Page 92 of Heartbreaker
His lips pull into a grin. “If you win, I’ll give you what you want the most.”
I laugh. “And what’s that?”
“I’ll leave you alone.”
“You’re serious?” I ask, and he nods.Fuck, this is a bad idea. How are we supposed to maintain our distance and healthy boundaries in a match? That’s not possible. But the longer I stand here, trying to talk myself out of it, the more I want to say yes. “I can’t believe this…Fine. One match.” Dropping my bag on the floor, I climb the stairs and step through the ropes he holds open. “You can wipe that smirk off your face, Brooks.”
“Don’t hold back, Skye.”
“You know who you’re talking to, right?”
We circle. No referee, no bell, no crowd. Just the two of us in the stillness of the open gym. The only sounds are the hum of the lights above us, our soft breathing, and the echo of feet.
We step forward at the same time, closing the space, and our hands come up in a draw before I shove him away. We step back, starting the dance again. Two more circles before we lock up, but I slip out of his grasp again, chuckling.
“Tease,” he says with a breathy chuckle.
“Look who’s talking.”
We lock up again, this time keeping the hold. Faces inches apart, breaths mingling, I meet his heavy stare. I tell myself not to glance down at his lips that areright there. I beg my mind to forget the feeling of his lips on mine, the feel of his body against mine, but it’s getting harder the longer we’re in this spot. I have to do something to get out of this lockup. I snake my arm around his neck, tight and fast, forcing us out of the position and putting him into a tight side headlock.
We shift, testing each other’s weight, before his hands find my waist. They’re light at first, but slowly his grasp becomes firmer, and it brings certain thoughts I shouldn’t be having to mind.
Brooks plants his feet, lifting me off my own just enough to stagger my weight. He drops, flipping me backward in a suplex. My back lands on the mat, but I use the momentum to roll through and land in the bottom turnbuckle. The impact forces the breath from my lungs. He pops back up to his feet but doesn’t move closer.
I grab the middle rope, hoisting myself up, but Brooks still doesn’t approach. His eyes trace every inch of me, studying me, but not like he does one of his normal opponents. This is different. This is…familiar. Remembrance. Like he’s looking at a photograph that has captured a certain memory in time. “You just gonna stand there, or are we gonna fight?”
That draws his eyes back to mine, and he offers a brief nod.
Brooks charges forward, but I jump. My feet hit the middle rope, and I moonsault over his head. He crashes chest-first into the turnbuckle. I land on my feet, and if Jude Paul were here, he’d say something like, “Vintage Skye!Brooks Taylor should’ve seen that coming.”
Brooks stumbles out of the corner, and I rise to my full height. The lights shine off the thin layer of perspiration on his skin, and his chest rises and falls in slow breaths. In the blink of an eye, he takes the few steps forward and moves into my space, closer than an opponent should. The silence thickens when neither of us backs down. There are too many words left unsaid, too many nights spent thinking about one another, pretending we haven’t missed each other. How do I know? Because that’s exactly what I’ve been doing over the past two years. I’ve pretended like I don’t yearn for this man. Like I’m not mad at myself for not giving him the chance to explain. Like I don’t know the worst thing I could’ve done was walk out that door—to run.
But now isn’t the time to let those emotions get in the way.
I reach up to cradle his cheek, and his eyes flutter closed with a gentle sigh before I slide my fingers through his hair and yank him forward into a knee strike to the gut.
Brooks buckles at my feet, breath stolen from his lungs, dropping to his knees. I shift my neck from side to side and sigh with relief when a crack opens the joints. I reach down to grab a fistful of his shirt and haul him back up to his feet, whipping him into the ropes. He rebounds, but I leap up and wrap my legs tight around his head for a headscissors takedown. He goes headfirst into the mat but tucks and rolls through it.
He lands on his feet, using the ropes to steady himself when he stumbles into the corner. His gaze rises to meet mine, and I shrug with a small smile. He nods, wetting his lips, before we lock up again.
This time, Brooks takes control, snaking his arm around my waist and driving me down onto his knee in a backbreaker. He lets me fall to the mat and circles me for a moment before he grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet. Eyes locked, hearts pounding. If we were in front of a crowd, they would be eating this up, hanging on to every move.
It’s his turn to whip me into the ropes.
Rebounding, I lift my leg, ready to connect with his chin, but he ducks to avoid my foot and sweeps my left leg for a takedown. Without missing a beat, Brooks pulls my legs through his and falls to his knees, straddling my waist.You’ve got to be kidding me. Planting my hands on his chest, I try to push him off, but he takes both of mine into his left and pins them above my head.
Shoulders down.
Three seconds from defeat. Three seconds to decide my fate. I know I should (could) kick out, or at least try, but I can’t. The fight leaves my body as soon as I hit the mat and he pins me. My body refuses to listen to the instructions my brain gives, instead letting him take the lead, reacting to the way his weight feels on top of me. It’s a comforting sensation, one of familiarity, and a rush of anticipation spreads through my limbs. There’s a flicker of emotion in his eyes—guilt, ache, maybe even longing. My breath catches when he leans down, his nose brushing against mine.
“One.” His breath is hot on my skin as he begins the count.
“Two.” Brooks pulls back, and his eyes move across my features, watching, waiting for some indication of what I’m going to do next.
Kick out,I think, but my heart and my body still refuse to listen.
Brooks waits a second longer than he should, but I don’t move, and he whispers, “Three.”
