full. Overhearing Ames
and Scotty talking… it had given me the sliver of hope I
needed. The hope that I was worth something, that my
dreams were worth fighting for.
 I was going to prove something.
If not to my mother, then at least to myself.

“Hey, Marvin?”
My boss sighed—deep, defeated. But when he turned
around, there was a sparkle in his clear blue eyes. “Oh, I
know that tone. Don’t tell me the time has finally come.”
My mouth quirked up. “What, you mean you picked me
leaving already?”
Marvin shrugged. He had something of a superpower
when it came to betting. He was an old-school gambling
man, through and through, and he never liked to lose—his
bets or his staff. “Ehh, I’ve had my suspicions for a while,”
he added.
I frowned. “Suspicions? I haven’t changed at all. I still
show up for every shift—on time, no less.”
“Yeah,” Marvin eyed me. “But you got this little…spring
in your step going on now,” he said, waving his hand in my
general direction. “So, I figured it was only a matter of
time.”
“Spring?” I cocked my head to the side.
Marvin nodded.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I did have a little extra pep
lately—or maybe my spring was just the embers of the fire
Scotty had lit under my ass.
“Five years you’ve been working here,” Marvin
ruminated. “You work hard—you’re always pleasant. It’s
nice to finally see you with a little extra somethin’
somethin’.” Marvin winked at me.
With his Hawaiian shirt open, and a smattering of grey
hairs visible across his chest, I caught a glint from the gold
chain that was ever-present around his neck. “Thanks,
Marvin. I appreciate that.”
 Marvin waggled a crooked finger in my direction. “You
know, I wouldn’t have picked you as a sure bet when you
first walked through those doors—your shoulders slumped,
always lookin’ at your shoes. Didn’t pick you as much of a
fighter then when you were carrying the entire world on
your shoulders. But now?”
Marvin paused for a moment. He opened the cash
register and thumbed through a few twenty-dollar bills.
“Now I think you could damn well make me a lot of money,”
he chuckled. “Here—take this. Life’s easier with a little
jingle-jangle in your pockets.”
“No, Marvin, I couldn’t,” I protested.
“No, you take it. Go out there, make somethin’ of
yourself, and make this old guy proud that I helped you a
little along the way.”
My throat constricted.
Marvin… he was everything I’d always wanted in a dad.
Solid. Dependable. Always there, if a little crooked around
the edges.
Thick with emotion, my voice came out as barely a
squeak, as I took the folded twenties and shoved them into
my back pocket. “Thanks, Marv. For everything.”
Marvin grinned a wide smile, flashing me a glimpse of
his infamous gold tooth. “Oh, you’re welcome, sweetie.
Now you go get ‘em, Spitfire.”
I left work in the early hours of the morning, promising
Marvin that the next time he saw me I’d be on television for
my Challenger Series bout.
I pulled up at my usual place and settled into my car
properly.
“All right,” I sighed to myself. “Time to get some sleep.”
I reclined my seat and jammed blankets into my driver and
passenger side windows, pulling a sunshade over my front
windshield to give myself privacy.
Sleeping in my car over the past five or so months had
taught me two things: one, that sleeping curled up on the
back seat was far more uncomfortable than sleeping
reclined in the driver’s seat—especially when you woke
with a belt fastener digging into your hip—and two, that a
blanket over a window might not prevent people from
knowing that I was sleeping in my car, but it definitely
made it less likely that people would disturb me.
I grabbed my pillow from behind the passenger seat and
scrunched it into a comfortable position.
Then, I closed my eyes.
But despite my exhaustion and the effort I’d put in at the
gym, sleep didn’t come. Instead, my head swirled with
thoughts about Ames.
I huffed out a breath, levering my seat back up into a
sitting position.
I pulled my phone off the magnetic holder on my dash.
If Ames was going to haunt my thoughts, I may as well
learn something about him.
I turned on my wi-fi and found the best low-strength
signal from the nearest fast-food chain. Opening the
Paramount Fighting Championship app, I searched Ames’s
name and found his bio.
28 and 0. One no contest—due to an opponent failing a
drug test.
Ames practically had a perfect record. And according to
his PFC bio, he’d quit, right at the top of his game.
I frowned.
Quitting?
The Ames I’d come to know over the past couple of
weeks didn’t seem like a quitter—if anything, he pushed
himself harder in the gym than he pushed me.
So why had he quit?
I chewed absent-mindedly on the inside of my cheek. I
couldn’t afford to pay for full access to the app’s fight
library, although I occasionally bought one-off fights when I
could.
I scrolled through Ames’s bouts.
 A thirty-second submission of Dennis Chimes.
His belt-winning fight against former light heavyweight
champ Francis Morena.
Another first-round submission against one of the
heaviest hitters in PFC history.
My stomach sunk. And a main card title defense against
“Vicious” Steve Harrison—Ames’s final fight.
My finger hovered over the locked video. As if running
on autopilot, I pressed play, purchasing the fight.
As the challenger, Vicious walked out first. The guy was
a showman—his heavy metal walkout track appealing to
the horde of drunken fans egging him on between him and
the cage. He was big, bulky—with the kind of heavy,
muscled arms that had been crafted more for showing than
for throwing. He was top-heavy, which meant a higher
center of gravity—an advantage for a wrestler like Ames,
who’d likely see him as an easy opponent to take down.
I’d only seen Steve Harrison in the flesh once before—
the day after I snatched the phone off Scotty to take the
fight against Isla.
He’d arrived at City Limits Gym—all puffed-up swagger
and toothy smiles. He’d shot me a look that was closer to a
sneer—the kind that let me know just how far below him he
thought I was—and sauntered straight through the gym to
Scotty’s office.
He’d looked much the same then as he did in the video.
Once he’d been checked over and he stepped inside the
cage, Steve assumed that same toothy smile, clicking his
neck back and forth and shaking out his shoulders.
Next came Ames—the defending champion.
I felt my heart beating in my throat.
Ames emerged from the entryway, gray hoodie pulled up
over his head, chin down, eyes up. It was similar to how
he’d shown up at the gym that first morning—minus the
beard, of course.
 Goosepimples raised across my arms. In place of the
usual music that fighters walked out to—something to
pump them up, or something that represented their
nationality—Ames had chosen the first movement of
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. The eerie tune stood in
direct juxtaposition to “Vicious” Steve’s heavy-metal pump-
up; but it was no less thrilling, and the crowd became so
deathly quiet that the somber piano echoed around the
entire stadium.
Ames was focused, but not on Steve—just on the
challenge in front of him. Still, something about this
version of Ames was different. Physically, he looked a little
harder than I knew him to be now—though he had the same
broad shoulders, the same muscled frame. His muscle had
obviously been carefully crafted through functional
movement, rather than by lifting heavy weights. He’d built
himself optimally and would obviously have a significant
cardio advantage in the later rounds.
But where the Ames I knew was smoke and cinder, this
version of Ames was calm. Serene, almost—which seemed a
strange thing for a champion fighter to be before the final
fight of their life.
His face was placid. Not a single muscle around his eyes
or his defined jaw reacted to Vicious.
He didn’t shake out his shoulders when he entered the
cage or stretch out his groin. There was no need for him to
dispel any nervous energy, as every muscle was warmed,
open, and relaxed.
Walking into that cage, he was every ounce the
magnificent Angel of Death. And from the way Vicious
flinched, he knew it, too.
Steve looked everywhere as the announcer introduced
the fighters. At the crowd. At Ames. At his cornermen.
Ames’s gaze, on the other hand, was fixed on a single spot
in the center of the canvas.
 When the referee indicated for both men to meet in the
middle, Steve searched for eye contact—his actions
begging for a sliver of Ames’s attention.
He received nothing.
Not a touch of gloves, no small, imperceptible nod.
Everyone, the oddsmakers, the crowd—even Steve
himself knew he was walking into this match the underdog.
By the time the referee called for the fight to start, he’d
already lost.
It was a brief title defense—one of the shortest on
record. Barely twenty seconds in, Ames had taken Vicious
to the mat, claimed top position, and pounded him to within
an inch of consciousness.
The referee called the match, waving it off, and Ames
immediately stood, arms raised in victory, running to mount
the cage.
He pointed at people in the crowd, riling them up,
celebrating with them. Then, he backflipped to the mat,
rocking backward and dragging in air—a starfish sprawled
in the middle of the cage, so rightfully his.
Behind him, Steve rose to his feet, shoving the referee,
practically towering over the guy. He was obviously
running his mouth—likely objecting to the stoppage—but it
was impossible to hear a word he was saying over the
screaming crowd and ecstatic commentary.
Getting nowhere with the referee, Steve rounded,
furious, seeing Ames lying victorious.
Ames had his hands over his face, now—the
commentators proclaiming him to be celebrating the
longest first-round stoppage streak in PFC history.
My heart jumped into my mouth.
It was over in an instant, but the moment it happened, it
was clear from the way Ames’s face changed that
something was wrong.
Steve rounded on him, coming in from Ames’s blindside,
and stomped his entire weight on Ames’s left knee.
 He crushed it into the mat, grinding the kneecap into
the joint with his heel, then picked up his foot and kicked—
right on the outside, that sensitive spot that Ames had told
me about.
I winced. Ames screamed in pain, scrambling back to his
feet and throwing a punch at Steve as he limped, his knee
unable to bear weight.
The cage flooded with security officers, and the video
cut out.
I swallowed against the lump in my throat.
Ames had taken some severe damage during that post-
fight attack from Vicious.
But was it the kind of damage that could end a career?
A sharp rapping on my window vaulted me out of my
thoughts.
I moved my makeshift curtain aside to see a familiar
face. I sighed deeply.
“You again,” a muffled voice said from outside my
window. “I’ve already told you twice, ma’am, you can’t
sleep here.”
I fished my keys out of my pocket and jammed them into
the ignition, winding the window down just enough to pull
my blanket curtain down, ripping the sunshade off the
windshield soon after. “I know. I’m sorry, Officer,” I said,
starting my car and throwing it into reverse. “I’ll be on my
way.”
The beat cop who frequented the parking lot I’d holed
up in for the past two weeks frowned. “Find somewhere
more permanent to stay. There’s a women’s shelter on—”
I cut him off, my heart racing, reversing out of the space
as fast as I could. “I know,” I replied. “But I’m not
homeless, I’m just… in between places, right now. Don’t
worry. I-I won’t come back.”
I threw the car back into drive, crushing the gas pedal
down hard enough to make the car lurch.
 Behind me, the officer said something about being
careful. About the kind of people that were on the streets
this time of night.
I already knew the speech. I’d heard it from him twice
before.
And from three other cops before him, in the various lots
I’d found to park my car before that.
I checked the clock, yawning.
It was four in the morning already.
I sighed and detoured toward the nearest gas station—I
only had an hour before I was due to meet Ames for our
morning training session.
And, I had a pocketful of Marvin’s twenties—the only
cash I’d likely see until after my fight.
I chewed the inside of my cheek.
I was really going to need that win. And likely a
performance bonus to boot.
I straightened my shoulders. Performance bonus or not,
I was going to prove Scotty wrong.
This time, I wasn’t going to leave my gas tank half full—
in training or during the fight.
I indicated right, pulled into the gas station, and sighed.
May as well tank up on coffee while I can still afford it.

OceanofPDF.com
 FIVE

Ames

“Hey, blockhead!”
I rolled my eyes and continued to pound away on a
punching dummy. I’d arrived at the gym early, partly to
blow off some steam, and partly to warm up before Sammy
arrived for another evening session. “You really think I’m
gonna answer to that?”
Scotty grinned and punched me in the arm. “I have faith
that you’ll one day recognize your true name.”
I stopped punching the dummy and sucked at my teeth.
Sammy was definitely onto something because every time I
saw Scotty, I felt more tempted to punch him in the face.
“I got you your training partner. For Sammy.”
My head snapped around, and I finally dignified Scotty
with eye contact. “Oh yeah?”
“There’s just… one potential little snag.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Ain’t there just.”
“Yeah. You see… she’s an amateur. So, she has, like, a
job and a life and stuff. She can only come in Tuesday and
Thursday afternoons.”
I scratched my beard, cocking my head to the side. “I
could make that work.”
 Scotty wiped the back of his hand across his forehead in
true dramatic Scotty fashion. “Phew! That’s great to hear.
Because I wasn’t sure if you’d be keen, you know… seeing
as Caleb trains Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.”
I clenched my jaw. “You asshole.”
“I mean, obviously I didn’t design it that way. I was just
doing what you told me to, lining up Sammy a sparring
partner. I can’t be held accountable if other interests just-
so-happen to align—wait—ow! Jesus, Ames!”
I fired a sharp jab at Scotty’s bicep. The middle of the
muscle, so it wouldn’t hurt too much.
“Shit, that actually hurt! Come on, man, you know I
bruise easy…” Scotty trailed off, rubbing his arm and
laughing.
“Treat me like a moron and you get punched. What did
you expect?”
Scotty sighed, still rubbing his arm. “Guess I was
expecting Ames the Lumberjack-off, not Ames, the former
PFC belt holder.” He grinned. “Though every storm cloud
has a rainbow. You still got some serious fight in you!
Enough to train a new champion if you ask me…”
“Still not gonna happen, Scotty. I train the girl and then
I go home.”
“Oh, is that right?” Scotty raised an eyebrow, nose stuck
high-and-mightily in the air. “And that would be home
where, exactly? To that damp, dank little cabin you
stumbled across in the woods like Little Red Riding Hood,
or that brand-new apartment you just bought across the
way?” Scotty walked toward his office with his shoulders
back, arms swinging like he owned the place.
S’pose he does, I reminded myself. Uppity, self-satisfied
bastard.
I clenched my hands into fists, considering firing off
another jab. Preferably to the same spot on Scotty’s arm, to
maximize the damage. I narrowed my eyes, considering my
options—or maybe a good uppercut right under that
angular chin would be more satisfying.
I sighed as I released the tension in my fists. Wouldn’t
do to knock the guy out… but hey, dreams were free.
I shook my head slowly. “What happened to you,
brother? You used to be cool. Scotty ‘Scrubs’ Dawson,
cleaning up messes outside the cage, causing them in it.
It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”
A flash of hurt sparked in Scotty’s eyes—the first hint of
genuine emotion I’d seen from him since I’d arrived.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said, slapping me on the
back a little too hard to pass off as a friendly pat. “Tuesday
—two o’clock. Don’t say daddy doesn’t provide.”
“Hmm,” I grunted, eyes narrowed as I watched my best
friend retreat to the safety of his office chair.
Perhaps there was more eating at Scotty than I’d
realized.

