Page 98 of 4th Degree

When she does stop in front of me, she immediately apologizes. I’ve cooled down enough to be able to respond like a rational human being, not an insane, overprotective bastard.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I murmur.

She nods. “It’s okay. I understand.”

I’m still tense as the division ends and everyone moves away from the mat. I follow Skylar to the podium where the medals are given out, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes as we move through the crowd. And I can definitely feel eyes on me.

I take the usual picture of my student winning a medal, but afterwards, I have no idea what to do with myself. The next division my fighters are in isn’t for another hour, so I have nothing else to distract me from my loud overreaction that was completely out of character and noticed by way too many people. Including my own instructors. I don’t see Jax or Tristan anywhere, but I’m already anticipating a few odd looks in the gym next week.

I don’t know if I’m thankful or worried when Skylar finally takes a long look at me, sighs, and then drags me out of the arena.

33

SKYLAR

Thankfully, it’s pretty easy to find an empty room in this place. Away from the open arena of the building, there are plenty of locker rooms and meeting rooms for coaches and players, so it takes me no time at all to drag Dominic into one of them. When I close the door behind us and turn to face him, he doesn’t even look surprised that I pulled him aside.

“Dominic,” I start gently. “I promise I’m okay. I wouldn’t lie to you if I was hurt.”

He looks over me for the millionth time, his skepticism obvious. “Not even a headache? Ribs don’t hurt from where she slammed you?”

I shake my head. “She didn’t slam me on my head. She knocked the wind out of me when it happened, but I swear I’m okay.” I wince. “Although, there’s a good chance my forearms will be so sore tomorrow that I can’t lift any plates at work. Why didn’t you tell me grip-fighting is so exhausting?”

Finally, he huffs a laugh, and some of the tension melts away. After a moment, he lets out a heavy breath and closes the distance between us to pull me into his arms.

He holds me tight against his body, his cheek pressed to my hair. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I let him anchor himself how he needs to.

“I had a fighter get slammed once,” he says quietly. It’s been minutes, and by the obvious sound of pain in his voice, it took him that long to work up the courage to say it.

“What happened?” I whisper.

Another hesitation. More pain.

“He’s paralyzed from the waist down.”

I pull back in shock to meet his eyes. “What?!”

His normally expressionless face looks grief-stricken. This is why he freaked out.

“He’s paralyzed from the waist down,” he repeats. “He was the best fighter I ever had, and coming up on the peak of his career, and…” He swallows roughly. “It was a freak accident. MMA barely ever has long-term injuries. But it’s been almost two years, and he still can’t— I mean, he’s still in a wheelchair, and when that girl slammed you, all I could think about was that happening to you, and I just—I couldn’t?—”

I cup his face and push up on my toes to bring our foreheads together. “It didn’t happen to me,” I whisper. “I understand now why it scared you, but nothing happened. I’m fine.” Bringing his hands to my face, I will him to feel my beating heart through my pulse point.

His heavy breath washes over my face. Finally, he seems to have found relief, free of the event and the resulting memory. He holds me like something precious that he wants to protect.

With the tension finally gone from his body, I voice the question that’s been running through my mind since my match ended. The one that could potentially change a lot of things.

“Do…do you think you think you shouldn’t coach me? If it scares you this much?”

He pulls back with a frown.

“Because it’s still a violent sport,” I hurriedly tack on. “And chances of me getting hurt sometimes aren’t small. Will it scare you like that every time? Should you not be in my corner?”

He shakes his head, hard. “No. No, I want to be there. I want to be your coach. I’ll be fine, I swear. It just… It caught me off guard how much I?—”

When he swallows and looks away, my brain can’t help coming up with the end of that sentence. How much I wanted you to win? How much I fear for your safety?

How much I care about you?

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