Page 14 of Forbidden Game

I’ve been coming here almost weekly with Parker for a little less than a year now. It all started after a bet gone wrong, which was my own fault. Anyone who knows Parker knows not to bet with him. But I was caught up in the haze of the latest reality show I was watching; my internet had gone out during the finale, and I didn’t have the patience or time to fix it, so I went up to the boys’ apartment.

Parker had just finished a stream and was sprawled out on the couch playing on his Switch.

He wasn’t even paying attention, hadn’t seen an episode in his entire life, and yet he had the audacity to say that my favorite couple was not going to win and that instead the couple that I hated would come out on top. It was ludicrous. Especially since that other couple had broken up four times that season, and my couple had become exclusive just two episodes prior.

So, when Parker offered up a bet, I wasn’t exactly in my most professional mindset. I’d turned off for the day…and I agreed. Suffice it to say, I lost the bet, my couple broke up two weeks after the finale, and I got roped into a month of boxing lessons with Parker.

The only positive was that I didn’t hate it. It was a lot of fun, even though I was miles behind anyone else in the gym. When the month was up and I had my first Sunday free, I found myself out in front of the boxing studio anyway.

“How’s my star pupil doing?” Jax claps me on the shoulder.

I crane my neck up at the buff person before me. I swear, everyone in this gym has a solid five inches on my height. At five foot five, I’m only a little shorter than the average woman, and yet everyone here seems to defy the rules of logic.

“She’s ready to kick butt.” I smile.

“Perfect, because I have a surprise if you do well today.”

The smile slips off my face. I deal with enough surprises with The System; the last thing I want is to deal with them outside of work.

“Don’t look so worried. Let’s warm up first.”

I trail behind Jax as they lead me farther into the gym, toward the back corner where I normally train.

Parker has already slipped off, and my eyes track him as he hops onto a treadmill. His strong calves flex and his arms pump as he gains speed.

I shake myself and grab a jump rope to begin my warmup routine, alternating between sets of thirty and dynamic stretching. Once I’ve worked up a light sweat, I start some rough shadowboxing and lose myself in the repetition.

My brain is always working at a mile a minute; it feels like it never shuts off, except here.

I’ll never admit it to Parker, but losing that bet was one of the best things to happen to me in a long time. I’m well aware that my work has taken over my life, to such an extent that I struggle to ever switch off. I can’t help it. In the silence, my brain just drifts back to the boys, to what they are doing, to what they might be doing.

When I first started working for The System, they had a tendency to end up in the worst possible situations every time they left the house in their masks.

Aleksander was fighting in clubs, mouthing off to anyone who got close. Jackson would disappear, only to get photographed leaving the houses or apartments of very high-profile women at all hours, requiring copious NDAs. Parker was spraying champagne, dancing on tables, and climbing fences into restricted areas—including the rooftop pool at the Kelton Hotel Vegas, where he threw an extremely illegal party with thirty models.

They were losing sponsorships left, right, and center—not that they needed them with how much their monthly streaming income was. But after Parker wound up on a stripper pole with Aleks throwing money at him, I found that it was just easier to have them stop attending events and promo parties unless it was absolutely necessary. To have them just be Blade, English, and Shield while they were streaming or filming, and then leaving them to be Aleks, Parker, and Jackson in their free time.

It was their bored resentment at events that fueled half the situations they found themselves in, trapped in their masks. I sympathized with them, even though it was a headache.

It solved a lot of issues, and I only had to send security when they went to major award ceremonies. My stress levels decreased by half after that first year, but even now, they are still higher than your average publicist.

I try to decompress during the week when they aren’t streaming by watching reality shows and listening to unsolved crime podcasts, anything that will transport me into the drama of someone else’s life. I even have a standing date every Tuesday with Lee and Deer, two female streamers who are good friends of the guys, to watch the latest episode of this haunted house investigation YouTube channel while we gossip.

However, my reprieve was short-lived because now that The System’s identities are known, I have to keep tabs on them at all times, not just when they are their masked personas. It is five years ago all over again…maybe even worse.

My stress levels are skyrocketing, and I am barely sleeping.

Which is why I need these boxing lessons.

In these last six months, these two hours of kickboxing have given me a small slice of sanity. Jax might work me to the point of my muscles wanting to melt off my bones, but that single-minded focus in making sure my form is correct, that my punch is sharp, that my kick is high enough, is all worth it.

Jax pulls me out of my warm-ups to begin our training. We switch it up every week, sometimes focusing more on kickboxing and other times more traditional boxing. I definitely have a preference toward kickboxing because I always get a bolt of satisfaction when my foot connects with the pad. The instant gratification is addicting.

We go at it for almost an hour and a half before stopping. My lungs feel like they are expanding out of my chest, and I know my cheeks are flushed a bright pink. My quads feel like jelly, but it’s my biceps that are really screaming at me from the countless uppercut combos Jax had me perfect. I swear they pushed me way harder today.

I peel off my gloves, tossing them on a nearby bench before grabbing my towel to dab the back of my neck. A quick peek at the floor-to-ceiling mirrors lining the right side of the gym confirms what I already know. My bangs are slick with sweat and sticking to my forehead at thirteen different angles. I attempt to fix them, rubbing the towel against my hairline vigorously.

I toss the towel back on the bench with a huff before trudging to the fountain to fill up my water bottle.

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