Page 8 of Undisputed Player
We circled each other, the familiar dance of predator and prey. I let him come to me, absorbing his first combination with my guard, feeling out his rhythm, his tells. He telegraphed his hooks, dropping his shoulder a fraction before each one.
Amateur.
I smiled around my mouth guard. This season was going to be a massacre, and I was going to look fantastic doing it.
The first round was a warm-up, nothing more. I let him land a few shots, giving him the false confidence to think he might have a chance. Charitable, really. I was basically a philanthropist with better abs.
In the second round, I began to pick him apart. Jab, cross, hook, the combinations flowing like water, each punch finding its mark. His breathing grew labored, his movements slower, more desperate.
When the final bell rang, he was slumped against the ropes, blood trickling down his nose.
"That's enough," Coach called, waving for the defeated man to exit the ring. "Adrian, you're up."
Adrian bounded into the ring with his usual manic energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a child high on sugar and violence.
"Ready to get your pretty face rearranged, Lion?"
I spat out my mouth guard, grinning. "Catalyst, you couldn't touch this face on your best day.”
Sparring with Adrian was different—a true test of skill and speed. Where the last guy had been predictable, Adrian was chaos incarnate, his style a mix of textbook technique and wild improvisation that somehow worked for his deranged personality.
We knew each other too well, had trained together too long for there to be any real surprises, but that didn't make it any less challenging.
Or any less entertaining for the small crowd that had gathered to watch.
We traded shots for five grueling rounds, neither gaining a clear advantage. By the end, we were both breathing hard, sweat pouring down our bodies.
"Draw?" Adrian offered with a grin, extending his glove.
I tapped it with my own, following him out of the ring.
Coach Miller shook his head, but his eyes showed a glimmer ofsatisfaction. "Hit the showers, both of you. Graves, you're with me on the heavy bag."
As I ducked through the ropes, I caught sight of a woman standing by the entrance. Tall, leggy, with the kind of curves that belonged in magazines. She was watching me with undisguised interest, her tongue darting out to wet her lips as our eyes met.
I winked, enjoying the flush that spread across her cheeks.
"New target acquired?" Adrian drawled as we headed toward the locker room.
"Maybe." I stripped off my gloves, flexing my fingers to restore circulation. "Depends on how the rest of my day goes. I’ve been booked pretty solid."
"You're Daddy Easton’s son, alright,” Adrian murmured, though there was no real judgment in his tone, just exasperation and awe towards my father. He was pretty much all of our fathers, and obviously taught me everything I know today.
I shrugged, the movement rippling across muscles honed to perfection. "Life's short. Why limit the pleasure? Especially when you're genetically predisposed to provide it."
Adrian's deep laugh followed me into the shower, where I let the hot water wash away the sweat and tension of the workout.
My mind drifted to the photoshoot ahead, another opportunity to showcase the face and body that had made me as famous outside the ring as within it.
I was the Lion. The golden boy of the boxing world. The man who had everything and looked incredible having it.
It was a good life. A perfect life. Much like everything else about me.
So why did Connor's words echo in my head?
I shut off the shower more forcefully than necessary, silencing the thought before it could take root. Loneliness was for people who needed others to feel complete, people who hadn't been blessed with the life I had.
I wasn't one of them. I never would be.
