Page 12 of King of Violence

“Same reason as you,” I say casually. “Life’s complicated.”

Felix’s eyes narrow. “That’s vague.”

I shrug. “Alright, you want the unedited version? Fine. Football’s a full-time job, and my family…” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “Let’s just say they have high expectations.”

“High expectations,” Felix repeats skeptically.

“Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair, glancing at the floor. “It’s not as glamorous as it looks, trust me. Everyone thinks being the star quarterback means I’ve got it all figured out, but half the time, I’m just trying to keep my head above water.”

Felix studies me for a moment, his expression softening slightly. “Must be tough,” he says. The slight edge in his tone is no longer present.

“It has its moments,” I admit. “But hey, we all have our battles, right?”

He nods, his gaze drifting back to the punching bag.

An idea sparks in my mind, and before I can think better of it, I say, “How about a sparring match? Nothing serious—just for fun.”

Felix blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“Let’s go a few rounds, Tin Man.” I make a show of jumping side to side and throwing fake punches.

“Like I’ll be able to survive against a football player.” He lifts his shirt to wipe his sweat from his face, exposing the deep V carved into his hips that dips below his gym shorts.

Fuck.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing a pair of mitts. “You’ll never get better if you don’t practice against someone.”

“I’m not?—”

“Yeah, I bet you couldn’t win anyway,” I taunt.

His ears turn bright red.

Got him.

Felix’s jaw tightens. “Fine.”

We move to the mat and I hold up the mitts, encouraging him to throw a few punches. At first, he’s hesitant, but as the minutes pass, he starts to find his rhythm.

“Not bad,” I say, stepping back. “But let’s see how you handle a real opponent.”

Before he can protest, I move forward, throwing a mock jab. Felix dodges, his movements quick but unsure.

“You’ve got to commit,” I say, feinting to the left. “Hesitation will get you knocked out.”

Felix’s eyes flash with determination, and he counters, his fist grazing my side.

“Better,” I say, stepping closer.

The sparring turns playful, a back-and-forth dance that has both of us laughing despite ourselves.

“Quit playing with me, counselor. You scared or something?”

But then he moves too fast, closing the distance between us.

In an instant, he has me against the wall, his hands braced on either side of my head. Our faces are inches apart, his breath warm against my skin.

The laughter dies, replaced by a charged silence.

---