5 Rounds: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance (The Fight Game Book 1)

by Nikki Castle

The anger dims in his eyes. Instead, I see a flicker of something else, just as a cocky smile slides across his face. He leans forward to whisper in my ear, brushing his lips lightly over my skin and causing a shiver to ripple through me. The lingering smell of whiskey entwines with his male scent and envelopes me in an intoxicating bubble.

  "The difference is, I know for a fact that you like me being this close to you—that you’re actually soaked right now," he purrs.

  I can't stop my sharp intake of breath. As if on cue, my cunt starts throbbing. Suddenly all I can think about is how badly I want him to bend me over and fuck me until the sun comes up.

  He pulls back and stares in amusement at the expressions flitting across my face. He knows exactly what kind of war he just started in my brain. He always knows. And he always enjoys it.

  "That's pretty self-assured, even for you," I manage to say. "Unfortunately, it's a ridiculous theory."

  His grin spreads wider. He reaches up to run a fingertip lightly down the side of my face. "Prove it," he says in a deep voice. My heart is beating so hard that I'm sure he can hear it.

  "I'm not going to sleep with you," I blurt.

  He tilts his head and studies me with a curious expression. "Okay," is all he says. He shrugs and runs his finger down the side of my face again. As if my blatant rejection doesn't bother him at all.

  He trails his finger from my cheek to my lips, his touch feather light. He slowly, gently, traces my lips with his thumb. He pauses at the center of my bottom lip.

  His smoldering gaze feels like it's cutting through all my secrets, yet I can't bring myself to look away. Just when I start wondering if it’s possible to combust solely from eye contact, he pulls his finger from my lips and sucks it into his mouth.

  It’s like a direct line to my aching core. When I catch a glimpse of his tongue wrapping around his finger, my breath catches and wetness pools between my thighs. That feeling only multiplies tenfold when he growls, “I knew you would taste like cherries.”

  His face leans closer to mine and for a second, I think he's going to kiss me. I feel my heart rate spike to unhealthy levels.

  But he just brushes past my mouth and presses his lips against my ear. “I think you’re going to change your mind,” he whispers. “And I don’t think I’ll be able to stop thinking about it until you do.”

  I can't stop the shiver that runs through my body. He notices and pulls away with a grin. Stepping back, he lets go of me completely.

  "Goodnight, Remy," he says smoothly. Then he walks up the stairs, leaving me in a puddle on the floor.

  The next morning when I wake up, the house is quiet. Tristan is notoriously an early bird, so I realize quickly that he must already be at the gym. I groan when I remember our interaction last night.

  I briefly debate skipping the gym today. Saturdays are the only days that my and Tristan's schedules overlap, so I know I'll have to interact with him this morning. And after last night it might not be a bad idea to put some distance between us.

  But I quickly shake the thought away. I love training for more reasons than one, and I refuse to give up even a day of it because of a guy. I'll suffer through a class with him if I need to. I'll just make an effort to ignore him entirely.

  The more I think about it, I realize I should probably keep away from Tristan for the rest of the week, not just today. He's been near me too much lately and whenever he's that close, it feels like I can't pull myself away. Because of that I feel like I've been two steps behind in our games all week—he's clearly been the one in control.

  As I throw the covers off myself and pull a sweatshirt over my head, I make a decision: keep as much distance between us as possible for the rest of the week.

  I take my time getting ready. I've never been the type that could train on an empty stomach, so I make some scrambled eggs and brew a cup of coffee. I hum happily as Frank Ocean plays in the background. After I'm done eating, I settle into the couch with my coffee and a book.

  An hour later, I've changed into my workout clothes and grabbed my gym bag. Twenty minutes after that I'm walking up to the gym, taking a deep breath to steel myself for whatever side of Tristan I'm about to experience.

  When I walk in, that breath rushes out of me as I automatically and immediately relax. This place is like a second home to me. Everyone is practically family, and the environment itself feels like a sanctuary. Whenever I have a bad day, regardless if it's from work, friends, or family, this place is here to welcome me with open arms. I can pound my frustrations into a heavy bag or grab a partner to drill some techniques and take my mind off my problems. This gym is better than any therapist.