“I have to leave early tonight,” I said. “I’m heading out of

town. Have to see a man about a horse.”
Sammy frowned, the anxiety on her face telling. She still
didn’t trust me enough. I guess she still figured that once
someone left her, they weren’t coming back. Every time I
saw that look on her face, it broke me a little. “Are you
going to be back in time for our session tomorrow
morning?”
I looked at my watch.
Two hours there, two back, time enough to pick her up,
pop into the bar for a quick drink…
“Should be,” I replied.
Sammy gnawed on her lower lip. It did something to me
whenever she did that—something that made my fingers
itch. “You can tag along if you like. It’ll be boring as fuck,
though—I just have someone I gotta pick up from the
cabin.”
“Someone?” Sammy stepped back from me as if startled.
“I didn’t know you had a… err… cabinmate back home.”
I raised an eyebrow. Why did Sammy care if I had a
cabinmate, as she put it? “Yeah. Four paws, a fluffy tail—
she’s a riot.”
Sammy’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Oh… right.”
I smiled. Something about her interest was endearing.
“It’ll be a bit of a drive.”
Sammy’s eyes lit up. “Road trip? I love road trips!”
I rolled my eyes, the outward gesture in direct
juxtaposition to the warmth spreading in my chest.
“It’s not a road trip.” I ground out. “Road trips involve…
I don’t know—bad music, worse gas station food, and
singing. This one will involve sitting down, and… being
quiet.”
Sammy gave me a single, enthusiastic nod. “A not-a-
road-trip road trip. Gotcha.”
Goddamnit. This woman was a headache—and this gym?
I think I’d finally figured out what was wrong with the
place. There was a drastic lack of good, old-fashioned
discipline.
“We’re leavin’ straight after training.” God knew what
had possessed this woman to think this trip would be fun.
“Sure,” Sammy shrugged. “Can we stop off somewhere
quickly first? I have…” Sammy trailed off, thinking for a
second, “someone I have to, um, see.”
What someone? She hadn’t mentioned anyone before,
but I should’ve known a woman as attractive as her had a
body at home to keep her warm at night.
I fought to keep a snarl off my face. “Sure. No problem.”
Sammy blinked at me, doing a quick double-take. “Oh!
No, not like that, if that’s what you were thinking.” Her
cheeks flamed a warm pink, and I felt the heat creeping up
my neck in response.
 “Training… well, it doesn’t leave much room for dating.
Besides, the dudes I’ve met on Tinder tend to be a little…
intimidated by the whole fighting thing.”
“I wasn’t. Thinking that, I mean.” I said quickly, clearing
my throat.
Goddamnit! Why was my every interaction with this
woman so painfully awkward? Might be I’d spent too much
time in the woods. Perhaps I should spend more time
interacting with people than I did with the damn cat. But
people were likely to recognize me, and recognition meant
explanations, and explanations were exhausting.
Besides. I was her coach—whoever she spent time with
outside of this gym was none of my damned business.
“Oh. Okay.” Sammy looked to the floor, the awkwardness
of our conversation burning into both our faces.
I cleared my throat. “We’ll leave at ten. That gives us an
hour and a half to get some more grappling practice in and
thirty to shower and change.”
Sammy nodded her agreement.
I rubbed the back of my neck, hesitating for a moment.
Just then, the thought of grappling felt a might too…
intimate. “On second thought, let’s start with some cardio.
Then we’ll work up some combos. If you still have anything
left in the tank after that, we can start on the grappling.”
Sammy had definitely started emptying out more of her
tank in our recent training sessions—perhaps overhearing
my conversation with Scotty the other night had actually
been good for her.
Sammy grinned, rubbing her face on her shoulder to
remove the heat pooling there. “Sounds good, boss.”
“Let’s get to work, then.”
After our training session, I met Sammy outside. Her fresh,
citrusy scent perfumed my car as soon as she hopped in. It
was potent—almost overwhelming—and I tightened my grip
on the steering wheel.
“Where are we going, to see this someone of yours?”
“Corner of Whitman and Traverse,” Sammy replied
brightly. “Do you need directions?”
“Mm-hm.”
Sammy pulled up directions on her phone and held it up
to the dash. “I’ve never seen you with a phone.”
I shrugged. “Don’t have one.”
“That’s pretty unusual in this day and age.”
“Meh.” I shrugged. “When I left MMA, I needed space.
So, I ditched the whole ‘connected to the world every
minute of the day’ thing. It… wasn’t good for me. Can’t say
I miss it.” At least, I didn’t miss being hounded by those
vultures from the press.
“A true, modern-day Henry Thoreau, then.”
I raised an eyebrow. It was unusual to find a city girl, let
alone a fighter, who knew Thoreau. “Rather than love, than
money, than fame, give me truth.”
Sammy grinned. “Ahh, so you do know who I’m talking
about, then.”
“Only because I found a copy of Walden left behind in
the cabin I bought,” I smiled. “And yeah… no social media,
no phone, choppy internet… I had time to read for the first
time in my life. I went insane at first, but it wasn’t so bad
after a while, with Thoreau to keep me company.” Most of
that was true—I’d needed a break from the grind, but I’d
never intended to leave the cage permanently.
There was scrutiny in Sammy’s glance, as if she knew I
was holding back on her. I pulled up my car next to a 24-
hour corner store. “Is this the place?” I frowned.
“Yep. Coming in?”
I bit back against my immediate inclination to say no.
There was something in the way Sammy’s eyes pleaded
that made me want to say yes. “Sure.”
We both jumped out of the car.
“I, um… I have a bit of a confession to make.”
“Uh-oh, here we go.” I tensed.
“We’re not really here for a person, per se.”
I shot Sammy a warning look.
“Well, okay. We are if you include Jim.”
“And who is this Jim?” I stuffed my hands in my pockets
to keep from clenching them into fists.
Sammy grabbed my arm, pulling me in close and giving
me no choice but to breathe her in. “Slim Jim,” she replied,
then laughed her damned head off as I groaned at her
terrible joke.
A tiny tinkling bell alerted the shopkeeper to our arrival.
“Sammy! I thought I told you not to come back until you
were famous! I’m expecting to earn enough money offa you
to add a new story to my house.” The graying man behind
the counter wiggled his bushy eyebrows at Sammy. Clearly,
the two were friendly.
Sammy grinned, pulling me into the store. “Yeah, but my
coach and I require road trip snacks.”
“Coach, you say?” The old man eyed me over, fiddling
with the tarnished gold chain at his neck. He had an old
tube TV perched perilously behind the counter, set to a
sports news station.
Alarm churned my gut. Sammy grabbed a bunch of Slim
Jims from under the counter and headed toward the drink
cooler. “Anything for you?”
I shook my head, edging my way toward the door.
I pulled my hoodie further down over my brow line, my
heart starting to race.
Damn it, Sammy! What is she playing at? She knew I
didn’t want anyone knowing I was in town. And this guy
absolutely seemed like the type who would recognize me
and tip off some media hack—or even just boast about
seeing the infamous “Anesthetist” to his friends.
 The man turned to me. “I have to say, Sammy’s been
lookin’ good lately. Hated to lose her, but I’m glad she quit
her job to focus on training with you. I was just telling her
that I thought she had a little more pep in her step lately,
wasn’t I, darlin’?”
“Sure, Marv.” She threw him a look that said she
appreciated his compliment.
Wait—Sammy quit her job?
“Anyway. It’s easy to see why that’s the case now. Even
behind the sweatshirt. He’s quite the dish, isn’t he,
Sammy?”
Sammy’s cheeks flushed pink. I wasn’t used to this side
of her. “He’s only my coach, Marv. His wrestling skills are
world-class, though.”
“You don’t say,” Marvin said, scrutinizing me. I shifted
uncomfortably from foot to foot, moving another pace back
toward the door.
Sammy plonked a black iced coffee down on the counter,
along with some salted peanuts and half a dozen Slim Jims.
I scowled. “I hope you’re not planning on eating all of
that.”
Sammy grinned. “They have protein! What would you
prefer I snack on? Brussels sprouts?”
Behind her, a spark lit up Marvin’s eyes. “I can think of a
thing or two he might like you to snack on, darlin’.”
As Marvin chuckled to himself, I damn near choked on
my spit. My mortification was only tempered by Sammy’s
cheeks turning from pink to deep red. She turned around
and slapped Marvin good-naturedly on the shoulder.
“Coach, Marvin. He’s my coach—not my… whatever you
were thinking.”
Marvin raised an eyebrow at her. “Sure. But just
because I’m a shopkeeper doesn’t mean I’m not also a red-
blooded male.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Sammy snorted, slapped some money on the counter,
and picked up her goods.
 “You’re nothin’ but an old perv,” she said with obvious
affection. “Now if you’re finished, Ames and I—” Sammy
stopped dead, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Ames, you say?” Marvin said, scratching his stubbled
chin. “Unusual name, that.”
Neither Sammy nor I breathed a word, silence
suspended between the two of us.
“Now that wouldn’t be the great Ames Anderson in my
shop, would it?” Marvin swung the counter open, stepping
forward. “Well, I’ll be damned! Ames Anderson, back from
the dead. Though, from that look on your face, you’d prefer
to stay in the grave.”
“Ames, I’m sorry, it was a slip of the tongue—” Sammy
turned to Marvin. “You’re right, Marv, he’s not ready for
anyone to know—”
Marvin stepped forward. “Don’t you worry, son. A
betting man like me wouldn’t tell a soul about a tipoff this
big. And I won’t bother you about an autograph, either.”
Marvin shuffled forward even further; his eyes filling with
water. “But it would make this old man very happy if you’d
shake my hand.”
I swallowed, every part of me wanting to run. Why
would someone want to shake my hand? The hand of a
quitter? The man whose retirement had damn near spelled
the end of the light heavyweight division?
I hesitated a might longer before offering up a firm
handshake.
“It’s an honor, son,” Marvin said, his cigarette laced
voice croaking further. “Never in all my days have I seen
someone fight like you did against Vicious. A true wonder.
You made me a wealthy man that night.”
I cleared my throat. “Um, thank you,” I said. “I
appreciate it.”
“A true wonder,” Marvin repeated. “Take some more of
these. Least I could do.” He placed another fistful of Slim
Jims into Sammy’s hand.
 “Ames Anderson! In my shop—with my little Sammy!
Wouldn’t have bet my life on it.”
Marvin continued muttering to himself as Sammy waved
her goodbyes and pulled me toward the door. I was so
confused I didn’t rightly know how to move, let alone what
to think.
As soon as we left the store, Sammy turned to me.
“I’m—I’m so sorry, Ames. I didn’t think—” Sammy trailed
off, her eyes wide, pleading and petrified, obviously
expecting some rebuke.
None came. I knew she hadn’t meant to let my name
slip. Though, she had risked that the old man would know
who I was on looks alone.
I sighed and ran my hand through my hair as we both
got back into my car. “It’s alright,” I said, eventually. “I
ain’t mad. But… that guy. I figured everyone despised me
after I left, after my fight with Vicious.”
Sammy frowned. “You’ve really been out in the woods so
long that you don’t know you’re an MMA god among us
mere mortals, huh?”
I snorted. “God?”
Sammy continued. “Everyone who watched that fight
with Vicious and saw what happened afterward… they have
a fair idea of why you left, despite what the PFC media
machine might want people to think.”
I couldn’t square it. Fans were fickle. I’d expected
people to hate me for leaving the division in the mess it
was. Expected them to hate me as much as I hated myself.
Maybe I was wrong.
Sammy shrugged. “I mean, it also helps that Vicious
didn’t even have what it took to win the interim belt.”
Sammy’s tone became steely. “That guy… he has a lot to
answer for.”
“Hmm,” I muttered, noncommittally. It was my
responsibility, walking into that cage, to protect myself at
all times. I’d known what Vicious could be like. But I’d let
myself get so carried away in victory that I didn’t even
think.
Sammy punched the dash. “That’s why we have to make
him pay. Not just for what he’s doing with Scotty and the
gym, but for what he did to you, too. He should never have
been allowed to compete again after that fight—and the
fact that he did is a disgrace. Not just to the organization,
but to the entire sport.”
We? My stomach roiled. “No, Sammy. This isn’t your
mess to clean up.”
She shot me a look. “It became my mess the minute you
stepped in to coach me for a fight against Vicious’s new
puppet. And don’t you even think to claim otherwise.”
I’d admit, it would feel damn good to put Vicious back in
his place—doubly so, considering it’d also help Scotty in
cleaning up a mess of his own, for once, rather than the
other way around.
But I wasn’t about to throw someone else into the cage
on my behalf.
I raised an eyebrow, flicking my gaze toward Sammy.
“Give me one of those Slim Jims.”
Grinning, she opened one and handed it to me.
The rest of the journey out to the cabin passed quickly,
our conversation turning to lighter topics. Sammy seemed
unbothered by my frequent one-word responses, even
managing to pry multiple sentences in a row from me every
so often. Talking to her was easy, natural—which was
unusual for me. With other people, it felt more like a chore.
When we arrived at the cabin, it was pitch black. Still, I
navigated the familiar long, winding driveway with ease.
“Here we are,” I said, getting out of the car.
“Wow.” Sammy looked around us. “This really is in the
middle of nowhere.”
I nodded. “Sure is.”
Sammy flashed her tongue across her bottom lip. “Is this
the part where you chase me around with an axe and chop
me into tiny pieces?”
I laughed. “No, but you might want to watch out for the
odd rabid raccoon.”
I turned the porch floodlight on, illuminating the area
with a warm, yellow glow. The cabin had been exactly what
I needed after the incident. Cramped and stark as it was, it
was comfortable and far away from prying eyes. With a
small bathroom and kitchen, a couch, a bed, a two-seater
dining table, and one overstuffed recliner, it had everything
a man needed to think.
Initially, I thought I’d stay three, maybe six, months—
just long enough to figure out what I wanted to do seeing
as my fighting career with the PFC had been so
unceremoniously ripped away from me. I tossed up the idea
of maybe moving to another promotion, fighting overseas,
or transitioning to boxing… but nothing really seemed to
fit.
Three years out here and I was still trying to figure out
what I wanted to do with myself. Fighting for the PFC was
all I knew—it was as essential to me as breathing.
Sammy cleared her throat. “And that is officially a lot of
firewood.”
I shrugged. “Like I said—no phone, shit internet. A lot of
time to think.”
“But seriously, though,” Sammy continued. “It would
take, like, ten winters to burn through half of this.”
I scoffed. “Chopping wood is cathartic—feel free to
mention that to Scotty when you’re next on speaking
terms.”
Sammy raised a suspicious eyebrow at me but didn’t
enquire further.
“How does a city girl like you know about Thoreau,
anyway? Fancy boarding school, or did the wild call to you,
too?”
Sammy scrunched up her nose. “No. It was my older
brother, actually. He really liked Chris McCandless for a
while—you know, the Into the Wild guy? Eventually, his
obsession led him to Thoreau.” Sammy tracked her sneaker
through the dry dirt. “I kind of wish he’d followed through,
really.”
I frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“For a hot second there, I thought my brother might
follow in McCandless’s shoes—disappear into the
wilderness, find his own way. Turn up somewhere in the
middle of nowhere years later. Instead, he did the opposite.
Donned a suit that fit him just as well as a straitjacket
would’ve and made our mother proud.”
“You must feel bad for him. Shouldering that burden.”
Sammy looked away into the woods. “You know, I think I
actually resent him for it. He’s older. He could have forged
forward, made it easier for me to follow my passion, too,
and instead…”
“Ahh,” I sat down on the porch.
“He’s the perfect child. The perfect son. And in
comparison, how could the daughter who chose to waste
her life fighting ever compete?” Sammy sighed, leaning
against a support beam. The porchlight shining on her hair
made it look golden. “I don’t know. I guess… this life is
ruthless. It’d be a lot easier with a little encouragement.”
I nodded. “Scotty and I didn’t have that, either. But we
found it in each other. I came up here because there were
no good gyms in my neck of the woods when I started out.
We both ended up at one of those big martial arts camps,
but Scotty got hungry. Felt like we weren’t getting the
attention we deserved. Wanted more. I wouldn’t have been
able to crack the top ten without him.”
Sammy’s eye twitched. “Yeah, well. He’s still an ass.”
I grinned. “Ain’t wrong about that. Not these days, at
least. But I gotta have faith that he’ll come back to himself.
Until then, it seems I don’t have much choice but to
tolerate him. He tolerated me for years, after all, so this is
just fair payback.”
 A moment of silence stretched out between us, peaceful
and warm. The moon had risen above the treetops, and the
stars were out. The only sounds were the wind rustling the
spruce needles and the occasional scuffle of small animals.
Beside me, Sammy took a deep breath in. “Seriously,
though. This place is amazing. I can see why you didn’t
want to leave.”
My stomach dropped at her words; I started thinking
about how much time I’d spent up at the bar dying to get
away from this place. Truth was, I’d resented every minute
of my time out here. I’d felt stuck, unable to move on with
my life without the thing I loved most.
How much time had I really spent trying to figure things
out before I’d succumbed to obliterating the pain with
alcohol?
Hell—when was the last time I even paid attention to the
brightness of the moon out here?
“Huh.” Sammy inhaled, a now familiar flush rising on
her cheeks.
“What?” I asked suspiciously.
Her eyes widened. “Nothing! It’s just… this place. It
smells like you.”
“Oh, great. So, I smell damp and musty, huh? Nice.”
Sammy rolled her eyes. “No. Well, I mean… kind of. You
smell like earth. Sometimes like other things, too—hot soil
after the rain. Wood, and smoke. It’s nice. Comforting.”
My cheeks burned. “Really? I’m not right sure what that
means, but thank you, I guess.”
A faraway smile floated across Sammy’s face. “I think
it’s the closest thing I’ve ever smelled to true freedom.”
A cold, soulless, laugh escaped me. “Good to know I
smell the exact opposite to how I live,” I said.
Sammy frowned, gesturing around her. “How can you
say that?”
“Oh, right! It was my choice to get stuck out here.
Must’ve forgot!” Rising, I slapped my forehead in
exaggerated sarcasm. “I just up and left my life’s work to
live in some dank, damp, freedom-smelling woods in the
middle of nowhere completely of my own accord.”
I stepped closer to Sammy, the muscle at the base of my
jaw working. “My freedom—my true freedom—was in that
damned cage. It was walking in there with nothing more
than the opportunity to make something of myself—and
walking out with a legacy. It was—” I stopped, pulling
myself short of saying the things I really wanted to.
But Sammy pushed forward, insistent, bracing her fists
on my chest and glaring up at me. “What, Ames? Taken
from you? What Vicious did was horrid, don’t get me
wrong, but we all step into that cage knowing what’s at
stake. We all risk everything every time we enter that
thing. That’s the joy of it, the exhilaration of it, and it’s the
pain of it, too. It was you who chose to check out. You who
decided to tap out and leave.”
Sammy pushed forward again, dropping her hands and
pressing against me. Although she was a full two and a half
heads shorter than me, every inch of her was fucking fire.
Fire that made my fingers twitch. Unable to look away
from her, I tensed every muscle in my arms, my shoulders,
my back, to resist reaching out to claim her.
Sammy’s chin trembled.
She swallowed, the pale skin of her neck begging to be
touched.
And then she turned, breaking the tension between us in
a single, swift movement.
“So,” she said, her voice bereft of its usual chime.
“Where is this cat of yours, anyway?”
I scratched the back of my head. “She hasn’t shown up
here, so she’s probably hanging out at the bar.”
Sammy frowned. “Ohh-kay?”
“It’s about five miles down the road. Jump in, we’ll go
get her.”
“You’re taking the cat, huh?”
Harvey stood at the back entrance of the bar, trash bag
in hand. He swung the bag up into the dumpster as Dixie
yowled to the heavens, protesting being stuffed into her
new cage.
“Oh… hey, Harvey. Yeah. Thought I’d pick her up, see if
she’s interested in city living for a while.”
“Uh-huh.” The suspicion in Harvey’s voice was difficult
to place. I didn’t know what on earth he had to be mad
about—though I guessed it probably had something to do
with his recent loss of income from his most loyal and
prodigious customer. Harvey muttered something, but I
couldn’t hear him over Dixie’s yowling. Once the cage was
finally closed, and Sammy and I had backed away a step,
she seemed to calm down. “And who’s this, then?”
Before I could introduce her myself, Sammy stepped
forward. “Name’s Sammy.”
“Yeah, well… I’d shake your hand, but… garbage juice.”
Harvey held his hands in front of Sammy’s face.
“Fair enough.” Sammy scrunched her nose. “Any chance
of a quick drink before we hit the road?”
“Sure thing, just let me get cleaned up, and I’ll meet ya
both inside.”
It was odd, the way Sammy seemed to slip into any kind
of environment the way someone would a comfortable old
shoe. She struck up an easy conversation with Harvey at
the bar—who talked more to her in the twenty minutes we
spent there than I’d heard from him in the whole three
years prior. But afterward, when we picked up Dixie and
went back to the car, it was to the tune of a very different
kind of song.
“Um, Ames?”
 “Yeah?” I said, my fists white knuckling the steering
wheel as we made our way back.
“I, um… I really don’t think your cat likes me.”
I glanced over at them, Dixie wailing like a banshee as
Sammy balanced the small cage on her lap. “It’s probably
just the cage.”
Sammy eyed the cat warily. “Something tells me that’s
not true.”
Dixie stopped her caterwauling just as quickly as she’d
started.
My shoulders deflated in relief. “See? She’s getting used
to you.”
My eyes widened, horrified, as Dixie shot a paw out of
her cage with a menacing growl, catching Sammy on the
sensitive skin between her thumb and index finger.
“Youch!” Sammy squealed. “Damn it, Dixie! Why do you
hate me so much?”
Sammy tried to pull her hand away but only succeeded
in doing even more damage to herself, Dixie’s claw drawing
a thin line of blood. Sammy sucked on her wound to soothe
it.
“Right, that’s it!” I pulled the car over, stormed around
to Sammy’s side, and pulled the cat cage off her lap. “If you
can’t behave, you can sit in the back.”
I opened the back door, buckling Dixie’s cage into
position. “There,” I said, dusting my hands on my jeans.
Dixie gave a mew so small and pitiful it was no doubt
intended to proclaim her innocence.
I pointed a finger at her. “Don’t you start with that—you
were the instigator.”
As if she knew exactly what I was telling her, Dixie
yawned and preened a paw over her ear before curling up
into a ball and snuggling into the blanket in the bottom of
the cage.
I climbed back into the driver’s seat and pulled back out
onto the road. “There,” I said. “Now, that’s better.”
 Beside me, Sammy bit her lip, holding in a snicker.
“What?” I huffed.
She did a quick double-take. “N-nothing, I swear.”
I scowled. “Out with it.”
“I… I was just thinking about how great you’d be. You
know, with kids.”
I grunted back my surprise, focusing back on the road.
I’d ruled out the idea of fatherhood long ago. My own pops
had been a high school football coach who’d disowned his
family after he’d realized neither me nor my brother had it
in us to throw a pigskin around for a living.
He didn’t tolerate deadbeats or quitters—or so he’d said
to us, countless times. Turned out to be rather ironic,
seeing as he ended up being the one who checked himself
out of life early.
I didn’t want no future like that for any kin of mine.
“Yeah, well… that’s quite enough from you, too,” I said,
switching the radio on and turning it up loud enough to
avoid the conversation.
Sammy cocked her head to the side and raised an
eyebrow, looking from me to the radio.
I shot an uneasy glance in her direction. “You keep
making that face and it’ll get stuck like that,” I grumbled.
Sammy snorted. It was the last straw for her, as she
swiftly launched into a fit of giggles.
Her laughter warmed my heart, and, reluctantly, I
realized the woman might have a damn point.
As my world shifted on its axis, and under the protection
of the blaring country music, I joined her.

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 SIX

Sammy

“Sam!” Scotty yelled my name from across the gym and

indicated toward his office with his head before retreating
inside. My stomach nosedived—we hadn’t talked in weeks,
and now he wanted my attention?
I gnawed on my lip, already thinking the worst. Ames
hadn’t yet turned up for our Tuesday afternoon training
session… maybe he’d decided to bail on me. After our
intense trip to pick up Dixie, it wouldn’t surprise me if he
tucked tail and headed right back to his cabin.
Jumping off the treadmill, I wiped it down quickly,
composing myself before I went to face Scotty.
If Ames had left, I could still do this—I could still make
the fight. He’d taught me enough that I should be able to
stay on my feet, at least…
I tugged at my ponytail.
Who was I kidding? As soon as Isla found a way to take
me down, I had no way to defend myself. I’d be a sitting
duck for her to choke or submit me.
Shoulders deflating, I walked into Scotty’s office.
“Sam, finally.” Scotty said. “Meet your new sparring
partner.”
Wait—sparring partner?
 “Um, I didn’t know I was getting a new sparring
partner.”
“Ames ordered one for you. She arrived today,” Scotty
replied, as if finding a sparring partner was as easy as
ordering one from Amazon.
A familiar person stood up from Scotty’s sofa chair and
bounced over to me. “We’ve actually met before,” she said.
“Piper. Piper Brase. We fought each other a year back—”
“I remember,” I said.
Piper’s cheeks flushed. “It was a quick fight. You took
me out in the first round.”
I nodded, tightening my ponytail. It had been a
particularly easy match-up. “Yeah. It was my last amateur
fight, actually. Sorry about that.”
“Oh—don’t be!” Piper added. “Turns out the weight cut
down to Strawweight was too extreme for me. I’m doing
much better now that I’m up at Bantam. And, hey, I’m kind
of pumped about the idea of learning a thing or two from
you, too!” Piper fake-boxed my arm and ducked a non-
existent jab.
A whisper of a smile passed across my lips.
Well, Piper seemed… peppy.
“Where did you start out your training, Piper?”
“I started over at the All-Men’s Boxing Gym across town.
Cleaning it, actually. I’d watch the guys, mimic them. Then
one day, a coach saw me and signed me up for an amateur
fight. I think he did it as a joke, at first. The guy still
doesn’t take me seriously. Calls me Piper ‘The Pipe
Cleaner.’ So, I thought, fuck him, I’ll come over here where
the real fighters are.”
I threw a look at Scotty. “Huh, you don’t say?” I said
flatly. “Well, I hope your experience training here is more
pleasant than over at the All-Men’s.”
“Oh, I’m sure it will be,” Piper’s eyes danced with
excitement. “I mean, I finally have someone to train with
who isn’t a dummy!” In an instant, Piper’s face dropped,
her eyes widening. “Literally speaking—not figuratively.
They, um, they wouldn’t let me train with the guys.”
I chuckled. Piper seemed nice. Perhaps a bit naïve, but
everyone had to start somewhere—and it was better
starting out naïve than it was bitter and twisted. This sport
would do that to you on its own. “Gotcha. Well, it’s nice to
meet you, Piper.”
Scotty clapped his hands together, his gaze shifting from
me to Piper. “I’ll leave you two ladies to get acquainted.
And by ‘leave’ I mean that you should—seeing as this is my
office and all.” Scotty flashed us both a toothy grin. “You
enjoy yourselves out there. And Piper, don’t forget those
gym fees are due again at the end of the month.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Piper chimed, grabbing my wrist as
we walked out of Scotty’s office.
Piper crinkled her nose, leaning over to whisper in my
ear. “I’m not sure he’s all that much better than my last
coach, to be honest.”
I spluttered. Perhaps Piper wasn’t as naïve as I had first
thought. “You might be right about that one.” I paused for a
moment, stepping back to take in Piper in all her wide-
eyed, anxious excitement. I patted her hand, the one still
holding my wrist. “How about I give you the tour?”
“That would be ahh-mazing,” Piper said. “Do they, um,
serve coffee anywhere around here? I’m busting a nut for a
good brew.”
I pressed my lips together to stop myself from snort-
laughing again. “Yes, yes they do, just across the road.”
Piper’s relief was palpable. “Oh, thank God. I swear. I
am actually, like, literally busting to get my hands on some
caffeine. No jokes.”
I pulled Piper into a protective side-hug. “Oh, I can tell
we’re going to get along just fine.” I grinned. “How about
we grab a coffee after our training session? My coach
should be here any minute now.”
 “That sounds perfect. But, my treat,” Piper said. “The
least I can do. As a thank you. For the tour—and for letting
me train with you.”
Piper and I were just entering the main gym when Ames
arrived.
Relief flooded over me when I saw him. “Hey, big guy.
New sparring partner has arrived, as ordered.”
Ames nodded in Piper’s direction. “Good. You up for
some heavy sparring?”
Piper nodded furiously. “Hell yes I am!”
“Good to hear.” Ames arched an eyebrow, unused to
such levels of unbridled excitement in the gym. “Let’s get
started, then.”
Ames warmed us up and put us through our paces.
Piper’s cardio was on point, and her striking wasn’t bad,
either, considering she’d picked up most of her technique
from boxers.
Ames ran us through a series of jab combos that would
allow me to split Isla’s usual guard positions and force an
opening for a significant kick. He shot a glance toward the
door, noticing Scotty’s star fighter and his wannabe
entourage strutting in. “You two continue,” Ames
instructed. “I have a… call to make.”
On whose phone? I thought as Ames rummaged through
his training bag in the corner of the gym.
Piper barely glanced in Ames’s direction, solidifying her
stance to take my next set of combos.
But after three near-perfect sets, Piper looked up and
dropped the mitt to her side, just as I was about to kick it
with full force.
“What the hell, Piper?”
Her mouth dropped open. “Oh. My. God. Is that—” Her
eyes widened, pupils dilating. “It is!” She hissed, grabbing
me by the arm.
“Caleb, right? ‘The Crusher’ Rushmore… oh my God, he
is, like, the most famous MMA fighter I’ve ever seen in real
life.”
I snorted. “Caleb? Yeah. Well, believe me, give it two
weeks, and you’ll wish he didn’t exist. He and his crew are
always strutting around like they own the place.” I
scrunched my nose in disgust.
Piper licked her lips. “If I had a body like that, I’d strut
around like I owned the place, too.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “Plus, they leave their sweaty
gear all over the place—”
“They do?!” Piper bit down on her lower lip, eyes
scanning around the gym.
Gross. I chuckled. “God, Piper! Down, girl!”
“I know you think I’m an idiot, but I swear he is ten out
of ten, the most delicious slice of ass I’ve ever seen.”
Wow. Piper has undoubtedly picked up some terrible
habits from the All-Men’s gym.
For his part, Caleb barely glanced our way, and his
entourage stopped only to crowd uselessly around the
water cooler. Caleb stalked into Scotty’s office—no doubt to
go over details about his rumored upcoming title shot
against Jason “The Nightmare” Ferguson.
As soon as he’d disappeared, Ames stalked back, hoodie
on, hood pulled up to shroud his face.
“You back from the corner, baby?”
Ames narrowed his eyes and grunted.
Piper cocked her head to the side—obviously a little too
young to get the reference.
“Let’s just get back to work,” Ames growled.

