Page 34 of Filled

“They’re.” He winces. “They’re fighting over Dakota.”

I look at her. She looks at the mat.

Cruz, still grinning, calls out from the cage like he’s narrating a fucking podcast. “I got my dick sucked. Then I ate her out. Now Coach is jealous.”

Coach throws another punch and this one nearly lands. Cruz lets it graze his cheekbone, just to make a point.

Something hot kicks up under my ribs. Not anger. Worse than anger. It’s the petty cousin.

Cruz and me, we’ve been hooking up. Not labeled, not promised, but his mouth has been on mine in dark corners and on a stone column in a park and in the back of a cab last Tuesday, and now he’s in there bragging about Dakota with blood on his teeth and I wasn’t even on the invite list.

I swallow it. Push it down behind my sternum where it belongs. Cruz doesn’t owe me anything.

Doesn’t stop the heat though.

I climb into the cage. “Coach. Hey. Coach, look at me.”

He doesn’t. He shifts his weight and Cruz reads it and slips again, this time laying a palm on Coach’s chest as he passes, light as a feather, mocking.

“Eli.” I use his name the way you use a knife. “Breathe. Right now. Breathe with me.”

His chest is moving too fast. The vein in his temple’s a live wire.

“Cruz, back the fuck up,” I snap. “Now.”

Cruz drifts back two steps, hands raised in surrender, that smirk still hooked at the corner of his mouth. “I’m cool. I’m cool, brother.”

“You’re a menace,” I snap.

“Yeah, but a cool one.”

I plant myself in front of Coach. Not touching. Close enough that he has to see me. “Eli. Look at me, man. You’re at work. You’re atyourwork. Breathe.”

His eyes finally drop to mine. Green. Wet around the edges. The rage cracks a hairline and underneath it I can see something I’d rather not look at. Something deep-seated, humiliated and confused.

I lower my voice. “Whatever happened, it’s not worth your license. Not worth your name on the door. Breathe.”

He breathes.

In, out. One ragged pull and a slower release. The forearm at his side unclenches. Knuckles uncurl.

“That’s it.” I let my hand come up, carefully and rest it on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch. Small win. “That’s it, Coach.”

Behind me, Cruz is shaking out his shoulders like he’s just done a warm-up round, not provoking a forty-year-old grappling expert into actually trying to bury him under the cage.

Dakota’s still gripping the cage.

“Okay,” I say, soft. “Let’s run it back. Slow.”

Coach shakes his head. Once. “I shouldn’t be here.”

I clench my jaw. “Don’t do that.”

“Dante—”

“Don’t do that, Eli. We’re working it out. Stay,” I urge.

But he’s already moving. Past me. Past Cruz, who steps aside without comment for once in his goddamn life. Through the gate. Out of the cage.