  I smile at some of my teammates as I walk through the first mat room. I make my way to the bag room in the back, where all the heavy bags are and where my first class will be held. This morning I'll start with a cardio bagwork class and finish with a few rounds of jiu-jitsu during the gym's open mat hour. It's my favorite way to double up sessions because tiring myself out with a mindless cardio workout always produces my best rolls during jiu-jitsu. Something about being exhausted makes me forget about perfect technique and allows me to just roll.

  "Hey, Lucy," I greet my friend. She looks up from wrapping her hands, a huge grin splitting her face.

  "Hey, yourself," she teases. "How was your night?"

  I roll my eyes and try to busy myself with unraveling my hand wraps, so as not to let her see the blush that I'm sure just crept across my cheeks. "You're ridiculous," I murmur. "I told you nothing would happen. I went to bed as soon as I got home."

  "Oh yeah?" she challenges. "Tristan wasn't waiting up to chastise you?"

  I glare at her as I wind the wraps around my hands. "No. Next topic, please. Before someone overhears your outlandish ideas and drags my good name through the mud."

  She laughs but drops her line of questioning. "Okay, fine. Do you know who's teaching this morning? I didn't see Danny here, so I assume someone is covering for him." We both look around to see who our designated drill sergeant will be this morning.

  Right on cue, we hear a deep voice boom across the gym. "All right, sweethearts, I don't care if you're hungover this morning, I want to see everyone haul ass! Ten laps around the gym, NOW!"

  My stomach drops when I recognize Tristan's voice.

  "Fuck," I hear Lucy mutter next to me. We exchange pained glances before breaking into a run. We both know the hardest classes are the ones that are run by the pro fighters—they hold every student to a professional-level work ethic and inevitably run us into the ground.

  Sure enough, Tristan shows no mercy. Only twenty minutes into a forty-five-minute workout and every single person is struggling to put any power into their punches.

  "Come on, my six-year-old cousin can kick harder than that!" I hear him shout at someone. "Put your hip into it!"

  I grunt through the combo, willing myself not to slow down. My T-shirt is completely sweat-soaked and I'm breathing so hard that I can barely catch my breath. This is easily the hardest workout I've done in a very long time.

  The bell sounds loudly. "Give me fifteen pushups and fifteen squat jumps during the rest period, then right back to that same combo!" Tristan yells. I groan. Even the rest periods aren't easy.

  "What was that, Remy?" I hear from beside me. I startle, not realizing he was so close.

  "Nothing," I grumble as I continue my pushups.

  Tristan drops down to lie on his stomach in front of me. He watches me closely as I stare straight ahead and try to ignore him.

  "Excuses and grumbles won't help you here," he scolds with a smirk. "The only thing that matters is hard work."

  I open my mouth to snap at him—then stop myself when I realize that he's expecting my backtalk. I close my mouth and stand up with a growl, launching into my jump squats.

  His face splits into a wide grin. He must be satisfied with my non-answer because he stands to go hound someone else.

  The next fifteen minutes go by agonizin
gly slowly. It feels like Tristan gives us longer and harder combos every round. By the end, half the class barely has any power left in their shots. Which, of course, only antagonizes Tristan more.

  "You should be getting stronger with every round, not weaker!" he yells. "Every round you should be giving your opponent a harder fight than the last. Pick it up! LET'S GO!"

  I grunt and throw myself into the combo with renewed aggression. I'm so tired that I think my body has thrown caution to the winds and is now running purely on the fumes of my will.

  "Okay, last round coming up! We're going to do a burnout round. That means you can throw whatever you want, but I want everything thrown hard and I do not want to see you stop. Does everyone understand?" I hear weak groans of acknowledgement. "Good. So any combo you want, but constant and as hard as you can throw. Three minutes. LET'S GO!"

  The room erupts into sounds of leather being pounded with fists, kicks, knees, and elbows. Everyone is grunting with the exertion.