“What I wouldn’t give for three pumps of caramel and half

a gallon of cream in this,” I bemoaned, taking a sip of my
extra-large, piping hot black coffee as Piper and I settled
ourselves at a sunny table at the café just opposite City
Limits.
“Noooo! You have to stay strong! You got this! I believe
in you!” Piper replied, her platitudes falling absurdly flat
against the backdrop of her own double chocolate-chip
Frappuccino.
I slouched back in my chair as I tried to find some form
of a bright side to the situation at hand. At least my budget
would thank me—even if my stomach wouldn’t.
Capturing the straw in her mouth, Piper groaned, her
dark brown eyes shining with pleasure as she took her first
sip of her calorific, carbohydrate-laden drink. “Oh, God.
This is… So. Freakin. Good.”
I scowled at her, and she grinned.
“Oh! Actually, you know what would go great with this?
One of those molten salted caramel brownies…”
My mouth dropped open in half-serious horror. “You
wouldn’t dare.”
Piper giggled, her tongue flashing across her lower lip.
“I totally would dare. That is, of course, unless you have
something else equally as devilish for me to feast on?”
I gulped back a large swig of hot coffee, scalding my
tongue and spluttering as the hot liquid cascaded down the
back of my throat.
Piper raised an eyebrow, her eyes sparkling
conspiratorially. “Oh, I knew you had some good tea! Is it
about Caleb? Spill. Please. Before my sugar cravings propel
me toward the food counter.”
“What? No. Me? Tea? Definitely not.” I brushed invisible
crumbs from our table, avoiding Piper’s marked gaze.
“You’re the worst liar of all time. You know that, right?”
“No.” I pouted, crossing my arms over my chest.
Piper snorted. I shuffled back in my chair a little,
turning to look at the entrance of the gym. Inside, Ames
and Scotty were talking, looking over a clipboard—training
notes, no doubt—perhaps from our session today.
 Lately, even Scotty had taken more of a direct interest in
my training. It felt… weird to have people that believed in
me, but I couldn’t remove the pit of guilt that still sat right
down at the base of my stomach like a big, dark sinkhole.
“Hey, Piper?”
“Yeah?” she replied, setting her drink down, picking up
on my sudden change of mood.
“Do you ever …” I sighed, trying to find the right words
for the swirl of thoughts and emotions raging inside my
head. “As a fighter yourself, do you ever wonder if the
people around you would actually tell you if you didn’t have
it? Like, if they’d do you a solid and tell you to walk away if
they thought you were no good? Or would they just … tell
you to keep going, even if they knew you were hopeless.”
“What the fuck? Girl, where is this coming from all of a
sudden?” The shock written across Piper’s face caught me
by surprise. Did she not think about whether the people at
her last gym were just training her as some kind of nasty
joke or just using her to make a quick buck?
I sucked my cheek between my teeth, trying to think of
the right words. “I just…”
I faded out, looking up to the sky. It was nice to be
outside, in the open air. Maybe the stale, sweaty airlessness
of the gym was starting to get to my head.
“I just… I mean, I know Scotty is more than happy to
continue taking my money, as long as it lasts. And I don’t
know if Ames would tell me, you know. If I sucked.”
“Wait. Did you say, Ames?” Piper’s jaw just about hit the
table. “I knew I recognized that guy from somewhere! You
mean, you’re telling me that’s who is coaching us? Ames
heckin’ Anderson?”
Fuck! I did it again!
I tried and failed to keep the deer-in-headlights look off
my face that all but confirmed my slip up was true.
“Holy mother of…” Piper trailed off, lost for words. “I
just had a training session with one of the best wrestlers in
the whole heckin’ world…”
“Piper, you can’t tell anyone, please,” I begged. “He
doesn’t want people to find out. That he’s training me, that
he’s back in the city… he just…”
“Wants to fly under the radar. Got it.” Piper nodded,
miming zipping her mouth closed.
Of course, she immediately opened it again straight
after she’d finished the gesture. “Holy shit. I knew you had
gossip, but this…” She shook her head.
I scowled, miming a throat slit back at her.
“Okay, okay! I won’t tell anyone. I promise. I don’t even
have anyone to tell, anyway. My last gym consisted of the
most premium boxing douchebags. I was super-glad to see
the back of them, to be honest.”
“Well good,” I replied, swirling my coffee into a dark
vortex. “Keep it that way.”
Piper’s expression turned serious for the first time. “And
back to the question at hand. Girl, Scotty wouldn’t bring
the Ames Anderson back from the dead for someone who
sucked. He didn’t even do that for Caleb, right?”
“I guess,” I said, my doubts subsiding a little.
“Regardless of his general attitude of douchebaggery, he
must think you’re something real special. And if I was
gonna be real honest, I’d say that they both see something
in you that you probably don’t even see in yourself yet. So
maybe the real question here is: why haven’t you? Seen it
in yourself yet, I mean.”
I felt the familiar squirming in my stomach pick up
again. I thought about all the sweat, blood, tears, and
sacrifice I’d poured into this dream. And all the times when
I’d stopped and pulled myself up just short of the finish line
—be it one punch short of a knockout, one combo short of a
set, or one mile short during a cardio conditioning session.
Why did I do that? Why did I pull myself up, sell myself
short, when I was so goddamned close to the finish line?
 “You’ve put in a lot of work to be here, Sammy,” Piper
said thoughtfully. “You’ve trained hard. I know—I’ve
followed your career since you beat me. You have what it
takes. So don’t give in to that kind of suckage thinking. Let
your training, your coaches, and your new teammate
support you through to getting that hand raised. If you
can’t bring yourself to believe in you, then at least believe
in us until you get there yourself.”

OceanofPDF.com
 SEVEN

Ames

Sammy collapsed and slid down the gym wall to the mat,
squirting water from her bottle into her mouth. She’d
finally worked herself to exhaustion. She was spent.
I thought back to my own days of training—how it
always surprised me the next morning, waking up to the
ache of muscles I hadn’t even known existed. Something
warm and satisfying tugged at my chest as I pulled in a
deep breath. Despite how much I longed to be back in the
cage myself, I wasn’t going to envy being Sammy tomorrow
morning, that was certain.
“Alright, one more. Show me what you’ve learned before
we hit the road and get some rest.”
Sammy looked up at me from the floor, her big blue eyes
glassy and tired, chest still heaving. Part of me wanted to
back down—even to tell her to take tomorrow morning off—
but I knew I couldn’t let up now. Not when she’d made so
much progress today. Not when she was so damn close to
breaking through the mental block she’d put between
herself and her own success.
My index finger twitched, aching to close the distance
and haul Sammy back to her feet—if only for the chance to
reassure her and briefly hold her hand in mine. Seeing her
sprawled out like that gave me dangerous ideas.
Instead, I clenched my hand into a fist and quickly
turned away, back to the center of the mat. Now was not
the time to give in to weakness.
I couldn’t cross that line. Risk her trust.
Not when she was so close.
Clenching my jaw, I strapped my mitt back on and
waited.
Behind me, Sammy huffed the air out of her lungs. “One
more,” she repeated, under her breath—likely to convince
her own resistant body to obey her.
She pulled herself to her feet and joined me at the
center of the mat, giving me a single nod and assuming a
defensive stance.
“The first rule of takedown defense—”
“Create space. Use your reach advantage. Kick to the
body to keep as much distance as possible between you and
your opponent.”
“Why?”
“So you’ll be able to see the takedown coming before it
happens and defend accordingly.”
“Good.” I nodded, raising the mitt to my stomach.
Sammy struck it hard and fast with a front kick that forced
me back half a step, then she opened up the distance again,
taking an additional step back like I’d taught her.
Good girl. Use your strengths—pick ‘em apart from the
outside.
Sammy was focused, serious, with a determined glint in
her glassy eyes. The right attitude for a fight, but not for
training her reflexes like I was trying to. I thought for a
moment. I had to bring her back out of herself, shock her,
make sure she was actually listening, actually taking this
all in.
“And if you ever kick me in the knee again?”
 Sammy’s autopilot focus faltered, flickering for a
moment before her face cracked into a wide grin. “Then
Scotty rebrands this place into a funeral parlor,” she said.
“And we both end up as corpses.”
A muscle below my eye twitched. “Not how I’d put it,
but close enough.”
I raised the mitt again, and Sammy sent another
perfectly placed front kick flying right for the center of my
stomach, rotating her hip at the exact moment to grind her
heel up. If the mitt wasn’t there, the kick would have
landed right under my ribcage.
Yes! Now that kick could end a fight! I bit my tongue,
clamping down hard enough to hold back my reaction. She
didn’t need to know how good I thought she was—she
needed to figure that out and claim it for herself.
“And the takedown—when you see one coming, what do
you do then?” I undid the Velcro strap and threw the mitt
across the mat toward the wall. I changed levels, indicating
to Sammy I was about to come in for a takedown.
“Widen my stance, drop my hips, lower my center of
gravity.” Sammy bit down on her mouthpiece, bracing
herself to take the impact of someone twice her size.
She didn’t flinch—didn’t blink or break eye contact. Just
braced, with what almost looked like a twinkle of
enjoyment in her eyes. Was she finally starting to get it?
Truly realize how damn good she was?
She’s beautiful when she believes in herself.
The thought escaped and ran away before I could
wrangle it back.
I clenched my jaw, ground my teeth, and felt my nostrils
flare.
Not here. Not now.
These thoughts, these feelings? They had no place on
this mat—or in my head, for that matter.
I swallowed hard, pushing those thoughts down,
constricting the air out of my feelings. Later, I could deal
with them like I’d been dealing with them all week—with a
firm grip on a bottle of beer in one hand, and the single
appendage I didn’t have complete control over in the other.
I cleared my throat and my head before slamming Sammy
down to the mat and mounting her straight into half guard.
She tried to resist—I could feel her taut muscles, the
intention behind her movement as she pushed against me—
but her smaller frame was no match for mine. For every
purpose that mattered on the mat, my body was like a tank
to her MINI.
“Now?” I ground out, biting down on the tip of my
tongue again to remind myself that now was no time to
picture my student naked.
“Knee up, prevent my opponent from taking full guard.”
Even though she assumed the correct defensive position,
I scrambled and stepped my leg over her with ease, coming
into full mount.
“And when that fails?”
A glint of fire lit Sammy’s blue eyes, the pit dropping out
of my stomach in response.
“If it fails,” she corrected, pausing for emphasis. “Then I
come back to controlling the space. Don’t let my opponent
control the distance between us—take the wrists if I can.
Controlling the distance means they control the damage.”
Sammy freed a hand and wrapped it around my wrist,
fingers digging into my skin, palm clamped hard against
the bone.
She wriggled underneath me, back and forth, back and
forth—creating space like I’d taught her. She also created a
kind of friction between us that was going to drive me
insane.
“You know, you got a little salt in with all that pepper
just there.” Sammy’s eyes flicked from mine toward my
temple. “It suits you, I think. A reminder not to mess with
you—that you’ve seen some shit.”
 She unclamped my wrist and raised her hand with what
felt like the intention of stroking my hair, but before she
could, I reflexively grabbed her hand and pinned it by her
side.
I swallowed. At that moment, pinned down, without
hope to escape, every muscle in Sammy’s body relaxed. It
was almost like she melted underneath me; her body was
perfectly supple, malleable—not a hint of resistance left in
it. And yet, this pint-sized woman somehow remained
immense and immovable.
“Does your mouth run away with you like this every time
you wrestle?”
She shrugged. Or tried to, underneath my weight.
“Nope. I reserve my motormouth skills exclusively for you.”
She raised her head, exposing her delicate neck, and I
watched the pale skin of her throat move as she swallowed.
I felt the warmth of her, the distance between us
minuscule, our faces mere inches away from each other.
She was so close I even felt the subtle perspiration of her
breath on my skin.
But the way my body responded to hers wasn’t nearly
appropriate for the situation. I cleared my throat. Even so,
my voice came out hoarse and gravelly. “Somehow, I very
much doubt that.”
My breath hitched as she laughed, then winced. I eased
my weight off her, allowing her to inhale a full breath freely.
“You know, I don’t expect that my opponent is going to
be quite so…”
“Heavy?” I offered, grimacing.
Sammy shook her head. “No. Hairy.” She scrunched her
nose and moved her head away, pursing her lips and
blowing air out to escape a few rogue bristles. “Your beard
itches.” She yawned involuntarily. “God, I’m tired. But I
betcha when I finally lay my head down on my pillow
tonight, that will be all I’ll feel. Phantom Ames’s beard
tickles.” She giggled, an unbridled sound with an edge of
mischief to it.
“Somehow, I don’t think I’ll mind that,” she added, with
an ethereal sigh. “Not even a little bit.”
The bottom dropped out of my stomach.
My pulse raced, and I felt my own lip twitch as she bore
into me with her deep, cerulean gaze, her tongue flashing
out for a moment to dash across her lower lip.
Some raw, guttural sound rumbled unbidden from the
back of my throat, taking us both by surprise. Sammy’s
pupils dilated, her Mediterranean blues at low tide.
By my next heartbeat, I’d retreated, flying back to my
feet quicker than I ever had during a fight.
“I… I think that’ll do for us. For today,” I said, following
the first rule of defense—creating as much distance
between myself and my opponent as possible.
“Oh. Um, okay.”
Was that a hint of disappointment I heard in Sammy’s
voice? No. It couldn’t be. That comment… even if it did
mean what I thought it meant, there was nothing I could do
about it. I ran my hand through my hair.
You numbskull—she’s your fucking student, for hell’s
sake!
Sammy slowly pulled herself off the mat. “What, um…
what time do you want me in tomorrow morning, coach?”
“Same time,” I said, as nonchalantly as I could over the
pounding drum of my heart. I rubbed the tension from the
back of my neck, pacing back and forth.
These feelings—they’re a betrayal—not only of her, but
of the sport. And then there’s Scotty… what would he think
if he knew I had spent more time thinking about my damn
cock over the past few days than training his latest shot at
cracking the PFC?
I balled my hands into tight fists, my nails digging
crescent moons into my palms.
 Damn it! I should have stopped before things got this
far!
“And—and don’t you dare be late!” I ground out
pathetically as I stomped from the training area into
Scotty’s office, slamming the door closed behind me.
I paced between the desk and the wall.
How could I have let this get so out of hand?
Pacing wasn’t even beginning to cut through the tumult
of emotion in my gut, so I eyed up the speed bag mounted
in the corner of the room. Obviously, Scotty had prepared
for moments of frustration himself. However, I doubted
he’d ever betrayed one of his fighters by thinking about
sticking his cock in them every five fucking minutes.
I did the only thing I could do to process—I went to
work.
The speed bag required not just speed but rhythm and
movement to work it accurately. To really get the thing
going, I had to pay attention—which meant I had to force
every other deranged thought I was having right to the
back of my head.
Inside the warehouse-turned-gym walls, the old pipes
groaned as Sammy hit the showers in her usual end-of-
training routine.
I clenched my jaw and hit harder.
This wasn’t part of the plan. What had I said to Scotty?
Six weeks—six weeks to settle an old score and protect the
girl from getting hurt, and then I’d be back to my cabin,
back to Harvey’s with his godawful ass-bruising barstools,
and back to my trailer trash, chicken-killing cat.
Six weeks and I would go back to pretending that MMA
didn’t exist, that my best days weren’t already behind me,
and that my busted-ass knee didn’t seize up tighter than a
fucking virgin the moment the weather even thought about
dropping below zero.
And how long had that lasted? How long was it before
I’d become emotionally invested in all this all over again?
 I was barely a week into training Sammy before I’d
changed my tune. I’d steadily increased my sessions with
her, told Scotty that I was thinking of staying for her fight—
and, worst of all—I’d bought a fucking cat cage and settled
Dix into an apartment she downright hated.
And now? Well, now I had a busted-ass knee, a dick that
wouldn’t quit, and a pussy problem.
I hit the bag with one final, brutal blow, yelling out as I
turned away, running my fingers through my hair.
My knee throbbed as I collapsed petulantly into Scotty’s
sofa chair. I rubbed at the damned thing, pressing against
the joint to relieve some of the pressure.
This is wrong. All of it—so, so wrong—and yet…
I almost stood as the pipes groaned again, indicating
that Sammy was done with her shower.
No. I’ll stay here until she leaves, I thought. I couldn’t
bring myself to go out there—not knowing how she would
look right now, her hair tousled and wet, her loose-fitting
shirt sticking to all the right places, braless, her skinny
jeans showing off each curve of her fit, muscled frame. And
that margarita scent—like a hint of tropical breeze that
made the smoggy city bearable.
Clenching my jaw, I grabbed the TV remote and flicked
on the screen mounted to Scotty’s wall. A highlight show
was on—some kind of recap of the last decade’s best
submissions.
I wondered briefly if one of mine might show up—the 23-
second armbar against David Morse, or the last-minute
D’Arce choke I used to take out Kevin Lewis, the heaviest
hitter in the division.
I muted the sound. None of it mattered now, anyway.
They were victories, but they were all long gone.
Dead, gone and, with my injuries, unable to ever be
replicated. At least, not by me. I was spent. Past my prime.
And not a goddamn use to anyone.
I rested my head back against the chair and sighed.
 Might be I was just tired. This whole fucking gym was
driving me insane.
I just needed a beer and some time to myself—to wait
for all this to blow over.
I closed my eyes for a moment. I probably would have
fallen asleep, too, if not for the quiet, tentative knock on
Scotty’s office door.
“Um, Ames?” I had to strain to hear Sammy’s voice,
more tentative than I’d ever heard it. I didn’t dare respond,
knowing I’d give something away. Or do something stupid.
Sammy cleared her throat. “I’ll, um… I’ll see you
tomorrow.”
Again, I didn’t respond.
“G-goodnight,” she added, her pitch high and a little
squeaky. “And, um. Thanks. You know, for being my coach. I
know I don’t say it too often, but… thank you. You’ve
changed everything for me. And I… I hope you know I
appreciate that.”
My lips stuck together, my throat aching, working on
some kind of passable response. Surely, a simple you’re
welcome would serve—I could manage that without
breaking, couldn’t I?
I opened the door. But Sammy was gone, the quiet bleep
of her swipe card echoing around the cold, dark gym.

I waited in Scotty’s office in the dark, trying to process.

Trying to get my head screwed back on right.
After about an hour that felt more like three, I made my
way toward the exit to complete the slow trudge back to my
apartment.
When I got to the sliding glass double doors of the gym,
I frowned.
 Sammy’s car was still parked in the lot, with a sunshade
over the front windshield.
I walked over to the car. Both front windows were
covered, with blankets jammed in them.
Wait. Was Sammy… sleeping in there?
I rapped on the driver’s side window. “Hey, Sammy? You
in there?”
In the dim light of the car park, I barely saw the ripple
as the blanket moved, just enough to make way for a single
blue eye.
“Um, yeah? You need something?” Sammy replied
innocently.
“Are you sleeping here?” I asked. My stomach lurched,
thinking about how hard I’d been training her lately. Shit,
maybe she was exhausted. It was rough, forcing her to
train mostly off-hours, burning both the morning and the
midnight oils.
Sammy pulled the blanket curtain further aside. She
yawned, stretched, and replied. “I mean, we have to be
back here in, like, six hours. I’ve showered. It’s just kind of
easier…”
She faded out, but something about how she was
avoiding making eye contact shot through my core.
Hadn’t Sammy quit her job, too?
No way. No way Sammy was homeless. Didn’t she know
how dangerous it was for someone to sleep out in the open
like this?
I cleared my throat. Now was not the time to confront
her—not when she had one hand reaching toward the key
in her ignition, ready to tuck tail and run.
I had to calm down before this situation became any
worse than what it already was.
“Come back to my place,” I said gruffly. “It’s only a block
away. You’ve been there before. The spare room’s all
yours.”
“I couldn’t—”
 “Tomorrow, over breakfast, we can talk about our
training arrangements. Come up with something more…
sustainable for the final couple of weeks.”
I pierced Sammy’s car window with my gaze, my face
flat and neutral.
I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
Sammy bit down on her lower lip. “Well, if you’re
sure…” she trailed off.
I took a step back, opening the door for her.
“Let’s go. We’ll get some rest and sort out a training
regime in the morning.”
And… whatever this is, I thought. There was no way in
hell a fighter of mine was going to sleep in a damned car in
the weeks leading up to the most important fight of their
lives.
Sammy grabbed her training bag and a half-finished
black coffee from the cup holder and locked her car, her
feet practically dragging across the ground.
Damn it. I really had pushed her too hard today.
My shoulders slumped as we walked toward my
apartment.
For a moment, the sound of our footsteps echoed across
the empty parking lot.
I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to
push you so hard.”
Sammy smiled up at me. “It’s okay. I mean, it was nice,
actually. I feel like I’ve learned more from you in the past
few weeks than I’ve learned in my entire career.”
I grunted. “Still. There’s no excuse for overtraining. All
it leads to is injuries.”
“Injuries… you mean, like your knee?” Sammy inquired.
My stomach lurched. “No. That was caused by an
entirely different breed of asshole.”
“It was Steve, wasn’t it?” Sammy said. “The PFC tried to
brush it off as bad blood boiling to the surface, tried to
downplay the injury… but it wasn’t just an ACL tear, was
it?”
My jaw clenched. “No, it wasn’t.”
“And it meant you left—”
“I didn’t leave,” I said, my hissed words echoing around
the empty streets. “I never wanted to stop fighting—I
would have risked it all—”
“Ahh,” Sammy said, reality dawning on her.
“They wouldn’t give you doctor’s clearance to fight.”
I snorted. “No. The doctors wouldn’t clear me in case I
did any more irreversible damage to it. Besides, it’s too
easy a weakness to pick on. But it was the media
department who did the real damage to my career by
refusing to tell the truth.”
Sammy was quiet, her feet still dragging along the
ground, her gaze fixed on the pavement below.
I sighed. “And to top it all off, Vicious failed a drug test.
Made our fight a no contest. The division was in ruins—
hardly any new worthy talent coming through, at the time.
They were one bad fight away from scrapping the division
altogether. And with me unable to fight, they needed a new
champion. A champion the people could get behind. Vicious
was the only one they thought could handle the weight of
the belt. So, they had to clean up his image—quick.”
“And they threw you under the bus to compensate,”
Sammy stated.
I mumbled. “Not in as many words. They were just…
silent. Told everyone I walked away, instead of telling them
the truth—that their precious new shiny champion prospect
Vicious had ended my career. All so the guy who maimed
me after the bell could have everything I’d worked my
damned ass off for handed to him on a silver platter…” I
faded out. “And now what am I? Some washed-up chump
who walked away. Who tapped out. Who quit the game
before his time.”
We reached the door to my apartment.
 I turned the key.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Not anymore. Three years
ago? That’s practically ancient history, in terms of the
Paramount Fighting Championship.”
Sammy looked up at me, her big blue eyes shining. “It
matters to me,” she said, earnestly.
She reached for my hand, squeezed it.
My throat couldn’t have been drier if I’d chugged a
bucketful of sand.
Sammy swallowed. “So, that’s why you came back. For
revenge on Vicious?”
“No,” I replied. “I made my peace with what happened
to me. Out there, in the woods.”
“Then why did you come back?”
My nostrils flared. I ground my teeth together, Sammy’s
body barely an inch away from mine. “To make damned
sure what he did to me never happens to you.”

