“Yup, I got you, boss.”
We spend the afternoon prepping for tonight, getting everything set up and stocked. Arlo is a fast learner, and by the time we’re done, we’ve got two hours to spare. That never happens.
“Better get yourself some of Diesel’s enchiladas before Anvil eats ’em all. Grab a shower and put on one of these. We’ve got about two hours ’til go time.” I tell him as I hand him the shirts I ordered.
They’re just some black t-shirts, but I had the logo added to the front and back. Now it’s a business expense, and he’s got a couple of extra shirts.
He tenses up, shoots me an annoyed look until he notices the logo. Then I get his almost-smile. He opens his backpack, pulling everything out to make room for the shirts. The outfit he wore yesterday, his toothbrush, and a bottle of body wash. Looks like his whole life is in that thing.
I say nothing. I just head to my office, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the thought of Arlo wearing something I bought for him.
Chapter 5
Tiernan
Arlo’s fatigue is showing. Diesel found him nodding off while sweeping the break room earlier. Of course, he wasted no time calling me out about it. That’s D always looking out for everyone.
“Your boy’s fading fast, T. You working him too hard? Last night must have been a rough one.”
“He’s not my boy,” I protest weakly.
“The hell he’s not. Lie to yourself if you want but that man couldn’t possibly be more your type.”
I say nothing because he’s right, but I’m trying to ignore all that and be a responsible boss.
“I think it’s more than only one rough night,” I say after a few moments of silence.
Diesel gives me an encouraging smile.
“I’m sure you’ll get it sorted, T. You always do.”
Our conversation lingers. I keep going back to Diesel saying Arlo’s mine. I’ve got no business thinking like that, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Even though I know he’s way too young forme and also my employee. Although Diesel didn’t seem to think age or employment were an issue.
My hands keep finding excuses to touch him. It’s almost automatic by now. If he’s around, I’m moving closer, patting his shoulder or his back. He sticks close to me, too. I like it way too much. He’s been such an immense help, lightening my load in totally unexpected ways.
“Who organized the storage room, because they are my new favorite person.” Tank announces, walking in from the back with an armload of supplies. Tank has only one volume—way too loud. “And I know it wasn’t you, T, because you’ve been avoiding it for months.”
“That was me.” Arlo says, his soft voice barely loud enough to be heard.
“I knew it! You nailed it. It’s goddamn outstanding.” Tank claps him on the back, almost knocking him over. Without a thought, I take a step toward Tank, fists clenched at my side, ready to jump to Arlo’s defense, but his beautiful smile is back, so I stay silent. Tank’s shocked face lets me know he’s aware he used too much force, and for once he doesn’t turn it into a joke.
“Thanks, Tank.” Arlo’s cheeks pinken, glowing with the praise. I stay back, watching him bloom, while I do everything in my power to keep the rumblings of affection buried deep.
Arlo helps with the weigh-ins. Tonight is only for my fighters, but once a month we do an exhibition night with other gyms around the city. We get a decent crowd, and if we’re lucky, a promoter will stop by scouting for new fighters. Regardless, safety is my number one priority, which is why I referee any sparring, exhibition or otherwise. I don’t take any chances with my guys.
Spectators arrive, mostly family and friends. A couple of fighters from other gyms show up, guys I’ve worked with before.
Open spar night has its own energy, not the same as a legitimate match, but still exhilarating. It seeps into me as we make the final preparations. I turn the ceiling fans up high, checking the room for any last-minute issues.
Tank has his pop playlist on the speakers, loud enough to hear but not be disruptive. For once. Anvil is cornering for Diesel, so they’re deep in conversation over by the cage. Arlo is doing a final check of the restrooms. Ten minutes to “go” time and I actually feel prepared.
“Bathrooms are stocked and ready, boss, “ Arlo says, coming up behind me.
The crowd is getting louder, and he moves closer. I put my hand on his lower back to steer him toward an unoccupied corner where I can monitor him from the cage. I’m getting the feeling crowds aren’t his thing. He stiffens slightly at my touch before yielding. My possessive side eats it up.
“Hang out here. I won’t need you until the matches are done.”
He nods, tightening his grip on his backpack as he makes himself comfortable. He’s as secure as I can make him without locking him in my office.
