Page 24 of 4th Degree

I don’t allow myself to guess.

“What was the goal you wanted to achieve?” I ask, my voice sounding scratchy to my own ears. “The one you went into the sport with.”

After a moment, he faces back toward the TV. “I just wanted to see if I could do it.”

I frown at that. “You wanted to see if you could fight?”

He shrugs. “Pretty much. I got into this sport for the same reasons you did. It seemed exciting. I wanted to learn all of it. But wanting to learn the techniques of fighting and wanting to learn how to fight are two very different things. Once I got good at the techniques, I wanted to see if I’d actually be any good at fighting.”

“Well, you definitely answered that question,” I mumble. “You won your first seven fights and made it to one of the biggest MMA organizations in the world. I’d say you achieved your goal.”

One dark eyebrow rises at my comment, a smirk settling on his lips. “You really did do your research when you signed up here.”

Busted.

“I wanted to know who I was learning from,” I say with a shrug, refusing to feel embarrassed about my interest.

“Tell me something: which belt does Lucy hold right now? Which win is she known for in the circuit?”

I rifle through my brain for the research I did on the coaches here.

“Umm, I know the belt is green…” I stumble over my answer. I can't remember anything beyond that. “It's…a state championship belt?”

He shakes his head, a knowing grin on his face. “National belt. She posts about it once a week. Guess your research wasn't that thorough, huh?”

That earns him a glare. He's teasing me. He's perfectly aware of the fact that he was the only one I researched.

He chuckles at my expression and turns back to the fight. We watch silently through the first round, but by the second, I'm fully immersed and can't stop myself from asking questions about the fighter strategies.

He's patient as he answers each one. He even seems to enjoy my curiosity. When the fight ends and I finally relax against the couch again, he lets out an amused huff at my laser focus.

“You sure you don't want to fight?” he asks. “At this rate, you’ll know more than my fighters.”

I drop my head back against the couch and let myself imagine it. “I wasn’t planning on it, but never say never, I guess. Maybe a jiu-jitsu tournament. Training is exciting enough, and as far as fighting goes… I’ve spent too much time inside of hospitals to ever want to purposefully risk ending up there.”

I suck in a breath at my honesty. I hate talking about my mom's condition, and the struggles that come with it, because it always leads to reactions that I'd much rather avoid. I don't need to complain about my life. I don't need the looks of pity.

Dominic is too sharp to not catch my admission. But he’s polite enough to not ask more about it.

“Do you ever miss it?” I turn the conversation back to him.

He's shaking his head before I can even finish. “No. I don’t miss getting stitched up at 2 a.m. after a victory. Even seeing the good parts of the sport when the guys win, the hard days don’t make it worth it anymore.”

“Do you like coaching more than fighting?”

“Definitely,” he says. “Coaching is like the best parts of fighting without all the bad parts. Where the worst part of fighting was bad losses with bad injuries, the worst part of coaching is… I don't even know. Caring more about a students’ progressions than they do, I guess. That always frustrates me.”

My admiration for Dominic was already high, but it grows even more. “You really were meant to teach,” I say thoughtfully.

The compliment seems to make him uncomfortable. And suddenly, I want nothing more than for him to see himself the way I see him.

“I'm serious,” I hurry to reassure him. “I may not have had coaches before this, but I've had teachers, and you have the best teaching style. And not just because you have a shit-ton of knowledge and experience. Your teaching is just so easy to ingest. It's detailed, but not overwhelming, and you make it easy to apply it and actually get better in the gym.” I stumble over my last thought. “Or at least, I think I’m getting better. I guess I don't know. But it feels that way.”

He's seems to appreciate my feedback, easing a bit as he responds, “Don't worry, you’re definitely getting better. I've never seen someone pick things up as quickly as you have these past few weeks.”

The returned compliment fills my chest—and probably cheeks—with warmth as I smile.

“Some days, I'm not sure if I'm getting better or worse. This sport is a little chaotic.”

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