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHT

Sammy

It was late when I woke. Late, or early. I wasn’t sure which.

At some point over the past five months, I’d forgotten
what a real bed felt like.
It was heaven. Like waking up on a damn cloud. Though
the furry lump at my feet was not so impressed by my
stirring.
Dixie growled, hissed, and flounced off the bed, no doubt
annoyed that her warm spot had suddenly gained
sentience.
As soon as I moved, my muscles ached. Not as much as I
knew they would in the morning, but enough to act as a
persistent reminder of the pain yet to come. My tongue,
too, demanded attention; the sandpaper-like texture of my
throat screaming at me to replace the fluids I’d lost over
the course of my training.
I roused myself slowly, shaking off the cloudy dregs of
sleep, and pulled myself out of bed, cataloging each muscle
group as I went.
Hamstrings? Tight.
Glutes? Achy.
Shoulders? So pumped full of lactic acid, it was possible
they’d seize completely come morning.
 Then there were the muscles I hadn’t known existed
before today. Connective tissues in my back, shoulders, and
hips—even in my feet—all angry at being previously
overlooked and now threatening to make themselves
known in intimate detail come sunlight.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness. The dim yellow glow
of the streetlights below illuminated my surroundings just
enough for me to navigate through the room without
adding to my aches and pains by stubbing my toe on a
rogue piece of furniture.
The hallway was a little brighter, a dimmed lamp next to
the sofa in the living room adding to the moody midnight
ambiance.
I wondered if the light was intentionally left on for me,
or if Ames kept something on at all times. Perhaps he
needed a nightly reminder that the world wasn’t as dark
and unforgiving as it seemed—that warmth still existed
even in cold, relentless darkness.
I hoped it was the former rather than the latter. My
days’ training with Ames had taught me he was anything
but cold, at least physically speaking.
Emotionally? I sighed, remembering the brief moment of
closeness we’d shared in training. Well, I guess the jury
was still out on that one.
His body practically radiated heat, his chiseled, muscled
form burning through energy like a hot knife slicing
through butter.
And the way he looked at me.
My stomach flipped, my heart beating faster as I thought
about how his body, his mind—hell, how even his very soul
—had captured me, pinning me down on the mat like it was
nothing.
But he had left. Pulled back. Run out of the gym faster
than if it was on fire.
I sighed, opening cupboards as quietly as I could to try
to find where Ames kept his water glasses.
 Of course, the glasses were in the last place I looked. At
least scrummaging my way around the kitchen kept me
from thinking too hard on how desperately I’d wanted
Ames to close those mere few millimeters between our lips.
Instead, he’d run away from me like I’d just eaten the
rankest garlic, onion, and horseradish soup.
I filled my glass, downed it, and refilled it before
crossing my arms and leaning my head against the cold
benchtop.
What I needed was a cold shower. Something to shock
my sore muscles and my brain back into why I was really
here and what my real goals were: to beat the living shit
out of Isla Valentina in a little over two weeks.
I braced my forehead against the table. But with my
arms folded up over my head, wearing an old T-shirt that
Ames had thrown me before instructing me to go to bed,
the distraction was ten times worse.
My heart leaped in my chest, almost skipping a damn
beat as I identified the earthy scent drifting around me.
It was him.
All I could smell was him.
And, God, I never wanted that smell to abandon me
again.
Lost in the earthen smell of Ames, with my head buried
in my arms, I didn’t notice the small furry predator jumping
up on the counter. Nor did I hear her soft growl as she
readied herself to pounce.
In fact, I had no idea I was under attack until I felt the
sharp, piercing pain of claws embedded in my scalp.
“Ow, ow, ow—Dixie, what the fuck?” I yelped,
scrambling back upright and knocking over my water glass
as Dixie tangled her claws in my hair.
She growled and hissed, claiming her territory with a
nip before flouncing back to the other side of the counter to
watch me with her shiny, beady eyes.
 “Really, Dixie? This is how it’s gonna be?” Dixie didn’t
say anything back—at least not with words—but the flint
and steel in her gaze spoke to me more clearly than most
humans ever did.
Claiming her territory. Claiming… Ames?
“Can’t we share him?” I whined.
Again, Dixie said nothing. She wasn’t going to back
down.
“Fine,” I grumbled. “A momentary truce, then.” I picked
up the water glass just before it rolled off the counter. “I’m
not giving up on him, though.” I waggled a finger in Dixie’s
direction, far enough away that her claws didn’t pose a
danger. “Not yet, anyway.”
Dixie seemed satisfied with our agreement, for now,
sniffing at the spilled water, whiskers twitching, then
lapping at it noisily.
I shivered, goosepimples rising on my skin. From the
other side of the room, another set of predatory eyes fixed
on me.
“I heard hissing. Thought I’d come and check you still
had all your limbs.”
“Limbs, yes. Hair… unlikely.” I replied, brushing my
hand through my hair and feeling over my scalp to take
stock of the damage.
I swallowed.
How much of my conversation with Dixie had Ames
heard? My stomach sunk, hoping desperately he hadn’t
heard as much as I thought he might have.
Ames looked like he was about to take a step forward,
but then he hesitated, hovering by the door instead, leaning
heavily on it, his large hand grasping the doorframe.
Damn it, Ames! Just let go already!
I clenched my jaw. Fighting back against the wave of
urges flooding over me, even as my cheeks flushed. My
body ached for him, burned for him, but I was certain, now,
that Ames would never give in.
 Never cross the line.
Even though everything about him screamed that he
wanted to.
I dropped my glass in the sink—a little too forcefully.
The crack of broken glass echoed around the metal basin.
“Damn it,” I muttered, crossing the room toward Ames
to turn the light on so I could clean up without hurting
myself.
At least it was an opportunity to cross the distance,
inhale his scent in the flesh, rather than second-hand.
I reached for the light switch, close enough to feel the
warmth radiating off Ames’s body. Ames caught my wrist
before I could turn it on.
“Leave it,” he growled.
My stomach flipped—a strong, visceral lurch that threw
me off balance. I swallowed.
“Ohh-kay?” I said hesitantly, turning my body to face
him.
A muscle in Ames’s jaw twitched—the same one I’d seen
him flinch against in practice. He inched closer. We were
within half a step of each other, now.
So achingly close.
Everything about Ames’s nearness overwhelmed me.
The sharp, masculine line of his bearded jaw. The curves of
his tattooed biceps. The rippled skin of his abdomen; the
heat of him—how it accentuated his earthen, woodsy scent.
Yet, as close as we were, he would never break first. Not
because he didn’t want to, but because he was painfully
strong. Honorable. Self-sacrificing to a fault.
I swallowed again.
It would have to be me.
I would have to break.
Why? Because I had no choice. I needed to touch him
more than I needed to get my revenge against Isla and
Scotty. More than I needed a wrestling coach. More than I
needed air.
 “Ames,” I whispered breathily, reaching for his pectoral.
The hard warmth of his flesh sent all sorts of sensations
firing around my body. “I—”
I didn’t get a chance to finish my sentence. To be fair, I
wasn’t even sure what I was going to say.
I want you? I need you? Both sounded so frivolous, so
menial compared to the overwhelming feelings that surged
through me, more potent than I’d ever felt before.
Ames groaned, pressing his body against mine, rutting
me against the wall, lifting me off the ground.
God, he was everything.
Predatory fire, earth-shattering and explosive.
“Sammy,” he groaned, one hand gripping me under my
ass cheek to pull me further off the ground. My legs
wrapped around his waist, opening to him as he ground my
hips harder against the wall with his.
Running his other hand through my hair and grasping
the strands between his fisted fingers, he pulled my head
back, exposing my neck to his teeth as he gnashed softly
against my flesh, nipping at the ridge of my collar bone.
“If we start this,” he ground out. “I warn you; I’m not
going to be able to stop.”
Hooking one arm over his shoulder, I ran my fingers
through the clipped hair at the back of his head. “Don’t
stop,” I said, pulling his forehead to mine.
“Never, never stop.” I exhaled, our lips close, bodies
closer, as Ames finally put me out of my misery, claiming
my mouth with his.
He kissed me incessantly, with a power that left me in no
doubt how much he had wanted this, too.
He melted me with his tongue, disintegrating me until I
felt like I had as much control as a puddle on the floor.
Grinding my hips against the wall, his hard, thick bulge
drove into my clit, a flood of sensation sparking right down
to the soles of my feet.
 “God, Ames. I can’t tell you how much I needed this,” I
moaned—practically whined—as Ames sucked and bit my
neck, then my jaw, rising to claim my lips with his once
more.
“I know, baby,” Ames crooned. “I needed it, too.”
Carrying me back to his bedroom, he held me tight—our
bodies magnetic, our attraction too intense for us to part,
even for the slivered whisper of a moment.
Ames lowered me with a gentle intensity onto his bed—a
stark contrast to how he’d ground me against the wall
moments earlier. His tongue roved and plundered my
mouth, the full-bodied taste of him clinging to my lips.
He leaned over me, and I raked my fingers over his
chest and moaned, arching up to greet him.
Ames shuddered. “Every part of me wants you, Sammy,”
he breathed. “Every part—even the ones I don’t want to
admit exist.”
“Me too,” I replied. My need for Ames pooled low in my
belly as he pulled his t-shirt over his head and tossed it
aside. 
Every inch of me ached to conquer Ames. To claim him,
to make him submit to me. Ames tore down his boxer briefs
and lifted my left leg to forge a trail of kisses from my ankle
right up to my delicate lace panties. He nuzzled his face
into my still-covered mound, pulling at the lace with his
teeth as he reached his hands up to relieve me of his shirt.
“God, you smell amazing,” he murmured as he flicked
his thumbs under the gossamer fabric, pulling them down
my legs in one slow but fluid motion.
My cheeks flushed as I looked up at him, unable to
process such an intimate compliment. My lips trembled,
unable to find an adequate answer to what I should say in
return.
I covered my breasts with my hands, molding the small
mounds, massaging them while Ames watched.
 Eyes lidded, he growled as I rolled my own rose-colored
nipples into tiny, tight points.
Ames pulled back from me a little, reaching between my
legs, stroking his fingers through the folds of my heat. I
shuddered when he hit my clit, swallowing a moan of
pleasure. Ames bent down, kissing his way into a kneeling
position in front of me.
Guiding one of my legs over his shoulder, he held me
open and kissed my center with a passion that made me
shiver. As he did so, he drew his hand back from my clit,
feeling for my entrance, inserting first one finger, and then
two, pumping them inside me slowly.
I shook, shivered, squirming under his incessant tongue
and his rhythmic fingers.
Finally, just as the words to beg Ames for release grazed
the tip of my tongue, he curved his digits inside me, hitting
that elusive spot I’d only been able to find by myself a mere
handful of times. Ames held me as I shuddered, quivered,
and gave way, stroking and licking me into the sweetest of
oblivions.
I breathed harder than I had in any of our training
sessions, my throat pounding with each beat of my heart.
Smiling, I pulled Ames up onto the bed until we were
lying side by side. “Again,” I panted.
Ames laughed. “Don’t you want to catch your breath
first?” he said, kissing the tip of my nose.
I shook my head violently. “Nuh-uh. Not in the slightest.”
“Insatiable little minx, aren’t you?”
“Only when it comes to you,” I replied, grabbing Ames’s
hand and pulling him on top of me.
“Well in that case—”
I gasped and arched at the same time, a full-bodied
expression of surprise. Nothing could have prepared me for
the painful ecstasy that was being filled by Ames’s entire
thick length for the first time. The fiery mix of pleasure and
pain singed me, shooting shards of white-hot fury through
my veins, pooling in my depths—and by God did he touch
me deeper than I ever thought possible.
Ames growled in relief as he entered me, my pussy
tightening and clenching around him. I felt him fill me,
pump into me, and finally, felt the way my muscles milked
him of every last drop of cum. When he eventually
withdrew, the sensations dulled, and for a split second, I
felt a little less alive.
Even then, still throbbing from climax, I wanted to
treasure this feeling—this sweet-salty mix of pain and
pleasure and him—for as long as I possibly could.
Ames lay on his bed next to me, his breath still coming
hard and fast. He brushed my hair away from my face so
tenderly that I knew he must feel it, too—must feel
something beyond words.
The angel of death. The reaper. My reaper, so hot and
furious. With him, I could soar higher than I ever thought
possible.
Ames looked to me, damp with sweat and satisfied.
“Your eyes,” he started, brushing away the last strands
of damp hair from my forehead. “They’ve always reminded
me of a stormy ocean.”
I frowned. I’d never really thought much about my eyes
before. To be honest, I preferred to see only the plainness
in myself—my sandy blonde hair, my too-big thighs, the way
my ribs stuck out all angularly when I lay down. Only ever
seeing my lack. “They do?”
“Uh-huh.” Ames nodded. “They’re that same cerulean
blue in those photos you see of the Mediterranean. But
there’s a storm behind them, too. A power. They remind me
of hope. Of… possibility.”
My heart seized, rejecting Ames’s words, and I couldn’t
help but scoff, ruining the sentiment he had so carefully
constructed. “Hope. And possibility. Is that a line you pull
on all your hookups?”
 Ames broke eye contact with me, sighing as he lay back
down. “No.”
A moment of silence stretched between us before Ames
spoke again.
“I don’t know what more I can do to convince you of how
beautiful you are,” he said. “I know you don’t see your true
potential… at least, not the way I do. But I wish you’d trust
me on this one.”
Ames’s eyes bore into me, and for the first time since I’d
met him, I felt exposed.
My stomach roiled—like everything inside me wanted to
rebut him. Wanted to make him see that he was wrong. But
if I voiced that, wouldn’t that prove his point?
All my life, my ma had drummed into me that women
were only good for a handful of things: finding a man,
settling down, and making babies. Fighting—especially in
something as gritty as mixed martial arts—was definitely
not on the concise list of things that would make a
daughter successful enough that her mother could brag
about her to her neighbors. She’d also impressed upon me
that the only love or trust a woman could count on in this
world happened after she’d secured a golden ring on her
finger. But hadn’t Ames’s words just proven her wrong?
My breath stuttered, changing as I felt things moving
inside me. It was almost like some internal compass inside
me was shifting, recalibrating to a new North. “Okay,” I
said, turning to kiss Ames chastely on the cheek.
“Okay, what?” His eyes gleamed golden, challenging me
to explore those foreign shores—the ones well beyond the
safety of my comfort zone.
“Okay, I’ll believe you,” I said. “I’ll believe you until I’m
strong enough to believe it myself.”
Ames kissed my forehead, pausing for a moment, almost
like he was breathing me in. “You’re strong enough already.
So much stronger than you know, my Spitfire,” he replied.
 I felt a surge inside me—something deep within myself
rising up to claim his words as my truth.
I’m stronger than I know.
And for the first time in my life, I felt like maybe I was—
like maybe, he was right.

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 NINE

Ames

I had never seen anything quite as exquisite as Sammy

falling apart in my arms. The way she sighed and
shuddered, her body losing the last of its resistance against
me as she fell into bliss. I had thought that she’d be one of
those women who were quiet in their pleasure, who would
have a self-conscious, quiet O-face. Instead, Sammy had
rewarded my efforts with a moan that had left me—and
most likely my neighbors, too—in no doubt of the pleasure
I’d given her.
It was satisfying, sure. But not nearly satisfying enough.
Still, I didn’t even know how I was awake after today. I’d
had one of the longest days in the history of mankind, and
merely a few moments ago, I had been about as spent as a
man could humanly be. But my need for Sammy was so
strong, so intense, that having her once wasn’t ever going
to be enough.
I was powered by her. Powered by the taste of her flesh,
the smell of her hair, the citrusy scent of her skin… and the
way she gave herself to me so freely, baring every intimate
part of herself to me. Even if every word in every language
were available to my tongue, I still couldn’t describe just
how amazing it felt to have Sammy unfolding, unwinding,
and blooming in my hands.
Had I ever wanted to love somebody boneless like this?
Had I ever truly wanted to serve a woman like I wanted to
serve Sammy? In all my years of experience, sex had never
felt this… intimate. With other women, during my prime
PFC days, I was always more interested in a quick fuck
from behind with the lights off, just to blow off some steam
—Sammy, on the other hand…
Sammy had shattered in my arms, and I had pulled her
against me. And as her muscles twitched while she slept, I
stifled a yawn, my spiraling thoughts finally lulling enough
for me to drift off.
I woke the next morning to a vision: Sammy, snoring
softly, her golden hair spread over my pillow like a halo—
every part the light to my darkness.
I sighed. Last night had been amazing, but it had also
been wrong of me to take advantage of Sammy in a
moment of weakness. After thinking over the events of last
night, there was no doubt in my mind that Sammy had been
sleeping in her car for some time.
I rose quietly, unwilling to interrupt Sammy’s slumber.
She deserved a good night’s rest. And instead, I’d given her
something else entirely.
I stretched, rolling out my shoulders as I walked toward
the bathroom. Though last night was enjoyable for the both
of us, it couldn’t happen again—at least, not before
Sammy’s fight. We were going to need our wits about us to
get through this training camp in one piece. Sammy
obviously needed a safe place to stay. And I couldn’t risk
souring our relationship before Sammy’s fight—doing so
could have serious consequences; there was no way I was
going to risk Sammy getting injured in training, or during
her fight.
I grasped the bathroom sink, looking at myself in the
mirror.
 I was asking a lot of Sammy.
Perhaps too much.
And even in all that asking, I’d never fully committed
myself. I frowned, picking up a razor and a pair of nail
scissors.
Perhaps that was something I should remedy.
A few hours later, Sammy finally awoke. The sun had
well and truly risen, and I was busy trying to figure out how
the new stove in my apartment worked.
“Intruder alert! Intruder alert!” Sammy grinned as she
jumped on my back.
“Oof! Careful, woman, hot pan!”
“Whoops, my bad. Those eggs look good, though,”
Sammy said, snatching a half slice of buttered toast off a
plate I’d set out for her.
“Jesus, can you not wait, like, two minutes? Bloody
gannet.” I smiled.
Sammy snorted. “That sounds like a Scotty phrase if
ever I heard one.”
I laughed. “Sure is.”
Sammy tapped the tip of her chin. “And, yet, somehow, I
feel like we’re avoiding the elephant in the room.”
I cleared my throat. “You want to talk about last night?”
Sammy’s tongue flicked over her lower lip. “No, I want
to talk about where your beard went! I don’t know what
happened to it, but it seems to have disappeared overnight.
Think we need to call on Sherlock?”
“Doubt it. Pretty easy mystery to solve, really.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” I replied, placing Sammy’s plate in front of her
at the small dining table. “I’m all in. It’s not fair for me to
expect so much of you when I haven’t fully committed to
being here myself.”
Sammy cocked her head to the side. “Don’t tell me
you’re really a hologram.”
 I rolled my eyes. “I’m serious, Sammy. I’m here. All of
me—Ames Anderson, The Anesthetist, the Angel of Death.”
Sammy munched on a piece of toast, scooping eggs onto
it with a fork. “Does this mean the reclusive mountain man
is headed back to his cabin in the woods, or can I keep him,
too?”
I scratched my chin. “Depends. You think you can satisfy
all four of us?”
“Hmm, we might need to work out some kind of
schedule.” Sammy laughed and took another bite of egg
and toast. “Well, I’ll be damned. Ames Anderson, back from
the dead. You sure you’re ready for whatever shit storm
occurs once the MMA media finds out about this?”
I shrugged and poured myself a glass of orange juice.
“I’m sure I’ll manage.” I cleared my throat. “But there is
something else I wanted to discuss with you, too.”
“Hmm?” Sammy raised an eyebrow around a mouthful
of egg.
“I want you to stay here. Full time, for the duration
before your fight.”
Sammy’s shoulders deflated. “Ames, no. I can’t ask that
of you—”
I cut Sammy’s protests short. “Now, I know Mitchel
Crews sleeps in his van with his dog in his gym’s car park
every training camp. That he says it helps with his focus.
So, I’m not against the idea. In principle.”
“Okay?”
“But your little scrap of a car isn’t built for a
comfortable night’s sleep. So, it only makes sense that you
stay here, instead. This place is only a block away. You’ll be
able to focus full-time on your training, and best of all,
you’ll actually be able to get a decent night’s sleep to
recuperate.”
I raised my glass to my lips, taking a long gulp. I hope I
hadn’t oversold the idea. I didn’t want to push so hard I
pushed her away.
 Sammy thought for a moment, picking at her last piece
of toast. “Okay, boss.”
“Brilliant,” I sighed, barely able to contain my relief.
“Then it’s settled.”