  I grit my teeth and throw everything I have into my punches. For just three minutes, I force myself to tear down any limitation my body thinks it has—I throw as hard as I would if I were fresh and it was the first round. My muscles are screaming in agony and my lungs are desperate for air, but I ignore both.

  "Let's go! Last round is the best round!" Tristan yells. "However hard you're working now, your opponent is working harder! Pick it up! I want winners in this room, NOT quitters!"

  The first bell rings, signaling ten seconds left in the round. I throw every remaining ounce of energy into my last few shots.

  The final bell rings right as I whip a head kick. "TIME!" Tristan calls.

  Everyone around me collapses to the floor. Groans reverberate throughout the room. I make eye contact with Tristan as he raises an eyebrow, watching to see what I'll do.

  I stay standing. My lungs are desperately gulping air and every muscle in my body is screaming, but I refuse to drop. I straighten my shoulders and stare straight at Tristan.

  He grins and seems to give a quick nod of approval—then turns and walks out of the room.

  "Oh Lord Jesus save us all," Aiden wheezes next to me. He's managed to get to his feet, but he's still bent over, hands on his knees, trying to compose himself. "That was the hardest workout I've ever done. By, like, a lot. Who peed in his cereal this morning?"

  Lucy shoots me an accusatory look. I scowl. "I actually think that's him in a good mood," she says to no one in particular. "I think it makes him happy to run us ragged. Fucking psychopath…" A few people grunt in agreement.

  After a few minutes, we've recovered enough to head back to the main mat room. Where the bag room is filled with heavy bags hanging from the ceiling, this room is devoid of any type of equipment. The only thing it has is a massive amount of mat space for sparring and jiu-jitsu. It's also where the benches and gear cubbies are, which means it's the room where everyone congregates.

  As we walk into the mat room, I hear Coach ask us, "Who's staying for open mat? Does anyone want to roll?"

  "There is not a single ounce of me that has any energy left after that bag workout," Aiden tells Coach honestly. Everyone nods in agreement.

  I look around the mat and realize that it's mostly filled with advanced students. A lot of people only do jiu-jitsu, so they wouldn't have come in for the Muay Thai workout that we just did. For them, this is their first workout—which means they're fresh and full of energy. Everyone around me has multiple advantages over me before I've even stepped on the mats.

  But a part of me hates leaving when there's such a good group of people here. A lot of the best guys only train in the mornings, so by the time evening classes roll around, class is filled mainly with beginner students. And though I'll never say I'm too good for anyone, I also can't say no to getting my ass kicked by the guys that are better than me. It's undoubtedly one of the best ways to learn.

  "I've got a few rounds in me," I tell Coach. "Just give me a second to get changed."

  I'm not certain, but out of the corner of my eye I think I see Tristan's head snap up in surprise.

  I ignore the wide-eyed stares of my teammates next to me. They already know I’m a pit bull by nature so I'm not sure why they're surprised. I take a swig of my water bottle before rummaging through my bag for a rash guard.

  Since jiu-jitsu is body-to-body contact, it's not enough to train in a T-shirt—we have to wear spandex on both top and bottom. I don't bother changing the leggings I'm already wearing but I do need to swap my soaking wet, now-baggy T-shirt for a skintight rash guard. I peel my shirt off and toss it in my bag.

  As I stand there in my sports bra trying to slide my sticky arms through the tight clothing, I notice Tristan looking at me from where he's warming up. I see his eyes travel over my sweat-covered body.

  Suddenly I remember that Tristan has already seen me completely naked—what he's looking at now is tame compared to how I looked coming out of the shower. I duck my head as a blush flames across my cheeks. I quickly tug the rash guard over my head and yank it down over my stomach. I take another swig of water before rushing onto the mat.

  Coach nods in approval at the fact that I’m staying for another session. He calls me over for the first round.

  The bell rings to signal the start of the five-minute round. We start standing but, just like with Tristan earlier this week, I quickly end up on my back. I make a mental note to work with more wrestlers so that I'm not so easily knocked over.

