Page 25 of 4th Degree

He barks out a laugh at that. “That's an understatement. My first year of training, I had to give myself a pep talk every time I stepped on the mat. I would tell myself that I'm going to get smashed, but that I still needed to give 100% effort. My first year was all losing.”

The image of a young, green Dominic has me twisting in my seat to face him, my excitement likely visible.

“Really?” I ask. “I can't picture you losing, and especially not all the time.”

“Oh, trust me, I lost all the time. And a lot of my losses were against this one guy who showed up to all the jiu-jitsu tournaments, same as I did. We were in the same weight class, and we probably got matched up twenty times that first year. Guess how many times he was the victor.”

“Twenty,” I answer on a laugh.

“Such little faith you have in your coach,” he scolds. But he's smiling as he says it. “Nineteen. Our twentieth match was the time I finally got angry enough to throw all caution to the wind and let my instincts take over. I think I was more surprised than he was when I won. In the picture that someone snapped of my hand being raised, I look like a child who was just told Santa isn't real: shell-shocked and a little bit horrified.”

By now, I'm fully laughing. I love getting these little bits and pieces of his mind and his life story. I think I could sit here and listen to him talk for hours.

But when the loud sounds of cheering pull our attention back to the TV, and we realize that the fight card we were watching is over, it hits me that we've been sitting here for well over an hour.

It seems to occur to Dominic at the same time. “We should probably get going.” He sounds reluctant, but that might just be wishful thinking. “You said you have classes in the morning, right? I don't want to keep you late.”

I give him a stiff nod. Leaving is the last thing I want to do, but he's right. I need to get home.

“I'll walk you to your car,” he adds. “You shouldn't walk alone at night. No matter how terrifying your chokes are.”

I grin at that. “High praise, indeed.” Standing from the couch and walking over to my gym bag, I add, “No need, though. I'm taking the bus.”

He doesn't respond as I pull on my coat and gather my bag. When I turn back to him, he's standing frozen beside the couch, frowning in my direction.

“You're taking the bus at 11 o'clock at night?” he asks sternly.

I glance at my phone. “It's barely 10:30. But yes. Public transport is great in the city. Takes me twenty minutes and it doesn't cost me a car payment.”

His unhappy expression morphs into something resembling unease. “But this late? That doesn't seem safe, Skylar.”

“I have my pepper spray and taser, and it's not like I'll be the only one on the street. I'll be fine.”

His discomfort starts to turn slightly more panicked. “Why don't you let me give you a ride home?”

I give him a hard stare. “This is hardly the first time I've had to travel the city by myself. I'm perfectly fine on my own.”

“I'd just feel better if?—”

“I don't need you to take care of me,” I say in a tone that leaves no room for an argument.

After a moment, he gives a stiff nod and retreats to his office to gather his things.

We're silent as he shuts down the fans and turns off the lights. When he locks the doors behind us, the sound of the lock clicking is loud in the cool city air. And when it's finally time to go our separate ways, there's no sign of the relaxed, easy-to-talk-to man I just spent over an hour watching fights with.

I shine a smile to hopefully force some levity back between us. “Have a good night, Coach.”

For a moment, I only receive a hardened stare in response. Then, “Goodnight, Skylar. Please be safe getting home.”

My smile stretches into a wide grin. “Yes, Coach.”

When that finally softens him into giving me a scolding look, I lean down to pat Brutus’s head.

“Don't worry, buddy, those scowl lines aren't directed at you. That's just his face.”

He lets out an exasperated breath. “Skylar.”

I straighten and shoot him a wink. “See you later, Coach.”

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