“No way! You have got to be kidding me—The Angel of

Death, Ames-freaking-Anderson, in my gym?”
My stomach lurched at the utterance of my name
crossing Caleb Rushmore’s lips. I rubbed my newly
beardless chin. It wasn’t like I wasn’t expecting that people
would recognize me, but I was hoping for a little more time.
Nevertheless, Caleb sauntered in our direction, walking
straight through my training session with Sammy and
Piper.
“Dude, it is so good to meet you! I didn’t know you were
coming back. Wow, turns out Scotty can really keep a
secret.”
“I’m not back,” I said sharply. “Just here for the time
being. As a favor.” I rubbed the back of my neck,
contemplating that moment, the one barely a few weeks
ago when Scotty had arrived on my doorstep.
Oh, how things had changed since then.
Still, I would fight tooth and fucking nail against training
some numbnuts like Caleb “The Crusher” Rushmore, who
couldn’t tell a rear-naked choke from a damned armbar.
“Well, no matter. Dude! We totally have to get a selfie!”
Caleb scowled at a member of his approaching entourage.
“Get my phone, you idiot.”
Caleb’s crony rustled around in a training bag he had
slung over his shoulder.
My stomach dropped into a free fall. “No selfies,” I said,
voice so loud I was almost yelling.
 Caleb waved a dismissive hand in my direction. “Just a
quick one,” he said, “I really need to up my Insta game if
I’m going to be the G.O.A.T., if you know what I mean.”
Caleb raised his eyebrows, wiggling them at me. “That
baby outside isn’t going to pay for herself.” He indicated to
the cliché red Ferrari sitting directly outside the gym
double doors.
“No. Selfies,” I demanded, rounding on Caleb. “And I
think you’ll find I’m in the middle of something right now,
so how about you and your little friends scoot off back to
your little corner of the gym, huh?”
Caleb put his hands up, looking from me to Sammy, his
gaze lingering for a moment on Piper. “Okay, okay…
sheesh. Sorry, dude. I didn’t mean to cause offense.”
“None taken.” I stared Caleb down, making him break
eye contact first, forcing him to retreat.
I sighed. Scotty was going to have his work cut out for
him if he wanted to make Caleb into a true champion.
I turned back to my girls. Sammy’s sassy raised eyebrow
left me in no doubt of her opinion of Caleb.
Piper, on the other hand, looked to be in some sort of
trance. Her eyes fixated on him—she barely blinked as he
retreated back to the replica cage in which he and his crew
tended to congregate.
“He’s just so…” Piper mouthed.
Sammy scoffed. “Conceited? Self-absorbed? Idiotic?”
“No,” Piper said, shaking her head. “Dreamy.”
Sammy rolled her eyes. “God, girl. We really need to get
you out of the gym more.”
“Not until after you’ve thrown a few more combos.” I
clapped my hands together to get their attention. “Hey,
airheads. Can we do some work, instead of ogling the other
talent… or lack thereof?” I muttered.

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 TEN

Sammy

“Take about thirty percent off those strikes, Sammy. Look

for the numbers, not for the knockout. If you look for the
numbers, your opponent will fall.”
I gritted my teeth together. “Okay, cool. Great. I’ll just
completely change my style while I’m at it, shall I?” I rolled
my eyes. “Oh hey, or maybe I’ll just casually switch from
orthodox to southpaw! That sounds like it’d be a real hoot.”
I glared at Ames, feeling heat rising to my cheeks.
Ames sighed. “Do you want to take a break?”
I clenched my jaw. “I don’t know. Do you?” My stomach
plummeted. Maybe Scotty was right—maybe I didn’t have
what it took to see the inside of a real, PFC cage.
Ames grabbed me by the arm, stopping me short of
finishing a combo on the punching bag. “Hey, stop for a
minute. What is up with you today?”
“Nothing,” I huffed. “I’m just… tired, I guess.”
Ames shot me a side-eye. “No, you’re not. You’re more
rested than you have been in weeks. And you practically
walked in here this evening looking defeated. What’s up
with that?”
I swallowed. “Oh yes, please. Continue telling me what I
looked like when I ‘walked in here.’ Let’s not own up to the
fact that I arrived half an hour before our session and you
strolled in here ten minutes late.” I fumed.
Ames took a deep breath in, then blew it out. “That’s
why you’re upset? Because I was late?”
It sounded pathetic saying it out loud—even to myself.
But yeah. Scotty had more or less quit on me, and I wasn’t
sure if I could take it if Ames did, too. Every part of me
knew it sounded nuts to still be worried about that after
our night together, but after Ames’s strained interaction
with Caleb, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Ames was
going to cut and run the first chance he got.
Ames grabbed his keys. “Wait there. One minute. And
I’ll show you why I was late.”
Ames jogged out the front door to his car, coming back
with a box tucked under his arm a moment later.
He slammed the box down on the mat by my training
bag. “Protein shakes,” he said. “Ready-to-drinks. I went to
pick them up today. I was sick of seeing you chugging
nothing but damned coffee all day.”
I rubbed the pressure points at the bridge of my nose.
“For me?”
“Yes, for you,” Ames rolled his eyes. “Who else would
they be for?”
I stood there for a moment, gnawing on my lower lip.
Truth was, with my meager savings account looking more
pitiful by the day, I didn’t have the cash to spare for stuff
like this.
“Th-thank you,” I said.
“Great. So, can we drop the sass queen and get back to
work?”
I nodded, trying to shake the doubts from my head as I
did so.
Ames didn’t deserve to pay for Scotty’s mistakes. He’d
been more than kind to me, letting me stay at his
apartment, putting in hours at the gym with me above and
beyond our initial arrangement. So, why did I still feel so
insecure?
Ames pulled his t-shirt over his head and lobbed it into
the corner, and instantly, the fear gnawing at my gut
disappeared, replaced by a more urgent need.
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to center myself,
trying to focus less on Ames’s sculpted pectorals and listen
to what he was saying about takedown defense. I would
have no hope of beating Isla if I didn’t listen, but every time
I looked at the man with his shirt off, I had flashbacks
about how damned good he looked naked.
“Okay, so takedown defense starts with space. When
you’re in the cage, the first thirty seconds are crucial.
Those seconds usually determine who is going to lead the
dance for the rest of the match.”
I frowned. “Isla’s always claimed the lead in that dance
—even in sparring sessions when she was supposed to be
helping me train. How do I control space against someone
who is literally going to try and close it until I suffocate to
death?”
“Use your weapons. Watch the eyes, target the body.
Like this.” Ames put his fists up, rocking back and forth on
his feet as he squared up to me. He curled his shoulders,
his upper body looking more like a traditional boxer’s
would, though he kept his stance wide.
“Forget everything else that’s going on. Let your
peripheral vision and your instincts do the work for you.
Focus on your opponent’s face. Read their eyes.”
My pulse started to race. Although I knew Ames would
never throw a serious punch my way, just staring him down
made my system flush with adrenaline.
Ames’s gaze never left mine. His eyes, a magnificent
hazel, flashed gold at first glance, but the more I became
familiar with them, the more I saw past their golden hue to
the green depths beyond.
 I swallowed and then took a deep breath as Ames moved
around me. He threw a combo to my body. Solar plexus,
stomach—punches not hard enough to hurt, but hard
enough to prove the intention behind them.
Ames finished his combo with a front left kick to my
right hip that sent me flying back to the mat.
“The fuck was that?” I said, stunned.
Ames grinned. “Controlling the space. Use your kicks to
your advantage, Sammy. Aim them strategically, especially
in those first seconds of that first round. You gotta be
focused on leading the dance—not on doing damage.
Damage is nice, but control will win you the fight.”
I nodded. “Okay, big guy. Let me try.”
Ames gave me a single nod and reached out a hand to
lift me back to my feet. There was no way I could do
damage against a guy his size, but I could at least try to
surprise him.
I squared up to Ames.
Ames responded in kind.
“Focus. Fix on the eyes. That’s it,” Ames encouraged.
We circled, feeling each other out before I found an
opening, and aimed a stiff jab toward his chin to split his
guard. Ames stepped back well before I made contact, and
I stumbled past him, unable to stop the momentum behind
my shot.
He stopped, put his fists down, and sighed deeply. “Were
you listening to a single word I said?”
My stomach plummeted. What had I done wrong? “I
thought… I mean, I saw an opening, and I took it.”
“No, you saw a trap. And instead of taking control of the
space like I told you to, you overextended your jab, lost
your footing, and opened yourself to an easy takedown.”
“Well, if you think you’re so damned clever, why don’t
you get in the cage with Isla, then?”
Urgh, I seriously couldn’t do a single thing right today.
 Ames rolled his eyes and started to unfasten his gloves.
“You think she’s not going to do the exact same thing? You
think she’s just going to stroll up to the cage and let you
knock her out with those heavy fists of yours?”
“No, but—”
“No buts!” Ames said, holding a finger in the air. “You
really don’t get it, do you? People like her… people like
Vicious… they’re not here for the sport. They’re here to
take you down—any way they can.”
I frowned. “Isla’s not really like that—”
Ames crossed his arms. “Oh, really? So, if you were
given the same opportunity to ditch this gym and run off
and take a match against your damned sparring partner—
you would have taken that shot, too?”
“No.”
Ames had a point. There was no way in hell I would have
pulled a move like that. So why had Isla?
“Exactly. Don’t be naïve, Sammy—Isla isn’t going into
that cage to catch up with you over fucking tea and scones.
She’s going in there because she thinks you’re an easy
target. She’s going in there to make herself a name off of
you.”
Ames picked up his water bottle. “That’s enough for
now,” he said. “I think we both need a break.”
I swallowed. I couldn’t stop here—not now. “I’m not
going anywhere. You’re right. I… I need to learn this. If I
don’t, I’m not going to have a shot at beating Isla.”
Ames rubbed the back of his neck. The familiar bleeps of
someone entering the gym using their swipe card sounded
behind us. Ames narrowed his eyes, immediately shoving
his shirt back over his head.
My stomach dropped. Maybe it was just his instinct
kicking in, but it sure as hell felt like Ames had been
pulling back. Perhaps his run-in with Caleb really had
caught him off guard.
 A couple of guys walked through the double doors,
jostling with each other.
Ames tensed, adjusting his gloves, recalibrating.
“Okay, fine,” he said, finally. “Let’s go again.”

“Oh, God. Everything hurts. Like, literally everything.” I

said, slowly lowering myself onto the sofa chair in Scotty’s
office. Ames and I had finished up training for the evening,
but he wanted us to watch a couple of fights before we left.
Something about compounding the learning. And the
easiest place for us to do that was here, seeing as Ames
still hadn’t set up Wi-Fi at his new apartment. The two guys
from earlier were still sparring in the gym, but other than
them, the place was empty.
“Have you been using that massage gun I gave you?”
I snorted. “That thing’s been recharged more times than
my vibrator.”
Ames’s cheeks flushed red. I stifled a grin, running my
tongue over my teeth. There was nothing quite as satisfying
as making Ames all hot and bothered—second only to
making his cheeks flush with embarrassment.
I shivered, delicious vibrations racing to my core, as
images of Ames naked flashed, unbidden, across my
consciousness.
There might not be something that could take my pain
away, per se, but maybe there was something that could
help distract me from it…
I licked my lower lip, fixing Ames with a stare.
“This is your fault, you know.”
Ames narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Oh, really? And
how do you figure that?”
I stretched, wincing as I did so, just to rub it in. Ames’s
eyes narrowed further.
 “All those late nights, early mornings, overtraining…” I
pulled my lower lip between my teeth. “Not to mention our
other… exertions…”
“I see. And how do you suppose I should make that up to
you?”
“Hmmm…” I trailed off, tapping my chin. “I can think of
a couple of ways…”
Ames raised an eyebrow. “Are any of those ways
appropriate for a gym environment?”
I rolled my eyes. “Depends. I know how you feel about
breaking the rules…” I sighed dramatically. “If only there
was literally no one else around to see us.” I gestured
around the empty office, the door closed.
There was no one in here, sure… but out in the gym, we
could both still hear the undeniable soft thump of the two
guys from earlier hitting pads.
Ames hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking toward
the door before he kneeled before me, taking my foot in his
hands. I moaned in relief as he stroked his thumb up and
down the sole of my foot.
“Hmm. You are tense.”
“Did you think I was just making it up to get in your
pants?” I scoffed. “Please.”
Ames raised an eyebrow. “The thought had crossed my
mind.”
I groaned as Ames worked his way up my foot to my
hamstrings.
“Oh, so you think you have golden fingers now, too,
huh?”
Ames cocked his head to the side, considering. “I don’t
know about golden, but I haven’t received any complaints
of late.”
Ames moved to pull me to my feet.
I complied, the wave of goosepimples diving down my
arms compelling me to bend to his will.
To bend to his pleasure.
 Even so, I made him feel every last drop of friction
between us as he sat down in the sofa chair and pulled me
back into his lap. He guided me gently, so my back was
lying against his belly, his cock digging into the line of my
ass through our lightweight workout clothes.
He ran his hands down my arms, kissing the shivery
point at my nape as he entwined our fingers. He guided my
hands behind me, behind him, pinning them between his
back and the soft leather seat.
“Do you trust me?” He whispered as he licked the rim of
my ear with his tongue.
I shivered. The restriction in my movement and the
proximity to him heightened my senses. I felt the way my
chest rose and fell, I felt my nipples tighten against the
tight fabric of my sports bra, and I felt my knees shake as I
gave way and melted into jelly in his arms.
“Enough to let you make me cum,” I murmured,
unwilling to give him the complete control he craved.
His chest rumbled with a noise that drew another
cacophony of shivers down my spine. “I’m not just going to
make you cum, Sammy. I’m going to make you mine,” he
whispered as he ran his hands over my hips and up my
body to rest on my rising breasts.
I arched up to meet his hands and was rewarded by
Ames gliding his hands under my sports bra to pinch my
hardened nipples. Ames clamped down on them for a
moment before rolling them between his thumb and
forefingers, all the while leaving a trace of wet, wanton
kisses across the side of my neck.
I could barely stand it—Ames having his hands on me
when every other part of me felt stretched thin, achy, and
sore. Yet here I was, trapped but willing, aching to feel his
touch roam further south.
I tried to wriggle upwards, coax his hands down my
belly and underneath my shorts.
 “Nuh-uh,” he tutted, pulling his hands away from my
body and resting them on the arms of the seat on either
side of him.
I froze, the loss of his hands on me leaving me aching for
entirely different reasons.
I croaked out a mewling sound that sounded foreign
even to my own ears. How had I come to be this… this
wanting, needing creature? 
I stilled, the only thing passing between us the rise and
fall of Ames’s patient breath.
I gave in to him. Relaxed my muscles, dissolved entirely
on him. Ames rewarded me with the return of his hot,
heavy hands, finally running them ever so gently over the
place where I needed them most.
Through the thin fabric of my shorts, I could feel every
light brush of his feather touch, and my body responded
with a swift convulsion in my core that had me aching to
arch up to greet him again.
Tracing his fingers along the waistline of my shorts, he
tugged my t-shirt upward to reveal my midriff.
Ames continued to take his sweet, painstaking time—
even as every fiber of me screamed for him to go faster.
Dipping just the very tips of his fingers under my
waistband, he pulled ever so slowly at the elastic. I bit
down on my lip hard as he snapped the band back into
place.
Goddamnit! If he didn’t start making those sweet circles
of ecstasy on my clit soon, I was going to explode. Or
scream. Or take his all-too-tempting earlobe in between my
teeth and bite down hard enough to teach him that even I
had limits to my unending patience.
He kissed a line from the tip of my collar bone back up
to the sweet spot just under my ear.
“How bad do you want me, baby?” Ames whispered, the
sound grinding so huskily against me that I felt I could feel
my core vibrate with his voice.
 “Bad.” I swallowed. “God, so badly it hurts.”
“So, your verdict on my fingers, then?”
I smirked. “I want you, Ames, but don’t you for one
minute think that your fingers are golden. Two seconds and
I could reach down there and pleasure myse—”
My monologue broke, my voice cracking, gasping, as he
plunged his hand under my panties, and bit down on my
neck at the same moment—hard enough to cause me to
gasp out in surprise.
He barely grazed me, barely touched the tiny nub that
sizzled to attention under his touch. Two, three light circles
of my clit were all it took to send me tumbling over the
sweet edge of orgasm to dive into an ocean of pleasure.
I’d never doubt him again, I thought as my breathing
stuttered.
The man truly did have golden fingers.
Ames kissed a gentle line down the side of my neck,
stroking tender circles with his fingernails up and down my
arm. We stayed like that, Ames breathing me in until his
tenderness had all but lulled me to sleep.
“How about we skip the study, you can jump in the
showers, and we can head back home to get some rest.”
The rumble of Ames’s voice against my back stirred me
into consciousness. “Hmm? Okay, sure. That sounds nice.”
Unable to make my weary, jelly-like limbs work on their
own, Ames helped me to my feet, kissed me, and then rifled
through some papers on Scotty’s desk.
I picked up my training bag from the gym and hauled
myself into the showers.
Despite Ames’s magic fingers, I still felt a demanding
ache for him at my core.
I turned on the shower. The water pressure was a lot
stronger at the gym compared to at Ames’s apartment. The
slight sting of the water on my skin felt good, like it was
stripping away the ache in my muscles, making me feel
new again.
 I stood with my back against the deluge, the water
massaging out the knots between my shoulders, working
the tension out of every inch of me.
I closed my eyes for a moment. Then, to my surprise, I
heard Ames clear his throat.
“Room for one more?’ he asked, his eyes hooded, his
cock jutting, angular, proudly, and unselfconsciously erect.
“Sure,” I hadn’t expected Ames would want to join me.
“I’m surprised you’d be willing to break even more gym
rules this evening.”
Ames smiled. “I wasn’t going to, but my cock had other
ideas.”
Ames opened the glass door and hopped in next to me.
Although I felt an immediate urge to pull my arms around
myself, I resisted. I wasn’t that girl anymore—the one who
was angrily self-conscious. Who felt an insatiable need to
protect herself, sure her dreams would crumble at the
slightest touch.
Ames reached out, holding my chin between his hands.
His eyes burned into me, those hazel green pools and the
unrelenting stiffness of his cock telling me wordlessly
everything I wanted to hear. 
You’re enough.
You’re beautiful.
I want you.
He kissed me, the kind of kiss that was slow, passionate.
That delved deep. That made me feel all kinds of weakness
but, strangely, filled me with strength at the same time.
I explored him in ways I couldn’t in the constraints of
the sofa chair or in Ames’s bed. My hands roved over his
body—the firm ridges of his back, the angular lines of his
tattoos, the broadness of his shoulders, the way his muscles
rippled under his tight skin. I placed my hands on his pecs,
rubbed a thumb over one of his nipples, and was rewarded
with a sharp grunt. I bit him, nipping at the side of his neck
as he pushed me against the tiled wall.
 Lifting my leg over his hip, I explored the way the water
streamed in a rivulet down his spine. He didn’t enter me—
not yet. But I felt every part of myself opening to him, my
shoulders relaxing, my neck limber as he nuzzled and
licked at my ear, my throat, my collarbone. I felt my
stomach tighten, an ache building there—the kind of ache
that made me want to beg for him, that made me feel the
absence of his length inside me. The ridge of his cock
ground into my clit, and I rocked against him, experiencing
a pulse of sensation that only deepened my need.
“I don’t care if it breaks every rule in the world. I want
you, Sammy,” Ames rumbled his secret confession into my
ear as he wound his hand tightly in my hair, directing my
chin upward so he could kiss my lips again.
He was breathing fire on me. All smoke and heat and
deliciousness under the deluge of water from above. So raw
and real and all him that I could barely believe that this
was reality, that I was here, with Ames, experiencing him at
his most primal.
But then, through my visceral haze, I remembered.
Remembered that this was what it was. That Ames
wasn’t likely to stay once the cameras turned on and the
spotlight grew probing and uncomfortable. That he hadn’t
even told me whether or not he’d be there in my corner for
my fight.
I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to think too much about
that. I didn’t want to think about the next moment—not
when the one right in front of me was so deep, so
demanding, so incredibly all-consuming. I pushed my
flickers of doubt to the back of my mind and took a deep
breath. I focused on feeling everything—from the all-
consuming friction of Ames rubbing against me, to the
slippery tiles against my back, to the pummel of water
against my soft, vulnerable flesh. My whole body started to
rumble and awaken with a desire so deep that it felt like it
came from a place I didn’t know existed. Or perhaps it was
just a place I’d locked up so firmly that it felt almost scary
now that I had freed it.
Now that I had freed myself.
Now that all I could feel and want and need was him.

OceanofPDF.com
 ELEVEN

Ames

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Scotty started.

