Page 7 of 4th Degree

“You should rush Greek life,” Craig continues, oblivious to my desire for him to leave. He sends me a big grin and adds, “I bet sororities would kill to recruit you. You’d be like the perfect magnet to bring the frats in. I swear, Sky, you look better every day.”

I manage a tight smile. “Aw, thanks, Craig. The dark circles really bring out my green eyes, don’t you think?”

“You look more fit, too,” he says, completely ignoring my efforts to joke my way out of an increasingly uncomfortable conversation. It’s rare that anyone takes the time to hit on me, and Craig has never been one of them. “Did you start a new workout routine?”

“Yeah, kinda,” I respond carefully, shifting a little farther away on the bench.

He perks up with interest. I should’ve known talking about the gym would be the thing to steer him back to safer territories. As a personal trainer, Craig loves talking about the gym.

“What’re you doing? If you picked up a trainer that’s not me, my feelings are going to be hurt, Sky.”

I swallow my laugh. “No, of course not. Actually, I started doing MMA.”

His interest turns to confusion. “What, like karate?”

“No, it’s jiu-jitsu and Muay Thai.”

“Muay—what? What is that?”

Excitement bleeds into my voice; I can’t help it. “It’s like kickboxing, only way cooler because it uses knees and elbows. And jiu-jitsu is like wrestling mixed with chess.”

Craig doesn’t match my excitement. “What’s the point of that? That doesn’t really sound like a workout.”

My lips purse slightly in annoyance. “Of course it’s a workout. I can barely move my arms and legs after the classes. And I’m doing it because it’s fun.”

Craig still looks baffled. And honestly, I’m kind of baffled by his reaction. I always thought MMA was the coolest sport ever, how could someone not be interested in it?

But clearly, Craig is done with this topic. His focus drifts away from me and toward the people walking by us. “You should stick with lifting, it’s way better for you.”

I clench my jaw to hold back from snapping at him that he’s an idiot. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Seriously, if you ever want someone to work out with, or even to write your workout plan for you, you know who to call.” He looks back at me with a grin. “I wouldn’t mind spotting you. It’d be like a fun little date.”

And that’s enough for me. I stand from my seat and sling my backpack over my shoulder—life’s too short to waste time on this. I don’t even look at him as I say, “I appreciate the selfless offer. I have to get going. I’ll see you for midterm reviews next week.”

“Yeah.” But something must have made him brave today, because then he adds, “If you want someone to study with this weekend, give me a call.”

“You got it,” I respond stiffly. “See you around, Craig.”

I cross campus toward the bus stop that will get me to the gym. I don’t even care that I’m almost an hour early for my class—even sitting outside the gym doors waiting for them to open would be better than listening to some guy shit on something that brings me joy.

But when I reach the gym, it’s not locked. There’s nothing on the schedule for 4 p.m., but as I walk through the doors, I see Coach sparring with Kane.

Standing in the doorway with my jaw on the ground, I can only stare in complete shock at the scene before me.

I’ve seen plenty of fights on TV. With many different sizes of men, strategies, and endings. But I have never witnessed something like this.

It’s not just that I’m watching two large grown men trying to hurt each other. It’s not even that they’re both so fast, and their shots so powerful—when the punches land, I swear I can feel the impact reverberate through my own body. Neither is going easy on the other; they’re both genuinely trying to win. But that’s not what has me staring, unable to formulate any thoughts, unable to make an escape before they notice I’m here.

They’re shirtless and drenched in sweat. They both look like models in their own way, shiny with oil and ready to step onto the cover of GQ. And directly into reader fantasies.

Kane looks like the bad boy that every good girl wants, covered in tattoos and with a look on his face that says he’ll kill anything standing in his path. He’s not usually my type, but I can’t deny that he’s insanely attractive right now.

But Coach… Jesus, he might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

I’d never guess he isn’t the same age as Kane. He’s absolutely shredded, to the point that I can’t decide if I’m more drawn to his strong arms, broad chest, or the washboard abs. I’d probably have a different answer every time. The only thing that might make me think he’s older—besides the dusting of dark chest hair that I like way more than I ever thought I would—is the fact that he doesn’t have a single tattoo inked onto his skin. In MMA nowadays, that’s basically nonexistent. But beyond that, nothing about him screams thirty-six-year-old. Even his speed and power can keep up with Kane.

It isn’t until my attention finally drifts to his face that I see his age.

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