Page 2 of Falling for the Forbidden Fighter
“Coming out here to train with you?”
“What?” He smiles. “Aren’t I prestigious?”
I hold his gaze. “You’re not telling me the whole story.”
He ignores me. “I need you to evaluate his mobility, help me with him, get him fast, and act as our cutman.”
Growing up around fighters taught me another thing: I don’t want to get punched for a living. In fact, the idea of taking blows to the head is so repulsive to me that, even without my father telling me my entire life that I’d never be allowed to date a fighter, I never gave any of these guys a second glance.
Turns out, I like fixing people, not hurting them or getting hurt in the process.
Physical therapy became my fight. All the schooling, practical exams, rotations in hospitals, private practices, and rehab facilities to finally become a certified big-girl Doctor of PT two years ago. Since then, I’ve been helping my dad with his fighters when I’m not helping my patients with my home-health gig.
So, him asking me to check out a fighter’s mobility is normal. But his tone, that smile, and the way he’s dodging my question, are anything but normal.
“What are you leaving out?” I ask. “What’s his deal—”
“Catty!”
Strong arms wrap me up from behind. Only one idiot in the world grabs me like this, and I’m unfortunately related to him.
“Ricky! Let go!” I can’t help but laugh as my big brother tickles me. “Would it kill you to just sayHello?”
“You know you get special treatment.”
He rounds my chair, leaning against the desk with a shit-eating grin.
“Watch my stuff!” Dad bellows, grabbing a stack of tipping folders.
“I’d have to hold my breath not to knock something over in here, old man.”
Ricky runs his fingers through his low mohawk, sweaty from his morning work in the ring. At thirty-six years old, he’s past his prime. He had a good run, racking up a decent record, but he never climbed to our father’s heights. Not for lack of trying, he just didn’t haveit. He’s even stockier than Dad, but slower and not as clever in the ring.
That doesn’t stop him from picking fights when he shouldn’t.
“This is controlled chaos,” Dad sighs. “Don’t fuck with it.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” my brother laughs. “New guy’s here. The chump who got kicked out of the Navy.”
I hide my face in my hand. “Kicked out? What did he do?”
“Beat the shit out of a few officers.” Ricky leans in conspiratorially. “Flew off the handle. Total psycho. It’s crazy that they’d let dicks like him in the military—”
Dad’s fist slamming the table shuts him up.
Folders and papers slide off onto the floor, but Dad doesn’t seem to mind, eyes locked on the back of my brother’s head. “You serve, son? In my old age, have I forgotten some stint you did in the Army? Marines?”
Ricky closes his eyes and sighs.
“Didn’t think so. Don’t speak about shit you don’t understand. Come on, kiddos, let’swelcomeour new fighter.”
Neither of them meets my eyes as they walk out of the office.
“Come on, Catty.” Dad raps his meaty knuckles on the door. “I need you.”
I sigh and grab my bag. “Fuck.”
Back into the gym. It’s starting to empty out from the morning rush. My brother peels off from us, eager to start his client’s training session early so he doesn’t have to play nice with the new guy.