“Oh, here we go.”
“Yes, well…” Scotty nodded his head, indicating for me
to join him in his office. He shut the door and we settled in
—Scotty in his office chair, me in the sofa chair I’d defiled
Sammy in not even a day ago. I adjusted my position, trying
to think of anything other than the way she’d felt when
she’d cum on top of me. “How do I put this delicately…”
“If it’s about Caleb, you can shov—”
“No. It’s not about Caleb. But seriously, Ames, he’s not
as bad as you seem to think he is.”
I raised a suspicious eyebrow in his direction.
Scotty huffed out a breath. “Okay, I’ll admit that the
Ferrari is a little pretentious.”
“You don’t say.”
“And the portable theme songs are a bit much…”
“Theme songs?”
Scotty shrugged. “Someone in the Crush Crew always
seems to be carrying a bloody boom box around.”
I scoffed. “Crush Crew?”
Scotty ran a hand through his hair. “He’s young. Don’t
you remember how that felt? Being young, dumb, and full
of—”
“Can we get back to whatever you dragged me in here
to discuss?” I adjusted my hands in my lap. My young and
dumb days may’ve been well behind me, but considering
the uncomfortable bulge in my pants I was now doing my
damnedest to hide, the full of cum part was definitely still a
problem.
Scotty straightened in his chair. “Right. Yes. It’s about
Sammy. Have you, um… have you had a chance to get her
on the scales recently?”
I frowned. “No, I haven’t really thought about it. She’s
been eating clean, for the most part, so I assumed that
wouldn’t be much of a problem.”
“For Sammy, usually it wouldn’t be, but she has also
been training more than usual.”
“Okay, so burning more calories. Isn’t that a good
thing?”
“Her body composition looks to have changed. Have you
noticed?”
My stomach lurched. Did Scotty know Sammy and I had
been together? This was the last thing I wanted to talk
about right now, considering the current predicament in my
pants, the images of Sammy’s blissful release searing my
brain. “No?”
“She has more muscle, less fat. Which means—”
“Oh, shit.” I ran my fingers through my hair.
“Exactly.”
I tapped my foot on the floor. “We still have a week
before the fight. How significant a weight cut are we
talking?”
Scotty scratched his chin. “I don’t know without getting
her on the scales. But she hasn’t done a weight cut before,
either. Not a significant one. Regardless, I think the news
might be better coming from you, considering how, err,
strained my relationship with Sammy has been of late.”
 “Good point. I’ll, um… I’ll have a word with her when
she gets in.” I rose out of my chair. “Thanks for letting me
know, Scotty.”
“Anytime,” Scotty replied, “also, take this with you.”
Scotty opened a desk drawer, pulled out a cell phone, and
slid it across his desk.
My stomach roiled. I was not ready to rejoin the land of
constant communication. “Um, nah. I’m good. Thanks,
though.”
“No, you’re not.” Scotty huffed. “Look, I’m not asking
you to be available 24/7. But you know how these things
are. Fights tend to change at the last minute. And if you’re
going to corner Sammy with me, I need to know that you’re
up to play with the latest. And you are going to be
cornering Sammy with me, right?” Scotty looked up at me
expectantly.
I hesitated, my hand hovering above the phone. “Yes.” I
replied, my voice hoarse. “Of course I am.”
“Good.” Scotty replied. “Well, thank God the fight’s here
and not in Vegas. The PFC have booked out The Saitama
Hotel. You’re welcome to stay at your apartment, though, if
you’d prefer not to, err… drag up vicious old memories.”
“No. I’ll stay at the hotel.” The mere thought of Steve
Harrison being in closer proximity to Sammy than me made
me feel sick.
Scotty scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Okay. And if you
need any help, just… you know who to call.”
I nodded. “Appreciate it, brother.”
As I closed the door to Scotty’s office, Sammy and Piper
were right behind me, practically breathing down my neck.
I hoped they hadn’t been listening in for long.
“You going to tell me what all that was about?” Sammy
said, hand on hip.
“Yes. Preferably right now.” I replied. “Come with me.”
Sammy and Piper followed me toward the bathroom,
exchanging a look.
 I indicated for Sammy to jump on the scales, the
quizzical raise of her eyebrow her only indication of
resistance.
Her face dropped as the numbers clocked in.
“Fif—fifteen pounds?! How can I have gained an extra
fifteen pounds?”
I looked to the heavens. It was worse than I had
expected. “Well, the good thing is it’s all muscle, and
muscle has a higher water content than fat. The bad thing
—”
“Oh, God. I’m going to have to do a weight cut, aren’t
I?”
“Yeah. And a pretty significant one, at that.”
“Piece of cake,” Piper chimed in behind us. I tensed—I’d
almost forgotten she was there. “I’ve cut well more than
that before. And, okay, maybe ‘piece of cake’ isn’t the right
term for it, but it’s definitely doable.”
“Really?” Sammy looked almost as skeptical as I no
doubt did. “Because the PFC won’t consider me for a
contract if I don’t make weight. I’d be screwed. Completely,
literally, one hundred percent screwed.”
I swallowed. Sammy being screwed was not an image I
needed running around my head right now. Not considering
the seriousness of the situation we were in.
“Yeah, the guys over at my old gym used to cut insane
amounts of weight. Like, well over thirty pounds. One of
them almost died of kidney failure once, but other than
that…”
My heart leapt in my throat. “We are not risking kidney
failure.” I said, firmly. “We do this the right way, or we
cancel the fight.”
“Well, we sure as hell aren’t cancelling this fight,”
Sammy replied, fire in her eyes.
Piper nodded vigorously. “Leave it to me. I’ll come up
with a couple of plans to run past you both. Cutting weight
for women is a bit more delicate than with the men.” Then
she added, “until then, no more carbs. Or fiber. We’ll have
to start emptying out that system, so we know how much
water we’re actually going to have to cut.”
Sammy lowered her head. “No more fun,” she sighed.
“Got it.”

Later that night, I ran Sammy through her paces again. It

seemed like every day we spent more and more time at the
gym. “Okay. Show me what you’ve learned so far about
takedown defense.”
Sammy nodded once, lifting her fists into a conventional
guard.
She did what I’d taught her, feeling out her reach with
her gaze fixed on mine. I swallowed, looking into the
depths of her eyes, seeing something there that I hadn’t
seen before—determination? Perhaps. Strength, definitely.
“Good,” I nodded. Taking a breath in, I opened up an
opportunity for an easy strike—a strike that would have
lured her in to closing the distance. Sammy’s jaw clenched
when she saw the opening, but she refused it, executing a
kick to the liver instead. Still a shot that’d do some
damage, but a longer-term choice that kept her controlling
distance rather than a short-term power shot. I blocked the
kick, but only just in time.
“Excellent,” I said. Instead of keeping my guard up, I
lowered it a little, mimicking what a less experienced
fighter in Sammy’s weight class would likely do when
they’d just taken a nasty shot to the liver. Sammy noticed,
saw the opportunity to come in with a killer jab, but again,
left it—instead, pushing back with another body kick—
forcing space, making sure it was her opponent who would
have to do the work to close the distance.
“Okay, well, that’s decent progress.”
 “Let’s go again.” Sammy wiped her wrist across her
brow.
I nodded, an ache growing in the center of my chest.
Sammy’s gaze hadn’t once left mine.
She backed off, shaking out her shoulders and resetting,
then joined me back at the center of the mat. We touched
gloves and she felt out her distance—much the same dance
as before; gaze focused intensely on mine.
But this time, instead of the liver shot, she went for a
roundhouse. Without having spent long enough
establishing control of the space between us, her attempted
kick faltered, and she gave up her back for half a second
longer than she needed to.
It was a golden opportunity for a wrestler—one they
wouldn’t hesitate to take. It’d be an easy choke opportunity,
too, leaving Sammy either tapped out or unconscious.
I clenched my jaw against the surge of panic that
coursed through me at the visual of Sammy, her vulnerable
body lifeless on the mat. “Damnit, Sammy!”
“What?” she said breathlessly, confusion marring her
face.
“Well, that’s a sure fucking way to give up all the damn
progress you just made, isn’t it?”
Sammy frowned. “I don’t get it… what did I do wrong?”
“You don’t get it? Really? Because, if you don’t see what
was wrong with that situation, then you’re a fucking lost
cause.”
The hurt in Sammy’s eyes hit almost as hard as the
thought of her sprawled out, limbs limp, Vicious and Isla
grinning and dancing around the cage over her vulnerable
form.
Sammy sighed. “Look, Ames, I just… I don’t have the
experience you do. I don’t see the openings you do—”
“You’re damned right you don’t. And it makes you easy
fucking pickings for someone like Vicious.”
 Something inside me surged forward, out of my control.
She didn’t get it—didn’t get how vulnerable she was. So, if
I had to show her the hard way, I would.
“Again.”
“But you haven’t—”
“Again,” I growled. If she didn’t think, if she wouldn’t
listen, then I’d damned well show her where she was going
wrong.
Sammy started again but looked to take a different kick.
“No,” I said. “Same as before.”
Sammy’s jaw clenched as she swallowed, likely noting
how drastically my mood had changed.
Sammy hesitated, her eyes slipping from mine to the
floor. She took the same opening, the roundhouse, but even
slower and less exact this time, giving me more than
enough time to take the opportunity I’d seen.
The threat she hadn’t protected herself from—the one
that could end her so easily.
Within an instant, I’d taken her back, arm snaking
around her neck.
“Okay, Ames,” Sammy said, her voice raspy.
“Do you understand what mistake you made now?”
“Yes,” Sammy croaked. “Okay, I get it.”
But yet, some part of me was still unwilling to relent.
Something in me broke, something unwilling to let her go
until she really understood—until she had full
comprehension of the kind of danger she was putting
herself in, going into a fight she was almost guaranteed to
lose.
“Ames—” Sammy said breathily.
I swallowed, choke still engaged—not as forcefully as I’d
used in the cage against opponents, but close enough.
A referee wouldn’t call this until Sammy tapped. So, I
wasn’t going to let go until she tapped, either—until she
protected herself.
 Sammy struggled, refusing to relent, only tapping at the
last second before she would have lost consciousness.
“What the fuck, Ames?!” Shooting to her feet, Sammy’s
eyes flashed black and cerulean blue. “What the hell do you
think you’re playing at?”
“I was teaching you a lesson,” I said, indignantly.
“That—that wasn’t a lesson.” Sammy said, furiously
ripping off her gloves and throwing them at me. “A lesson is
informative. That was just downright dangerous.”
I shrugged, noncommittally. “You needed to know what
the consequences were.”
Sammy snorted. “Consequences? I’m getting in the ring
with a 115-pound straw weight, not a fucking 205-plus-
pound light heavyweight.”
I swallowed back my rage. “You think she’s going to go
any easier on you just because she’s smaller than me? I
didn’t use my weight against you—just my skills. If you
were worried about the consequences, then you should
have tapped earlier.”
Sammy stormed off the mat, rummaging through her
bag. “I need a break. Before I say something I’ll regret.”
My stomach lurched. “Fine. I’ll walk you back to the
apartment.”
Sammy snorted and rolled her eyes. “In case it wasn’t
already clear enough, I need a break from you. Not from
training. You leave.”
I ran a hand through my hair. I didn’t have a shit show in
hell of winning this fight, not considering the fire in
Sammy’s gaze—the stiffness of her shoulders. “Will I see
you back at home?”
Sammy huffed. “Depends. When you’re willing to drop
the asshole routine, let me know.”
Sammy stuffed her headphones in her ears and walked
toward the cardio equipment.
I rubbed my forehead, trying to release some of the
tension there. I wasn’t wrong. I’d just pushed her too far—
that much was clear. Now, I was helpless. There was
nothing for me to do but wait and hope that she’d cool off
and come back to me.
And that made me feel sick.

I paced around my kitchen, waiting for Sammy to come

back, anxiety buzzing under my skin. The past twenty-four
hours had been a fucking nightmare. First, I’d crossed the
line with Sammy in Scotty’s office, even though I knew I
shouldn’t. Then Scotty had dropped the weight cutting
bombshell. And now…
I ran my hands through my hair and chugged a glass of
water, phone clenched in my hand. Of course, the first
thing I’d done with the damned phone was to download
Instagram. I’d convinced myself that I couldn’t coach
Sammy properly through the days before her fight without
checking out the competition.
Big mistake.
One look at “Vicious” Steve Harrison’s slimy fucking
face and I’d felt like retching. Then, I’d watched through
his story, documenting his day training Isla.
Every punch Isla threw felt like a knife to my heart.
Every word from Steve Harrison’s mouth explaining their
tactics a barb.
Each cut opened up a pit in the bottom of my stomach.
Had I prepared Sammy enough? She could likely defend
against conventional single and double leg takedowns,
sure, but did she know how to prevent Isla from taking her
down when she claimed a double underhook? Was her
slender neck strong enough to fight against a snapdown?
I refilled my glass and downed half of it before slamming
it down on the countertop. I had to regain my wits.
 I hadn’t even seen Vicious in the flesh yet, but the dude
was under my skin, memories making my bad knee feel
tender and my skin feel clammy.
I heard a tentative tap-tap-tap at the door.
Sammy. About time.
Before I opened the door, I took a deep breath. There
was no room in this equation for my thoughts. For my
feelings.
I had to swallow them. Keep them inside. Because if I let
my own fears consume me, I had no hope of doing the thing
I needed to do most.
Protect Sammy.
I opened the door.
“Hi,” Sammy said, flicking a stray strand of hair out of
her face. “Look, I—”
Both of us started speaking at the same time. I
massaged the back of my neck. “You go first.”
Sammy swallowed. “I know you had a point in practice
today. You didn’t have to be such a jerk about it, but I get it.
We’re coming into this fight on the ropes. Isla is dangerous
at the best of times, and she’s confident as fuck that she’ll
leave with a win, which is really goddamned annoying.”
“Okay,” I nodded, noting the spark in Sammy’s eyes, the
dampness of her hair, the flush to her cheeks.
“But we need to make a distinction here. Because
tonight, I don’t need a coach. I don’t need someone to tell
me how much I’m getting wrong in training. I need
something else.”
“What do you need, Sammy?”
“You, Ames.” Sammy said, dropping her training bag to
the floor and jumping into my arms. “But I need you to love
me. Not coach me.”
I held Sammy tight, her legs wrapped around my waist.
Perhaps she was right—perhaps we could make a
distinction between training and… something more.
 “Can you do that for me, Ames? Can you leave the coach
at the door, and just be my person tonight, instead?”
I drew Sammy closer, tangling my fingers in her hair as I
looked into the depth of her beautiful blue eyes. “Yes. I
think I can manage that.”
I closed the front door and carried Sammy through to
my bedroom, groaning as Sammy ravaged my mouth, her
kisses hot, demanding, and persistent.
In response to her fire, I poured my own energy into our
connection. Every thought, anxiety, and concern playing
out in kisses, nips, and touches.
I wanted all of her. And I wanted to be her everything.
But I had to wait, had to take one thing at a time, and
what I wanted most of all right now was to bury my face
between her legs and make her moan, loud and breathless.
I kissed, bit, and licked my way up her thigh, feeling her
shudder under my caress. Tiny goosepimples speckled her
skin as I settled myself between her legs—not yet touching
her, just looking at her, drinking her in.
She smelled sinful, sweet, and hot. Her perfect folds
were slicked, her clit begging for my touch, begging to be
tasted.
I kissed her pussy lightly, chastely, looking up at her and
licking the taste of her from my lips. I groaned as I stared
straight into her ocean blue eyes. “I was hoping you’d taste
as good as you look tonight—but, God, you’re even more so
than I imagined.”
I saw the look in her eyes. Saw them grow hooded with
lust and longing as she wiggled towards me, her ass cheeks
cupped in each of my hands.
“Then don’t stop,” she breathed. “Don’t stop until I beg
you for more.”
She arched up as I licked through her folds, drawing the
taste of her into my mouth, catching her clit with the tip of
my tongue.
 Her moans made my cock twitch and ache to be held.
So, as I circled her and sucked at the sensitive little bundle
of nerves between her legs, I drew one hand away from her
ass, plunged it into my pants, and wrapped it tightly around
my thick length.
All the same, pumping on myself wasn’t the relief I had
expected. I ached for her, ached to be sheathed by her
tight, wet passage, even as I pulled on my cock at
breakneck speed.
But even in my own frantic need for her, I was powered
only by her increasing moans of pleasure. Rubbing the
gentle texture of my tongue back and forth over her clit
was eliciting the most delicious sounds from her mouth,
and as she brought her own fist up to bite down on her
knuckles, I stopped for a moment and stood, pulling her
hand away. “Please, don’t. I want to hear every sound of
pleasure I milk from you.”
I watched her eyes flutter to mine and, as she nodded in
acknowledgement, I couldn’t resist plucking at one of her
soft, tender nipples, drawing the other deep into my mouth
in a long, hard suck.
She arched her back, moaning my name, and put a hand
on my head, gently pushing me back down toward her
pussy. “Don’t stop,” she murmured. “God, I’m so close.”
My balls tightened, the soft husk of her voice
enrapturing me, body and soul. Pulling back on her slick
folds I sucked at her clit again, pulsing my tongue in short,
sharp bursts, changing my rhythm from three sucks, to
four, to eight in a row until she screamed my name, thighs
quivering and clenching in that build up to her release.
I entered her—first with one finger, then with two,
feeling her tight heat constrict around them.
She was close.
I could feel it in the way she trembled, her body begging
to mount that pinnacle.
 I pulled back, retreated from her, and her moans
became desperate, a pleading cry. “Ames, please.” She said,
her tone suddenly serious. “I need you. I need you inside
me.”
Her breath shuddered and twisted as she guided a hand
down to her own clit.
I reached into my bedside drawer, ripping open a
condom and sheathing myself quickly. I didn’t need any
further invitation to enter her—my own body was begging
for release, too.
“Ames—” she whispered needily as I mounted her,
rubbing the head of my cock through her folds to collect
some of her wetness.
I descended on her, kissing her hard, claiming her sweet
mouth as my own.
Now wasn’t the time for pleasantries, politeness, or
pause. My cock demanded her. I entered her, hard and fast,
driving myself into her to my hilt.
I felt her tremble and shake beneath me as I pulled out
slowly and drove into her hard, thrusting us both to the
summit of orgasm, and finally, finally, tumbling over that
steel-cut edge of pleasure together.
Panting, running my hands through her dampened hair, I
kissed her again.
God, she was gorgeous.
So much more gorgeous than she knew, this woman of
mine.
I held her for a long moment, the frantic paces of our
pulses ebbing together. Once the dust of our tryst had
settled and Sammy had fallen into a deep slumber, I rose,
extricating myself from our tangled limbs.
I retreated back to the kitchen, flicked on the lamp by
the two-seater sofa, and made myself a coffee.
Settling in on the sofa, it didn’t take long before Dixie
joined me, a fluffy ginger ball curled up by my side.
 I was my own worst enemy in that moment, I knew. The
coffee did nothing for my mounting anxiety, as I
painstakingly scrolled through the last three years of
“Vicious” Steve Harrison’s life.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Together. I thought. We’d get through this together.
Though, even Dixie’s stoic presence wasn’t enough to
help me conquer the tumult of emotion that roiled in my
gut.

