Page 23 of 4th Degree

SKYLAR

This protein shake is so good that it takes until I’ve scraped the cup clean and placed it on the coffee table with a content groan to realize I haven’t spoken in minutes. That Dominic is still eating his, much slower than I did, and is occasionally glancing over at me.

I feel a slight blush warm my cheeks. He’s right, I was hungry, but I try to eat at home as much as I can to avoid wasteful spending. I guess I haven’t been packing enough food on the nights that I train.

It takes me a moment to muster up the courage to say thank you. I’m not used to someone taking care of me. I’m usually able to joke my way out of it before anyone can notice I need help.

Yet somehow, Dominic’s been able to see right through me every time.

“Thank you,” I say, meeting his eyes. “That was delicious.”

His gaze lingers on me a little longer this time. “You’re welcome.”

“What weight did you walk around at when you were fighting?” I blurt out, both curious and wanting to take the attention off myself. And then I’m blushing again, because the question should’ve been ‘what weight did you fight at?’ but now I’ve given away that I’ve stalked him enough to already know the answer to that question. I hurry to cover up my slip. “I mean, is this the kind of stuff you ate when you were fighting?”

His lip twitches, and I think he might be having the same thought. But he doesn’t call me out on it.

“My diet was really clean when I was fighting,” he answers. “More protein than anything, but I never bulked up between fights, if that’s what you’re asking. I felt the best when I walked around at my fighting weight.” He shoots me a look that lets me know he’s basically reading my mind. “At middleweight.”

I turn my attention back to the dog sitting beside me to hide any lingering blush. Why do I blush so much around this man?

“I meal prepped a lot,” he continues. “I liked having control over the food I put in my body, and knowing exactly what it was and how it would benefit my nutrition. I didn’t enjoy going out to eat either.”

And the comment is just odd enough, just random enough, that a small frown twists my lips.

Without looking at him, I say, “I’ve never been an athlete, so I can’t say I meal prep for nutrition, but I can agree with the control part. I just prefer controlling where my money is going, as opposed to where calories are coming from.” My voice softens. “There are things I’d much rather spend my money on that’s not a burger or a beer.”

My response must be what he expected, or was looking for, because out of the corner of my eye, I see Dominic nod to himself and then finally return to his protein shake, his posture no longer stiff.

Seeing him relax makes me relax, and I find myself asking him another question.

“Why did you stop fighting?”

He places his empty cup on the coffee table, then leans back on the couch and makes himself comfortable. One arm is on the arm of the couch, and the other stretches along the back of it, letting him recline in that alpha, kingly pose that only the most confident men are able to adapt.

My mouth goes dry at the sight.

I’m entirely aware of the fact that Dominic is an attractive man. A very attractive man. Not just because he’s in ridiculous shape, but also because…his age looks good on him.

Because there’s a smattering of dark hair on his chest that sometimes peeks through his gi jacket when he teaches. Because every line on his face, every word out of his mouth, speaks to experience. Because every move he makes, whether he’s teaching or working out or doing paperwork, is so sure of himself, so confident, that he could never be seen as anything other than a man who’s spent a lifetime garnering that confidence. That assuredness.

I’ve never once thought of myself as being attracted to older men, but with Dominic…it’s not even a question.

As I watch him contemplate his answer, I wonder if this is a bad idea. Me being here. With him. Alone. I wasn’t originally going to stay past the last class, but there’s something about this place that draws me in. Makes me feel at peace—like I’m already home when I’m here.

I wonder if Dominic is a part of that.

I shouldn’t be thinking of him in this way. He’s my coach. Coach Dominic.

I’m pulled from my thoughts when he starts to talk, and suddenly I’m singularly focused on learning more about this man. Good idea or not, I want to know everything.

“I was tired,” he says simply. “I had been fighting for so long, and technically I had already accomplished the goal I went into the sport with, so I couldn’t find a very good ‘why’ by the end. And in this sport the ‘why’ is everything.”

I pull my legs up so I can wrap my arms around them. But when I lean back against the couch cushions to settle more comfortably into my seat, my shoulder bumps against Dominic’s hand where it’s stretched out along the back. And heat sparks through my body at the place of contact.

I hurriedly shift my body so we’re not touching, going back to petting the dog’s head to cover the reason for my adjustment.

Once I have my heartrate under control, I turn my attention back to Dominic. I assumed he’d put more distance between us after the accidental touch, something more appropriate for a coach and his student, but to my unending surprise, he hasn’t moved an inch. He’s still reclined like a king, focused entirely on me. Though I have no idea what thoughts hide behind those eyes.

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