  Coach doesn't destroy me, but he also doesn't give me an easy round. For five minutes we alternate positions—sometimes advancing, sometimes losing ground. Both of us attempt several round-ending submissions. I tap out once when he catches my arm in an armlock that I can't get out of. Overall, it's a great round with a lot of back and forth action.

  I do three more rounds with other teammates. The minutes are hard, with everyone applying a lot of pressure, but the flow and rhythm is so good that I don't even mind the extra exertion. I was already exhausted when I stepped on the mat, so my body has automatically forced itself into fight-or-flight mode. I'm so far past my energy limitations that I don't have any left to overthink or worry about perfect technique. I just… roll.

  "Remy, I've got you next round."

  Breathing heavily, I look up to see Tristan is beckoning me to his side of the mat. And because I'm too tired to even argue, I crawl over without a word.

  We shake hands to begin the round. I try to catch him off guard with a reach for his legs, but he sidesteps easily and ends up beside me. Before I can even react, he's wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me off the ground.

  If this were a real fight, he would slam me into the ground and probably knock the wind out of me. But because we're training—and because it's common etiquette when you outweigh someone by seventy pounds—he drops me gently. I've barely touched the ground before I'm scrambling to try to face him. The worst position you can be in is having someone behind you, when you're blind to their moves and they have all the control.

  But no matter how hard I try to move, Tristan is not letting go of my back. Eventually he slips his forearm under my neck and applies a chokehold that has me instantly tapping in defeat.

  I jump back to my feet, annoyed and ready to start over. We shake hands and go again.

  This time he's the first to attempt a takedown. He tackles me easily. The second my back touches the ground I wrap my legs around him in an effort to control his position. But as soon as I move one of my legs to attempt a submission, he uses the opening to spin to a more dominant position. Not long after that, he's used his position to isolate my arm and force me into an armlock submission. I tap again.

  I'm silently fuming at myself. I'm not under any delusion that I'm even close to Tristan's skill level but I thought I could at least hold my own. So far, we're barely two minutes into the round and he's already submitted me twice. As we stand and start again, I study his face to look for any signs of egotistical motivation. It's not un
common for guys to want to assert their dominance just because they feel threatened by women in martial arts.

  But Tristan's face is completely expressionless. He's not submitting me for any other reason than he's training hard and giving me a good, honest round. Which is the best thing anyone can do on the mats—it shows respect.

  We shake hands and go again.

  A minute later, he's submitted me with an ankle lock.

  Two minutes after that, he gets another chokehold.

  The bell rings to signal the end of the round but I barely hear it. "Again," I bark at Tristan.

  Still expressionless, we shake hands and start again. He submits me with a toehold.

  "Again." This time, it's a kneebar.

  "Again," I pant. My muscles are shaking with exhaustion and I've given up playing my usual game of chess-like strategy. I’ve been reduced to using blatant physicality to try to survive.

  But it's still not enough. Tristan is just too good. He shows no mercy, submitting me with another armlock and yet another chokehold.

  "Again," I rasp as I roll away from him.

  "No. You're done, Remy," I hear my coach call. I look over to see the entire gym is staring at Tristan and I. Aiden and Max are standing with their mouths gaping in shock.

  I glance at Tristan. I note with satisfaction that he's breathing heavily, too. Even though he just kicked my ass for—I look at the timer and blanch—fourteen minutes straight, I at least put up enough of a fight to make him tired. It's a small consolation but a consolation nonetheless.

  "You did enough today," Coach continues. "Good work. But you're done."

  I peek at Tristan again, then look back at Coach. I nod weakly—and then immediately collapse onto my ass.

  "I'm exhausted just from watching that," I hear Aiden mumble. "You two are nuts."

  It takes me a good five minutes to peel myself off the mats. Lucy is waiting for me with my water bottle like the brilliant friend that she is. I smile gratefully when I reach her.

  "For the record, you’re insane,” she says bluntly. When I only glare at her she shakes her head with a grin and continues. “But on another note, do you want to come out with us tonight? I meant to ask you earlier. Me and the guys want to check out that new bar on 8th Street. Ask Hailey if she wants to come, too."