Page 8 of Fighter Daddy's Girl

“Used to?”

She looks down as her smile fades, and her face is lined with emotion. She’s barely twenty, more than a decade my junior, but in that moment, her eyes make her seem older than me. There’s a heaviness and a dark grief in them that makes me feel for her. She takes a minute, seeming to be gathering her thoughts, and finally raises her head.

“My mom died a few years back, and he hasn’t been the same since,” she says. “We still have a good relationship and all, but it’s different. We don’t talk like we used to. We don’t even really watch the fights together anymore. He still keeps up and likes to talk about it, but he’s not very social anymore and prefers to be alone most of the time.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that,” I say.

“Thanks.”

Grace runs a hand over her face to shake off the fog of emotion that’s trying to settle down over her. She looks up at me with a shaky smile on her face.

“Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to bring the mood down.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. I like that you’re real,” I tell her. “Too many people in my world aren’t. I appreciate authenticity. It’s rare.”

She eats another fry and tries to get herself out of her sudden funk. “What about you?” she asks. “You were an up-and-comer in the fight game. But you disappeared. Where’d you go?”

It’s my turn for my smile to slip. I barely know this girl. And yet, I’m compelled to be honest with her. There’s something about her that demands truth. Whenever somebody asks me why I walked away from the fight game, my natural instinct is to deflect and change the subject. And it’s what rises to my lips now. But Grace was authentic with me, and I feel like I owe it to her to be as genuine with her as she was with me. It’s not easy, though, since I’ve spent a lot of years avoiding the question. Drawing in a deep breath, I let it out slowly.

“Griffin?”

I raise my gaze to hers, the sight of her emerald green eyes nearly stealing my breath. I trace the curve of her lips with my eyes and imagine them pressed to my mouth. Imagine her soft, curvy body held tightly to me. Imagine the warmth and wetness of her depths. My cock stiffens in my jeans again, getting so hard, it’s painful.

“Yeah. Sorry,” I say with a cough. “I had to step away from the game. I had some … family issues. It was a tough time.”

“What sort of family issues?”

I’m silently kicking my own ass, knowing how evasive and opaque that answer was. I said I’d be transparent and honest with her. And my answer was anything but that. Clenching my jaw, I steel myself. I’ve never talked to anybody about thisbefore, and I don’t know why I’m so compelled to share this with Grace. I just do.

“It was about two months before the fight that, if I’d won, would have been a stepping stone to a title fight,” I tell her. “But my mom was diagnosed with cancer. My dad died when I was a kid, and I have no siblings, so I had to make a choice—give up the fight or take care of my mom. Obviously, I chose my mom.”

“Oh God, Griffin, I’m so sorry.”

A wan smile flickers across my lips. “Thanks.”

“Is … is she okay?”

“She died about a year ago. She lasted longer than the doctors thought she would, so there’s that.”

Grace reaches across the table and takes my hand, and the minute she does, every nerve ending in my body crackles with electricity. My cock is so hard, I’m half-afraid it’s going to bust right out of my jeans, and though I’m forced to shift awkwardly in my chair again, I hold on to her hand like my life depends on it. It’s like being a kid back in school again and being called to the front of the room with a really inappropriate hard-on. I’m suddenly grateful mine is hidden below the table.

“I’m really sorry,” she says softly.

“It’s all right. I’m working through it,” I tell her. “It’s part of the reason I do these underground fights.”

“So, these fights are therapy for you?”

“Yeah, kinda. I like to fight. It’s really the only thing I’ve ever been good at, and it’s nice to blow off some steam.”

“Do you ever think about getting back into the game?”

“Nah. That window’s closed.”

“You’re still pretty young, Griffin?—”

“That dream is over,” I say tensely.

A strained silence hovers over the table, and Grace looks away. I immediately feel like an asshole for snapping at her like that.

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