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“You know what I mean.”

He laughs, and the sound of it fills the little park, warm and uncomplicated. He slings his arm around my shoulders and steers me back toward the gate.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll call the cab now.”

5

BRADY

The gym smells like rubber mats and dried sweat at six in the morning, and I love it. Always have. There’s something about being here before anyone else, before the noise and the heat of bodies filling up the space, that strips everything back to what matters. Just the work. Just the grind.

Except I’m not the first one today.

I hear her before I see her. The sharp crack of knuckles connecting with the heavy bag, rhythmic and relentless, each strike landing with a precision that pulls my attention before I’ve even rounded the corner from the locker room. I stop in the doorway.

Dakota Fisher.

She’s in a sports bra and shorts, blonde hair twisted up, moving around the bag like she’s having a conversation with it. Not just throwing punches—reading it, circling, feinting, drawing it in before she unloads a combination that rattles the chain holding the damn thing to the ceiling. Her eyes are locked forward, jaw set, a fine sheen on her skin catching the light. Lean muscle, strong shoulders, the kind of form you don’t get from casual training. She’s put years into this.

Years, and then there’s something else. Like she’s burning through demons that have nothing to do with fighting and everything to do with deep wounds that have left some parts of her scarred.

I stand there longer than I should.

Christ, Brady. Stalker much?

I pull myself through the door, drop my bag on the bench, pull out my wraps, and tell myself to act like a normal human. She hasn’t noticed me yet.

Eli is over near the far wall with a clipboard, making notes. He glances up when I come in, gives me the standard coach nod. Then his eyes slide straight back to Dakota.

He’s not subtle about it. Not aggressive, not creepy—but the way his attention is drawn to her is unmistakable. He watches her the way you watch something that unsettles you, like you can’t stop even when you know you should look away.

Now that I’ve seen her for myself, I get it. God help me, I get it.

My wraps are already done by the time Dakota slows her pace on the bag, turning, and that’s when she spots me. Her whole face shifts, the focused set of her jaw relaxing into a smile that lands somewhere in my chest before my brain has a chance to run interference.

Full smile. Warm. The kind that lands in your stomach like a medicine ball on core day.

Don’t be an idiot.

“You must be Brady.” She pulls a wrap free, extending her hand. Her grip is firm, a fighter’s grip.

“That’s me.” I shake it. “Cruz told me about you last night.”

Her brow lifts, eyes bright. “Good things, I hope.”

“He said you made him work.”

She laughs, and the sound makes my stomach flip. It’s genuine and melodic.

I grin before I can help it. “Right, so should I be concerned?”

“Probably.” She tilts her head, assessing me with pretty hazel eyes, open rather than pointed, curious instead of sizing me up for combat. Yet. “You’re the striker.”

“Speed and footwork. Are you a ground fighter?”

“I’m whatever the fight needs me to be.”

Eli writes something on his clipboard. Neither of us paying any attention to him.