OceanofPDF.com
 TWELVE

Sammy

Pain. Excruciating, unyielding pain. Pain like I’d never felt

before.
The kind that took away strength. Breath. And even, if I
let it, hope. I closed my eyes against it, refused to let it in
as the heat threatened to overwhelm me, as every cell in
my body cried out for water, and as Ames paced like an
overprotective predator around the small hotel room.
Scotty stood, brooding in the corner, arms crossed over
his chest. “This is why I don’t let my fighters cut weight,”
he mumbled.
I opened my eyes just in time to see Ames shoot him a
pained look. “Not helping, dickwad.” He grumbled in
return.
Next to me, Piper huffed out a breath. “You know what?
Neither of you are particularly helpful right now. So how
about, instead of brooding and feeling sorry for yourselves,
you help a bitch out?”
Piper’s nostrils flared as she dabbed at the sweat
running from my brow with surgical precision. “Men,” she
huffed. “Such weak motherfuckers.”
Ames cocked an eyebrow in her direction and stalked to
the freezer attached to the fridge in the corner of my hotel
room.
From the kitchenette, something clinked into a small
bowl. Returning, Ames looked no happier than he had
moments before.
“Here,” he barked. “This should help.”
Ames took a single ice cube out of the bowl and ran it
over my brow.
“Oh,” I moaned, surprised, my eyes prickling with
unsheddable tears, the cool relief overwhelming. “Thank
you.” I croaked.
The concerned lines around Ames’s eyes faded a little.
“You’re welcome,” he grunted. “Just a little trick I picked
up from a certain Dagestani wrestler.”
Ames’s hazel eyes flashed a determined green and gold.
And if only for the briefest of moments, I felt held.
“Hey, um, Sammy?” Scotty rubbed the back of his neck
in his corner. “Incoming call.”
I’d put my phone on silent earlier, and Scotty, doubling
as coach and manager, had assumed responsibility for it.
“Who is it?”
“Um, it just says ‘Ma’.”
I sighed. I’d been avoiding her calls since our
conversation before I’d quit my job, and now was probably
the most inopportune of times to answer—but I’d run out of
energy to care.
“Put it on speaker,” I said. “And, perhaps, like… pretend
like you don’t exist. All of you. Okay?”
“Gotcha.” Scotty said. Piper and Ames both nodded.
I cleared my throat as Scotty hit the ‘accept call’ button
and placed the call on speaker.
“Ma, hey.” I said, closing my eyes and trying to keep my
tone as bright and chirpy as I could. “How’s it going?”
“Samantha? Is that you, honey? I can barely hear you!
Where are you?”
Scotty shuffled the phone closer to my face, careful to
avert his eyes from mine. I closed my eyes again, taking in
a solidifying breath, protecting myself against my mother’s
accusatory tone. “Sorry, Ma. Is that better?”
“Marginally, but I guess it will have to do.” She sniffed.
“You know, honey, I really didn’t expect you to pick up your
phone! You never seem to pick up the phone when I call
you anymore.”
“Sorry, Ma. I’ve just… I’ve been busy.” I replied,
swallowing the lump in my throat.
Silence extended on the other end of the line. Piper
dabbed at my forehead again, both her and Scotty averting
their eyes, feigning a kind of privacy. Not that there was
any kind of privacy to be had during a weight cut like this,
as I had begun to learn. My every bodily function was
factored, assessed, and deliberated on in extensive detail.
“Oh, honey. I hope you’re not still entertaining that silly
little idea of being a cage fighter. Enough is enough! This
has gone on for far too long now. So far, it’s travelled
beyond ridiculous into just plain embarrassing.”
Ma’s words cut through the thick, hot air. I saw Scotty
take a short, sharp breath in, and Piper clench her jaw and
narrow her eyes.
But only Ames, with his steady, protective presence, met
my gaze, a brief raise of his brow arching with an unspoken
question.
It seemed that my moment’s silence was enough to
answer my mother’s question about my continuing fighting
career.
“Really, Samantha! This is just sad. I feel sorry for you.
Isn’t it about time you joined the real world? Isn’t it about
time you actually attempted to make something of yourself,
rather than frequenting these man gyms like some sort of
thirsty, desperate little hussy?”
Ames stood, pulling himself up to full height, the beastly
roar of fury in his presence undeniable.
I looked at him. Shook my head slowly, and in an instant,
he reined it in, balling his hands into fists.
 I’d never questioned my mother before. But now, I felt
determined. Self-assured. Even so, my voice cracked and
broke a little when I responded. “Is that what you think of
me, Mother? That I’m a… a hussy?”
My mother sniffed on the other end of the phone,
indignant. Her voice whined, bemoaning the pure
inadequacy of her only daughter. “I just… I don’t know
what other choice you give me, sweetheart. If it walks like
a duck and talks like a duck then it’s probably a duck, you
know? And if you just thought for a moment… thought
about what the neighbors would think of us—”
Words lodged in my throat, as thick and viscous as
honey. But I didn’t know how to form them, how to say
them, how to tell her she was wrong. How to tell her how
much it hurt when she tread on my dreams.
But Ames did. He snatched the phone from Scotty’s
hand, before anyone had a chance to react.
“Now listen here, you haughty, overstuffed fucking
canary.” Ames roared. “Your daughter is the most
incredible, talented, hard-working female kickboxer this
sport has ever seen. And if you—or more likely, your damn
neighbors don’t appreciate that? Then they can stick their
pretentious white picket fences exactly where they deserve
to be fucking stuck.”
“Well, I neve—” Ma didn’t get to finish the rest of her
sentence before Ames had stabbed the ‘end call’ button and
thrown my phone against the opposite wall.
“The—the gall of that woman!” Ames paced the three
Ames-sized steps back and forth across the room before
picking up my phone from the floor and wincing. “Sorry,
Sammy. It still works, but the screen’s shattered. Don’t—
don’t worry. I’ll buy you a new one.”
He slumped on the floor next to me, taking the cloth
from Piper and dabbing gingerly at the beads of sweat that
had formed on my nose.
 Piper’s loud snort was the first thing to break the half
second of shocked, bug-eyed silence, followed by a rapid
cacophony of giggles. She looked at me, her hand flying
over her mouth in horror.
“I’m sorry,” she said, breathlessly. “It’s just—that was
brilliant, Ames. And no more than I wanted to say to that
woman myself.”
The chime of Piper’s laughter lifted something in me.
Brought me back to reality. And for the first time in a long
time, I felt a relief and joy flood through me, bubbling up in
a burst of uncontrollable laughter.
It didn’t take Scotty long to join the two of us. Ames,
however, was a little harder to convince.
“Well, I don’t know what you three find so funny about
this situation,” he grumbled, crossing his hands over his
chest.
Scotty, Piper, and I looked at each other, our laughter
starting again anew.
“Oh, Lord,” said Scotty, finally. “I gotta hand it to you,
Ames, that’s one hell of a way to introduce yourself to your
in-laws.”
Ames shot me a surprised look before scowling at Scotty.
“Oh, what?” Scotty scoffed. “You think you can keep a
secret from your old sparring buddy? Please—I know what
you’re gonna do before you even know you’re gonna do it
yourself.”
Ames mumbled something under his breath and rubbed
the back of his neck as Piper looked from me to him with
wide-eyed surprise.
An insistent bleeping from Scotty’s phone signaled that
my thirty-minute stint in the portable sauna was finally up.
Piper unzipped me, Ames grabbing my hand to help me to
my feet.
“Sounds like you and I have a lot to catch up on,” Piper
mumbled as she rubbed my sticky body down with a fresh
towel.
 “I’ll, err… go get some more ice, shall I?” Ames
mumbled, taking the hint and shooting a look at Scotty.
Scotty scrunched up his nose. “Last time I checked, it
didn’t take two full-grown men to carry a bowl of ice. But I
have absolutely zero interest in the sordid details of your
bedroom exploits, brother, so I’ll be out in the hallway.
Pretending to make some very important phone calls.”
Scotty made a gagging gesture and slapped an irritated
looking Ames on the back before the two made a hasty
retreat.
“Yaas! It’s tea time, bitches!” Piper cackled as the boys
left.
And for once in my life, I was kind of looking forward to
spilling.

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 THIRTEEN

Ames

I couldn’t find anywhere to get ice on our floor of the hotel.

So, I meandered my way down the stairs—taking the long
route, walking the hallways of each floor on my way to the
lobby bar below. Sammy needed time. Needed space. And I
needed not to be there to overhear what an exhausted
version of her was going to reveal to her new best friend.
I sighed, running my hands through my hair as I walked
the fifth floor. The past week or so had been stressful as
fuck. For Sammy, especially.
She’d cut everything except black coffee and protein
shakes out of her diet, and yet she’d been training harder
than ever—not taking ‘no’ for an answer, even when I
warned her about over-training.
And her fire and fury had extended well beyond the gym.
I opened the door leading to the stairs at the opposite
end of the hallway, descending down to the fourth floor. At
least I knew her cardio game was on point.
When I opened the door to the fourth floor, my shoulders
immediately tensed. I paused in the doorway, listening to
the raised voices emanating from down the hall.
Fighting was a tough game that attracted all different
types of people. Arguments leading up to fights weren’t
uncommon, but something in the tone of this one set my
teeth on edge.
I hesitated, unwilling to pull myself away from my
current train of thought, wondering if I should just skip
walking this floor entirely.
But something… something about the voices pulled me
in further.
I closed the stairway door behind me, walking slowly
toward the voices, their anguished words becoming more
distinct.
“I don’t care about anything other than this fight. You go
out there, and you fucking slaughter her.”
“But Steve—”
A loud thump echoed through the hallway. I recognized
it as the distinct thud of a fist breaking through drywall. My
stomach flipped.
Isla and Steve. And they were talking about the fight.
About Sammy.
I stopped. My entire body dead still, not even daring to
breathe.
“You don’t win this fight and we’re fooked, you hear
me?”
I crept closer, toward Isla and Steve’s room. The door
was cracked open, two doors down the hallway. From the
other side, I could see the shadows of two figures moving.
The larger shadow bared down on the smaller one and
my heart pumped double-time, my muscles tensing,
readying to pounce if it became necessary.
“What’s our motto, love?”
“Fight like your life depends on it. Win by any means
necessary.”
“Repeat it for me.”
Isla’s voice repeated the words. Her tone harder this
time. “Fight like your life depends on it. Win by any means
necessary.”
 “Any means necessary, Isla. You’re not a loser. You go in
that cage and you don’t come out until you’re a winner. You
hear me?”
“Any means necessary,” Isla repeated, her voice stone-
cold and defiant.
“That’s my girl,” Steve crooned, closing the last
millimeters between their shadows.
My heart careened in my chest. I pulled back from the
door slowly and hurdled up the stairs three at a time.
I had time. I could still protect Sammy.
And I would.
Barging past Scotty and tearing into the room, I picked
up Sammy’s bag and started stuffing items into it. “We’re
done. That’s it. Pack up your shit—we’re going home.”
“Hold the phone,” Scotty walked toward me. “Are you
insane? She just made weight.”
“Cool story. Now she can unmake it.”
Sammy put a gentle hand on my forearm. “Ames… are
you going to tell us what this is about?”
I swallowed. No way was I about to explain to Sammy
the horrid shit that… that cretin had said. How he had
more respect for winning than he did for human life. I
bunched my hands into fists, my limbs shaking with fury.
“It’s just… it’s not safe. And I’m not sending you out there
to get murdered. So, pack up your stuff, we’re going
home.”
Scotty cleared his throat. “You can’t do that, Ames. You
can’t make that decision for her.”
I ground my teeth together, rounding on him and pulling
myself to full height. “Like hell I can’t.”
Scotty looked to the side, rubbing his neck. “No, I mean,
you literally can’t. I’m still listed as Sammy’s head coach—
I’m the only one who can pull her from the fight. And she’s
ready for this. I promise, I wouldn’t send her out there if
she wasn’t.”
 Fear tore through me, hot, fast, and out of control. “Are
you truly as moronic as you look? There’s no fucking way
she’s ready for this! Look at her!” I waved a hand in
Sammy’s direction. Even so, I couldn’t bear to look at her
myself.
“Hey, assholes! Can you maybe take this little chest-
beating show outside?” Piper, eyes wide, indicated to
Sammy with her head.
Finally, I looked to Sammy, my stomach sinking the
moment I noticed that what little water she had left in her
body had begun to well in her eyes. She sat down on the
floor, her body heavy and leaden. “Don’t,” she croaked.
“Please, don’t do this to me, Ames. Not now.”
I looked to the floor, unable to meet her gaze. I couldn’t
let her go out there. Couldn’t let her get in the middle of a
fight that wasn’t hers. Every muscle in my body shook;
more adrenaline coursed through my bloodstream than I’d
experienced before any fight.
I knelt on the floor beside Sammy. “Sammy, please. If
you go out there tomorrow, Isla will destroy you. And it
won’t just be your MMA career she takes from you. It’ll be
your body, Scotty’s gym, and my heart along with it. You
won’t survive a loss like that. And neither will I.”
A single tear tracked down Sammy’s pale, washed-out
cheek. Her voice, thick with emotion, came out in barely a
whisper. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
I punched down, my knuckles pounding on the floor less
than an inch away from her leg. Frustrated with her.
Frustrated with myself.
“So be it.” I swallowed, storming from the room.

The barman at Harvey Dime’s slammed my pint down on

the paper coaster, sending me a side-eye that would’ve put
an entire sorority to shame.
I sighed, rolling my eyes to the heavens. “Do you have
something to say, Harvey, or are you gonna continue taking
out whatever this is on my damn beer?”
Harvey raised an eyebrow. “I sure as hell don’t have
anything to say to you that you’d want to hear.”
I sucked at my teeth and threw a few stale bar nuts into
my mouth. “Then how about you shut it, then, bud.”
Harvey retreated back to his usual spot, leaning against
the corner of the bar, polishing a glass, eyes fixed on the
screen above us.
Some replay or other—a bantamweight event—not a
weight class I’d ever followed too closely.
Harvey cleared his throat pointedly.
I rolled my eyes again, but unfortunately it still wasn’t
enough to deter the barman from having his say.
Harvey opened his mouth.
Here it comes.
“It’s just a shame, is all, isn’t it?” he said. “When you
and that girl showed up, I thought that was it. Ames
freakin’ Anderson. I ain’t ever gonna see that guy again.
And I ain’t gonna see my damned cat no more, neither.”
Harvey continued, twisting his bar towel around the
inside of his perfectly clean glass. “And you know what? For
a time, I thought it was a shame to see you go; the extra
money sure was nice. But then, I was happy. You wanna
know why?”
“Not particularly.” I turned away from Harvey, snorting
in indignation, my gut a churning, a roiling tumult of pent-
up emotion.
“I was happy because I thought that one day, I’m gonna
look up at that screen there and see your ugly mug livin’
his best life. And maybe… maybe that’d be pretty okay with
me. Knowin’ that you was out there. Doin’ good for
yourself.”
I swallowed. My throat raspy, ravaged and sore.
 “Ames-freakin’-Anderson,” Harvey muttered, slamming
the clean glass down on the bar. “The Anesthetist—the
Angel of bloody Death—tapping out of this world before
he’s done right by it.” He shook his head. “It ain’t right.”
Harvey smacked his bar towel down on the bar with a
force that jolted me back to full, sober consciousness.
“Never meet your damn heroes—they’ll only let you down.”
I clenched my jaw with teeth-cracking pressure, refusing
to look at the guy as he stormed out back, still muttering to
himself.
Just as he was about to disappear, he turned, came back,
and pointed to me. I couldn’t keep my gaze from the guy
any longer, the fury in his own eyes undeniable. “And me
name’s not Harvey either, you jackass! It’s Blake,” he said,
hesitating for a moment. “And… and also, I hope you choke
on them nuts,” he added, slamming the door behind him.
Alone. In a bar. In the middle of buttfuck nowhere.
Reruns of some fight or other playing out on the screen
above me.
I’d checked out of the world, but I’d left the window
cracked open enough so I could still watch it from afar.
But this time, I’d resigned myself to it.
This time, this was exactly where I deserved to be.

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 FOURTEEN

Sammy

Isla shook out her arms, limbering herself up in the small

green room just outside the makeshift fight arena, which
had been set up in the largest room in The Saitama Hotel
event center. There wasn’t much of a crowd or anything—
our bout being the first of five regional challenger match
ups—but my pre-match jitters were still running rampant.
She cracked her neck as she walked over to me. “I really
don’t want to do this to you, Sammy,” she said. “But let’s
not kid ourselves, we both know who is going to win this
fight.”
“Yeah, sure. And it isn’t going to be the fighter who has
spent more time with their lips wrapped around their
trainer’s dick than they have in the gym.” I smiled sweetly,
calling Isla out on her bullshit psych-out tactics. To be fair,
the hypocrisy of my statement didn’t pass me by unnoticed.
Though as far as I was aware, Isla didn’t know anything
about my relationship with Ames. Or lack thereof.
I clenched my jaw.
I hadn’t heard a thing from Ames since he’d left the day
before. A secret part of me had hoped that he’d be back
after a couple of hours—that, perhaps, he just needed some
time to cool off.
 That hadn’t happened, and I’d spent a restless night
trying to sleep with vivid, fevered images of Ames dancing
through my head. By the morning, I’d accepted it. Come to
terms with the fact that Ames wasn’t going to be coming
back.
And I’d focused on the goal in front of me. Winning this
fight. Beating Isla. Getting my contract for the Paramount
Fighting Championship.
I wasn’t going to let all my hard work and heartbreak
amount to nothing.
And I was done taking crap from the Islas of the world.
Talent, yes—she had that in spades. But work ethic? The
chick barely had the motivation of a wet sponge.
I crouched, stretching out my groin the way Ames had
instructed me to, swallowing the lump in my throat. The
past twenty-four hours had been a whirlwind. I’d made
weight barely a few hours before our scheduled weigh-in
time, thanks to Piper. I’d made the walk out to the scales
alone, without Ames there to support me. Right when I’d
needed him most, he’d vanished—right when he’d had the
chance to stand with me at the pre-fight presser and prove
the betting agents wrong in their calculations. Now, I was
headed into the most important match of my life as the
biggest underdog on the damned card.
I stretched my neck left, then right. Ames might not be
here—might not believe in me enough to see this through
to the end or believe that I had what it took to settle his
score with Vicious.
But that didn’t matter anymore.
Because I finally believed in myself enough for the both
of us. I’d prove him, my mother, and the betting agents
wrong. I could feel it in my bones.
Scotty patted me on the back, massaging my shoulders.
“You ready for this kiddo?”
I nodded.
 Next to Scotty, Piper checked through her cornering
bucket, muttering her checklist to herself, making sure she
had everything she needed to corner me for the umpteenth
time. I was pretty sure Piper was more nervous for the fight
than I was.
Scotty cleared his throat. “I’m proud of you, Spitfire. I
know I can be a bit of an ass sometimes, but these last few
weeks, you’ve really proven me wrong. You’ve got heart.
Now, go out there and use it.”
“Thanks, Scotty. You are indeed an ass, but I appreciate
the sentiment,” I shot him a nervous half smile.
As the underdog, I walked out first. The moment the first
notes of Beethoven’s Coriolan Overture reverberated
around the event center, something inside me settled. For a
moment, it was like my purpose had solidified, so tangible
it felt physical. I’d chosen the walk out song a few days ago
—a little after I’d watched Ames’s fight with Vicious for the
third time. I’d spent hours researching what track would
make sense. While I’d initially thought walking out to
Moonlight Sonata like Ames would have made my point, I
eventually went for something that was more… me. Strong,
defiant, but elegant at the same time.
I took a few deep breaths in. Regardless of whether or
not Ames was present, I was still going to fight for him. I
wasn’t going to let Vicious win.
“It’s time,” a PFC event organizer nodded in my
direction.
I started my walkout, nerves buzzing relentlessly, Scotty
and Piper behind me. But as soon as I wrapped my eyes on
the cage, nothing else mattered to me. Everything else
around me faded into the background—it was me, the cage,
and what I had to do in there. That was all that mattered.
The officials greased my brow with Vaseline and checked
me over before I entered the cage, and then I turned to
give Scotty and Piper both a quick hug. They whispered
some final words of encouragement and support, but to be
honest, I was so zoned in on the fight I couldn’t even
process their words. Scotty’s nervousness and Piper’s
bouncy exuberance rolled off me, mere blips on my radar.
Stepping through the gate of the cage, I crouched,
running my hand along the canvas, breathing it in. A sense
of peace, calm, and confidence filled me, rippling down my
body in waves from head to toe.
Ames flashed through my head. What had he said to me
once? That he had only found his true freedom inside the
cage? Huh. Well, if this was the feeling he had meant, I
definitely couldn’t disagree.
I sidestepped around the cage, first one way, then the
other, loosening myself up. Then I crouched, knees spread
wide, hands gripping the cage, to stretch out the muscles
in my groin again—the ones that were about to become
integral if I wanted to land any high kicks.
As soon as I’d settled myself in my corner, the music
changed. From Beethoven’s Coriolan Overture to
something heavy-metal—a cacophony of relentless sound. It
was a sudden, jarring change in tone—but a predictable
one. Isla hadn’t chosen this song, that was for sure. This
was all Vicious.
I stared at a spot in the center of the cage, as I’d
watched Ames do. Isla didn’t need my attention, my
acknowledgment. She and Vicious had built up quite the
social media following since they’d started training for this
fight—and once people had found out that Ames was
training me, Vicious had capitalized on that, too, practically
doubling his and Isla’s following overnight.
I grounded myself. The truth would prevail. This fight
would be the end of it—this ongoing, drama-fueled wildfire
that Vicious continued to pour fuel on via Twitter rants,
Insta reels, and endless, rambling vlogs. It would end with
me.
Everything was a blur of action, happening far too fast
and too slow at the same time. Isla was checked over, had a
moment with Vicious where he practically swallowed her
tongue, and walked into the cage. She made her rounds
and then the announcer introduced us both. All the while
my body strained, my lungs drawing in big breaths, my fists
tensing, aching for that first strike.
The referee finally waved us forward. The moment he
did, everything felt like it slowed entirely. I assumed my
usual stance—a wider, karate-style stance with a traditional
boxing guard. Isla bounced on the balls of her feet, sliding
left and right, her shoulders snake-like as she slithered her
way toward me.
I couldn’t hear a thing above the sound of my own
steady breathing and my heart pounding in my ears. Isla
rounded on me, coming closer. I combo-ed a series of three
jabs to keep her at a distance. She blocked all three, the
hits barely grazing her.
I felt my stomach drop, my confidence falter, as Isla
grinned at me, her red and black mouthguard on full
display. She didn’t speak, but her expression said more
than words. She was goading me. And by the way her
shoulders relaxed, she was sure she had this fight in the
bag already—that I hadn’t learned any new tricks since
we’d been training together.
I swallowed against the hollowness in my chest—that
empty fear that grew like a chasm. Now was not the time
for me to doubt myself. Nor was it the time to get
desperate and close the distance, looking for the knockout.
I paused, recentered my hips, and kept my gaze on
Isla’s, feeling her out. Isla’s gaze held mine as she feigned
a level change and a takedown attempt, trying to draw out
a reaction from me so she’d know how I was likely to
defend.
I called her bluff and sent a killer kick to her calf.
Isla winced, and the emptiness in my chest started to
lift.
Good. I was making some progress, at least.
 I rounded, circling away from her, around the outside of
the cage. My eyes flicked up to the clock. We were only just
over a minute and a half into the round. The moment my
eyes flicked back to Isla, I knew I’d made a mistake.
Her gaze dropped first. Then, her body rammed into
mine—a double-leg takedown. Her shoulder thrust right
into my stomach, her head slamming against my hip—she
was in deep. And with the force of her entire body behind
her, she hit hard—though, not nearly as hard as Ames had
in our last training sessions. And although she didn’t
manage to take me to the ground in one hit, she still
knocked me back, forcing my back against the cage.
Immediately, Isla went for the trip.
“Get down, bitch,” she panted.
“Never, Isla. Not in a million years,” I snorted.
Something dark and intense flashed behind Isla’s eyes.
She flicked her gaze toward the referee and, noticing her
left leg was covered by his blind spot, aimed a knee right
for my pelvic bone. Pain flooded through me, an explosion
that radiated from my core. Isla followed up with the trip
half a second later, and the explosive pain was so numbing
I couldn’t lift my foot in time to defend.
“Well, would you look at that. A million years is a lot
shorter than I expected,” Isla grinned as she pinned my
legs, wrapping herself around my lower half and holding
me in a sitting position against the fence.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Could hardly breathe,
with Isla pounding punches down on me—and although
they didn’t have enough momentum behind them to hurt,
they accumulated, each punch taking with it a little of my
will.
Isla spent the final minutes of the round whispering
sweet nothings into my ear. The icing on her cake, a
cracking elbow to my face in the final ten seconds of the
round. The bell went, and the referee finally pulled her off
me.
 Well, fuck.
“Hope you’re looking forward to another two rounds of
this, bitch,” Isla grinned ear to ear, straining against the
referee as he pulled her off me.
I stood gingerly, feeling out the damage as I walked
toward my corner.
Scotty and Piper quickly scrambled into the cage.
“I’ll be honest with you, Spitfire,” Scotty said, as I sat
down on the stool. “I’m pretty sure we lost that round.”
“Oh, you think?” I huffed. “Was it the three minutes of
ground control time that gave it away, or the elbow to the
face?”
Scotty cocked his head to the side. “A bit of both,” he
replied, as Piper squirted water into my mouth. “Look. The
ground stuff isn’t my forte. And I know he’s a bit of a sore
topic at the moment, but just… think of what Ames would
say and do that, okay?”
I clenched my jaw, scoring my mouthpiece. “Really,
Scotty? That’s the best advice you’ve got for me?”
Scotty shrugged. “That, and for God’s sake, stay on your
feet this round. You got this, Spitfire. If anyone can turn
this around, you can.”
My stomach roiled as I noted the flicker of doubt in
Scotty’s eyes. Still, stranger things had happened in the
cage than me pulling out a second-round upset, that was
for sure.
“Stay on my feet. Gotcha,” I breathed, fighting against
myself so as not to roll my eyes as I got back to my feet.
Piper and Scotty scurried back out of the cage.
“You got this, Sammy! I believe in you!” I didn’t react to
Piper’s platitudes, instead concentrating on homing in my
focus for the next round, but they did settle a little of the
sizzle in my stomach.
The second round started, Isla approached me in much
the same way as she had in the first—obviously hoping for
as close a repeat of the first round as possible.
 I swallowed, backing away a little and keeping up my
slow rotation around the cage, away from Isla’s dominant
hand.
I fired another kick at her calf when she got too close.
The satisfying slap of my foot smacking against her flesh
was practically music to my ears.
I sunk my hips, widening my stance again, in
preparation to defend against another takedown. Isla
feigned one, then another, and I rewarded her with another
solid calf kick. That was three significant strikes to the
same place, now—and I could start to see a little hesitancy
in how Isla was moving.
I thought back to Scotty’s non-existent advice. What
would Ames say at this moment? Would he still want me to
keep my distance, or had I done enough damage now to
that lead leg to take a chance and try to rack up some
decent body shots?
Look for the numbers.
That’s what he’d say, right?
I took a few breaths in as Isla bit down on her
mouthpiece, flinching against the expectation of another
low kick.
I caught her on the calf again, just as she figured I
wasn’t going to kick her—just as she relaxed her guard.
Look for the numbers. Yes, that’s exactly what Ames
would say. His voice was so clear in my head now, that it
almost felt like he was there.
Isla’s gaze dropped, and as if on pure instinct, I side-
stepped in the opposite direction, ducking her double-leg
takedown. She scrambled after me, looking for the single
leg, catching my ankle for a moment before I whipped it
back and sent a front kick to her hip, driving her backward
into the mat.
I hesitated, pausing for a moment. Usually, I’d take the
opportunity to smother her, to drive her into submission
with ground and pound.
 Instead, my eyes flicked to my corner.
And my stomach dropped.
Ames.
He had come back. I homed in on him, on his wild hazel
eyes. He was shaking his head, muttering almost
imperceptibly.
Look for the numbers, not for the knockout.
He muttered the words, over and over, like a mantra.
I nodded and backed away from Isla, giving her space to
get back to her feet, keeping the fight where I had the
advantage rather than taking it to the ground.
Unlike the first round, now I was leading the dance.
I defended against two more attempted takedowns, Isla
growing more frustrated with each failed try. Each one
rewarded her with another sharp kick to the calf. One kick,
in particular, seemed to draw a reaction from her—this one,
a kick to the liver rather than the calf, within five seconds
of the close of the round.
The sense of relief I felt sitting down on the stool again
was palpable.
“Well, that was a lot bloody better,” Scotty said.
“Must’ve been something to do with your good luck charm
finally showing up, huh?” Scotty slapped Ames on the back.
“About fucking time if you ask me.”
Ames brushed Scotty off, kneeling down in front of me to
claim the entirety of my attention. “How you feeling out
there, Spitfire?”
I nodded. “Good. I think.”
Piper squirted water into my mouth.
“Any damage? Anything I need to know about?”
I shook my head.
“The calf kicks are working a dream, but did you notice
that reaction to the liver kick?”
I nodded again, my lungs pulling in as much air as
possible.
 Ames was back. Back here, like nothing had ever
happened. Back to his usual, dependable, predatory self.
And although we probably had a lot to talk about when this
was all over, we both knew now wasn’t the time.
“The body kicks—they are your opening, Sammy. Two or
three more of those and you’ll end this round before the
bell, I promise you that.”
I swallowed. “Okay,” I breathed, folding forward a little.
Ames pressed his forehead into mine. And then, taking
me by surprise, he kissed me on it. “I’m sorry I doubted
you, Sammy. I didn’t mean to, I was just… scared.”
“I know,” I breathed, our closeness creating a sense of
intimacy and privacy in a profoundly public space.
“Go out there and finish this, Sammy. Show them what
you’re made of.”
I threw my arms around him, a flashfire hug before the
start of the round. Ames, Scotty, and Piper left the cage,
and I was once again alone, facing down Isla.
But something in Isla’s body language had changed.
Something in the way she held herself, her shoulders
slouched forward, her posture crumbling in on itself.
Had she really taken that last round so badly? I’d never
known Isla to back down from a fight—even when she was
losing—but something about her was different, the whites
of her eyes more present than I’d ever seen before.
Fear.
She was scared. Ames was right—even before the ref
had signaled for the third round to start, she had already
lost this fight.
Filled with confidence, there was no doubt who was
controlling the space now. Isla, who for the first and second
rounds had persistently tried to close the distance between
us, shrunk back, narrowly avoiding a kick to the calf.
I frowned. This wasn’t about me, surely. Something must
have happened—maybe between her and Vicious—to cause
this fierce snake of a wrestler to shrink back against the
cage like a wallflower.
I squared my shoulders. We were barely ten seconds
into the round.
And if Isla wanted this fight to finish early, I was happy
to oblige.
With Isla pinned up against the cage, I focused on
launching a couple of warning jabs to her face, then
feigned a combo of punches to her head, drawing her into
raising her guard. She took the bait and I stepped back—
the perfect range for a front kick.
I timed it perfectly, a heel rotation right into Isla’s belly,
a little south of her solar plexus.
The kick was devastating. The kind of blow that could
crack a rib, had it landed three inches right or left.
Isla wailed, crumbled, and then moaned, folding forward
onto her knees.
It was done. I knew it. She knew it.
I raised my fist, but paused, looking to the referee first.
There was no need for me to continue, no need for
ground and pound. Isla’s palms were flat on the floor—I
almost got the impression she would have tapped if she
wasn’t so preoccupied with trying to drag air into her
winded lungs.
She was in no position to protect herself.
So, I walked away, back to my side of the cage.
“That’s it! It’s over!” One of the commentators at the
table next to the cage was on his feet. I barely heard him
over the rush of adrenaline, the pounding of my heart in my
ears, and Ames—already at the gate, arms raised over his
head, the elation of victory on his face.
He ran to me, picking me up in his arms and twirling me
around the center of the cage.
“That was incredible,” he said, breathlessly. “I just…
incredible.” He kissed me, hard and breathless, the
commentators losing their minds all over again in the
background.
My body pulsed and buzzed, practically electrified by
the glorious rush surging through me.
This was it. There was nothing more in this world that
could possibly compare.
This, here, with him—this was my happy place—and
every bit worth fighting for.

As the first fight on the card, the wait for the PFC boss to
announce the contract winners was excruciatingly long.
Ames had hardly left my side, giving me a comforting hand
squeeze every now and then. The four of us kept half an
eye on the remaining fights, but all of us were distracted
and anxious.
Piper kept biting on a non-existent hangnail. Ames’s
right leg kept jiggling against mine, and Scotty’s
motormouth was in full swing, jabbering away in a constant
monologue to anyone who happened to be listening.
After the final fight was over—a heavyweight bout that
went the distance—Diana Murphy and the matchmakers
retreated to the green room to compare notes.
Ames rose, pacing back and forth.
“Well looks like the jury’s out. Let’s hope for a guilty
verdict, huh?” Scotty followed up by shooting a wry smile
in my direction.
Piper slid into the seat next to me—the one Ames had
just vacated. “Statistically speaking, knockouts have the
highest chance of earning a contract. And there was only
two tonight. Your performance was convincing—despite
whatever was throwing Isla off her game toward the end.
You’ve got a good shot.” She smiled at me, her round
cheeks a ruddy red. “I have to say, though, I don’t think I’ve
ever been this tense in my entire life—my own fights
included.” Piper scrunched up her nose.
The moment Diana walked out of the room and headed
toward the center of the cage; my whole body relaxed. I’d
done my best—and there was nothing more I could do now
to convince anyone of my worthiness to fight in the PFC.
I’d played my hand to the best of my abilities. Now, my
fate rested in someone else’s, but that was beyond my
control.
Piper shuffled back over a seat, making room for Ames
to sit next to me. Ames’s hand tensed on my thigh as
cameras circled, homing in on us, no doubt waiting to
capture our reactions.
Diana cleared her throat. “Well, the matchmakers and I
had some relatively easy decisions tonight, folks. We had a
couple of stand-out performances, and a couple not-so-
standout.”
Diana took stock, looking around at the small crowd
before continuing. My stomach lurched for the split-second
her gaze rested on me, “We’ll be awarding two contracts
tonight. First up, Tony “Sleep Tight” McKnight. Just a
stunning performance all round. Dominated his opponent,
then finished off with a second-round knockout. Welcome to
the PFC, kid.”
Next to us, Tony and his team jumped to their feet,
whooping and high fiving each other with relief and delight.
My stomach seized. There was only one more contract
up for grabs… was it possible I’d be overlooked?
“And our second contract tonight goes to a fighter who
had a solid performance, bouncing back from a difficult
first round to control her opponent in the second. An
interesting third-round knockout. And with a team like that,
I’m expecting big things from our newest addition to the
women’s Strawweight division. Sammy “Spitfire” Crawley.
Welcome to the PFC.”
 The world rushed around me, a cacophony of sounds
and excitement. Piper practically screamed her head off.
“City Limits Gym! The only way is up, baby!” Scotty ran
and jumped straight into the cage, pulling Diana—the
freakin’ boss of the PFC—into a big bear hug. Diana’s look
of shocked, wide-eyed surprise lasted right up until Scotty
grabbed her by the arms and threatened to plant a kiss on
her cheek. Then, I could have sworn I saw her cheeks
redden for a moment before she rolled her eyes and shooed
Scotty back out of the cage.
For my part, I stayed sitting, my shock and disbelief
consuming me completely.
“We did it,” I breathed, finally. “We actually fucking did
it.”
I turned to look at Ames, tears rimming my eyes and
choking my words.
Ames took my head in his hands. “No. You did it,
Spitfire.” He pulled me closer, kissing my forehead, then
my nose.
“God, I’m so proud of you.” Ames tangled his fingers in
my hair as he claimed my mouth with his. Everything
melted away. The noise, the cameras, the people… all of it
faded into the background of my awareness as I kissed
Ames. And in that moment, the whole world may have been
watching us, but for the first time, neither of us cared.
I had claimed my victory.
Ames had claimed me…
No other moment could possibly feel as sweet.

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 EPILOGUE

Ames

“Coffee’s ready!” Sammy chimed, wielding two ginormous

cups as she slammed the door of our apartment closed with
her foot.
Sammy’s return immediately put me at ease, a goofy
smile plastering itself on my face. “I’m not sure you can say
it’s ready if you didn’t actually make it.”
Sammy shrugged, nudging me as she passed me my cup.
“Hey! I walked the half a block to go get it, so quit your
complaining, mister, or I’ll pour yours down the sink.”
“Okay, okay. Sheesh.” I put my hands up in mock
surrender and arched an eyebrow at her. Sammy crinkled
her nose in response, a small gesture that never failed to
light me on fire. “You know, sometimes I think you have just
as much killer instinct in you as she does.”
I nodded to our two-seater sofa, where Dixie was curled
in a sleepy ball.
“Oh, I hardly think that’s true, is it, kitty-kitty?” Sammy
crooned as she scratched Dixie’s head.
Dixie stood, stretched, and froze mid yawn when she
noticed a blackbird perched on the railing of the balcony
outside. Crouching, she wiggled her tail, readying for an
attack—only to collide with the closed ranch slider in a
flurry of limbs and the tinkle of a bell.
Without an ounce of regret, she immediately righted
herself and licked at her paw, feigning the kind of
composed dignity that’d put the royal family to shame.
Sammy’s responding laugh chimed just as brightly as
Dixie’s new bell, striking me harder in the solar plexus than
any hit I’d ever taken in the cage. If ‘home’ had a sound, for
me, that was it: the mystic mixture of Dixie’s bell and
Sammy’s laugh.
“Poor old girl. I’m not sure she’s cut out for big city
living,” Sammy stated.
I massaged the back of my neck. “She’ll get used to it
eventually—although I am worried she’ll launch herself
right over that damned balcony one day if we don’t keep
the door closed.”
“True.” Sammy said, taking a sip of her sugared-up
coffee monstrosity. “I don’t ever think she’ll forgive you for
putting that thing around her neck, either.”
As if on cue, Dixie scratched at her collar, snagging a
claw in it and screwing her nose up in an obvious
expression of cat disgust.
“You never know. She might. Eventually.” I leaned over
and kissed Sammy on the forehead. “After all, you did.”
Sammy looked at me wryly through her lashes, the deep
cerulean blue of her impossibly round eyes catching in the
morning sunlight. “Yes, but you had other skills at your
disposal to convince me.”
I smirked as I slid open our ranch slider, sidling out
sideways, careful not to let Dixie out as I squeezed through.
Sammy glided outside behind me with a swift sidestep
and quickly closed the door.
Clever.
She made it look almost effortless. Her footwork had
improved immeasurably in the short few months we’d been
training together.
 Much to my relief, Dixie forwent her usual side-eyed
suspicion, seemly more interested in reclaiming the sunny
spot on her sofa than following us outside.
The tiny balcony of our fourth-story apartment was just
large enough for a small table and a couple of chairs. Since
we’d moved in four weeks ago, it had become our usual
morning coffee spot.
“Looks like Scotty hasn’t arrived yet.” Sammy remarked,
as she peered over the balcony toward City Limits. “Piper is
there, again, though.”
I frowned. “I thought Scotty banned her from the gym
for the next two weeks?”
“Yeah, he did. But you think that’s going to stop her?”
Sammy’s sly smile caused a collision of warning bells to
start to ring in my head.
I grunted a non-committal response and shifted in my
chair as I took my first sip of coffee—strong, black, and
unfettered with Sammy’s usual shots of some flavor or
other. I rolled my shoulders to release the tension building
there and happy sighed, satisfied, easing back into my
chair—it seemed like she’d finally given up on trying to
convince me that pumpkin spice made everything better,
thank God.
Sammy hung over the balcony, waving at Piper,
indicating to her that she’d be down soon.
I narrowed my eyes. “Please don’t tell me you’re going
to encourage this.”
Scotty had a damned good reason to ban Piper from the
gym after her last bout, if you asked me, but the last thing I
wanted to do was get in the middle of a war I had no hopes
of winning. With Sammy on one side and Scotty on the
other, I’d have more fun squeezing my balls in a fucking
vice.
“Oh, my love. Surely you should know by now that us
female fighters don’t take no for an answer.” Sammy rolled
her eyes to the heavens in ecstasy as she took another sip
of her coffee.
Cold. Strategic. Calculating. And yet, she lit me on fire
at the same time.
“Hmm,” I responded, straightening a little in my chair,
trying to ease the building pressure in my pants.
Sammy grinned. “Chill, Ames. I’m not going to ask you
to break any rules. Not just yet, anyway.”
My stomach tensed in alarm, bracing for impact. “I’m
not above breaking a rule every now and then,” I replied
defensively. “But in this instance, Scotty does have a point.”
Sammy put her coffee back down on the table, crossing
her arms over her chest and pouting. “Aww. Come on now,
love—you couldn’t just break one teensy, tiny, pesky little
rule, if I needed you to? For me?”
The gravel in Sammy’s tone caught me by surprise.
Fuck, the woman made me burn!
I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat—and the
prodigious bulge in my pants. “Well for one, it sounds like
this rule break wouldn’t be for you, it’d be for your friend
—”
“Best friend,” Sammy corrected me, her eyes lidded as
she walked slowly around the balcony to stand directly in
front of me.
I scrunched my hand into a fist in an attempt to ignore
the surge of lust raging unchecked through my system.
“And secondly: woman, I’ve already broken enough rules
for you to last a damned lifetime.”
Sammy’s whole face split into a wide, unbridled grin.
She looked me up and down, one hip jutted out to the side
—an unbalanced posture, one I’d no doubt have to correct
in our next training session. Not that she was giving me
much opportunity to think about anything other than my
cock right now.
She brushed her fingers along the table, up my arm, to
my shoulder, and massaged the spot where my shoulder
met my neck. The spot that acted like some kind of instant
release, melting away the tension from the rest of my body.
“A whole lifetime, huh?”
“Damn straight,” I groaned, giving in, grabbing her by
the ass and pulling her closer.
Sammy straddled me, lowering herself into my lap. I
swallowed, her warmth a homing beacon.
“A lifetime’s a pretty long time, Ames,” she replied,
eyebrow arched as her fingers gripped me by the ridge of
my jaw.
“Not nearly long enough for everything I have planned
for you,” I replied, claiming her heavenly lips with mine.

One fight is never enough…

Caleb & Piper’s story will continue in Fighting for Control!
Special 99c Pre-order Available Here <3

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 FIGHTING FOR CONTROL

He fights for pleasure, she fights for pain—only one

can win the bout.
Caleb
I've never taken an L in mixed martial arts.
Never even really been challenged.
But this fight has set my teeth on edge.

Three weeks' notice. Two perfect records, and a belt on the

line…
Someone's going to break. And this time, I'm not 100%
confident it won't be me.

Only one thing's certain: During this training camp, I can't

indulge a single distraction—especially not one in the form
of a busty Bantamweight with a deathwish.

Broody heroes. Feisty heroines. Love worth fighting

for.

The series continues 24th of November…

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 THANK YOU

Hello, from City Limits MMA headquarters!

I didn’t want to end this story without saying a quick thank

you :)

Thank you for stepping into the cage with me, and for
taking a chance on Fighting for Redemption—I very much
appreciate it!

I hope that you enjoyed your time with Ames and Sammy.
The City Limits MMA series will continue soon with Piper
and Caleb’s story in Fighting for Control… and after that?
Well, then we get into some truly dangerous territory with
Vicious and Isla ;)

Until then, if you’d like to join the team, please feel free to
sign up to my newsletter to keep up with series updates
and other shenanigans. I’d love to connect with you!

Stay well, and I hope to see you next time in Fighting for
Control!
Until then,
Emma xx
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 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

“Your parents and people close to you, whenever you want

to do something or you want to follow a dream, they'll try
and stop you. It's not out of their hating, it's just protection.
They want to try and preserve you. Like 'oh what if he
fails?' From the culture we're from, they want to protect
you.”
—  Israel “The Last Stylebender” Adesanya

“I’m sick of pretending like I don’t want to watch people

beat the shit out of each other.”
Oh, lordy.
If only I’d known how those words would change my life.
And they weren’t even mine! What the heck?! Nope, I have
my husband to thank for those little pearls of wisdom. It
was him who led the charge, busting out our credit card to
pay for our first pay-per-view (Adesanya v. Romero) and
then our second (Adesanya v. Costa).
From there, my life quickly descended into a blur of
fight nights, contender bouts, and stupid-long internet
research black holes that started with questions like: Who
do you think Whittaker should fight next? Or, When is
Sugar going to be back? And, Do you think Khabib has
really, like, retire-retired?
Costa, Whittaker, Ortega, Moreno…
Yep. I have a lot to thank my husband for, all right ;)
Instead of thanking him more explicitly, however, I
decided to do something a little different: I assumed a new
last name, forgot he existed for about a month, and
retreated into my lair to write my first full-length romance
novel. (And by lair, I mean pillow fort… Most muses require
offerings of chocolate and too much red wine; mine require
Goldfish and too much red food coloring. Go figure.)
Seriously, though. A massive thank you to my husband,
for being awesome.
Thank you to MH Indie Publishing Services for your final
eyes.
And a HUGE thank you to you, too, for reading.
I hope it was a welcome distraction <3

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 FREE READ: FIGHTING FOR HER

Only she could taste as sweet as victory feels.

Jason
Sasha Krause is my best friend, my coach's daughter, and
about a hundred and fifty times too good for a bonehead
like me.

When a swift and embarrassing knockout throws me out of

contention for her heart, my only hope of a second chance
is in getting a champion's belt wrapped around my waist.

Victory is so close; I can taste it.

And I won’t let anything get in my way.
Tonight, I'll fight – and I'll win it for her.

Broody Heroes. Resilient Heroines.

Love Worth Fighting For.

Two friends fight for love in this City Limits MMA prequel
novella.
Claim your free read now!

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 JOIN TEAM ALPHA MAIL!

Can’t get enough of Ames and Sammy? Then you’re going to adore Jason &
Sasha, Caleb & Piper, and Vicious & Isla… and there’s plenty of exclusive
newsletter-only content to come!

Confession: if it’s not entirely obvious already, I’m absolutely, 100% MMA
obsessed. The kind of obsessed where you watch all of the things and still can’t
get enough, so then you sneakily sign yourself and your husband up for a 20-
week MMA bootcamp… Yep, this author is about to become an amateur MMA
fighter! Whaaa?!! I’m sure this is going to be ridiculous - and I’ll be posting
updates (you guessed it) in my newsletter.

Don’t miss out on all the crazy City Limits MMA and behind-the-book
shenanigans! Join Team Alpha Mail now: www.emmamariecormier.com/
newsletter

See you there!

Emma xx

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 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emma Marie Cormier writes steamy romantic stories about resilient, kick-ass
females and the alpha men who can’t help but fall in love with them.

A huge nerd at heart, you’ll find her bingeing MMA YouTube videos, watching
the latest UFC PPV, or kidnapping attractive villagers in Animal Crossing (RIP,
Phil…).

She fights an endless horde of chimera ants alongside a grumpy husband, an

equally grouchy cat, and a temperamental 3D printer in a small pink house in
Auckland, New Zealand.

For news, exclusive content, and more, you’re welcome to sign up to her
newsletter!

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