Touch Me, Daddy

BOOK FOUR: KITTY KAT.

Kat Valentine has harbored a crush on boxing legend Pierro Rush since she was a toddler. Now, twenty, and a writer for Sports Blitz, she's being handed the opportunity of a lifetime.

To write a cover on him. Her teenage hero.

The man of her dreams.

Pierro Rush has crushed every game since the crack of dawn, but he's past his prime now. He's getting tired. Getting old, and bored of the same routine, day in, day out.

He needs to try something new. Something fresh.

When the entire city gets to know of his weakness, Pierro is pissed. And when he discovers it's all Kat's fault, he hunts her down with something to prove.

His stamina. On the sheets.

Kat Valentine would regret underestimating him. In a good way.

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1 - Kat.

"Kat Valentine, you're late."

I place the bag of groceries down on the kitchen island, and bend forward, my palms flattened on my knees as I draw in deep breaths, trying to calm my heartbeat. I've been running for the past fifteen minutes, trying to get back home in time so I don't miss the boxing championship tonight.

Mom still maintains her stance, her hands folded across her chest as she stares at me sternly. "I've told you so many times. It's not safe to get the groceries at night. This part of town is dangerous, but you won't just listen to me. You know you're all that I have."

The last part of her statement makes me straighten, and sure enough, I can see she's close to tears. Feeling a pang of guilt, I move closer to take her in my arms, rubbing her shoulders quietly. She rests her head on my chest and sobs quietly. "Now, now. I'm sorry. Please don't cry."

"Promise me," she looks up at me with big, beady eyes. "Promise me that you won't go out so late at night anymore. That you'll get the groceries in the afternoon from now henceforth."

I try my best not to roll my eyes as my shoulders sag. "Fine. I promise, I won't wait till it's late before getting the groceries next time."

A smile spreads slowly on her face, making her eyes twinkle in victory. "Good girl. Now get to bed. You'll get the highlights of the boxing championship tomorrow, darling. Remember, it's for your own good. If your father was still around, you know you would have attended it with him."

At the mention of my father, my countenance changes. I hate how Mom's voice cracks whenever she speaks of him. It's been so many years, and I can still hear the longing. She would take him right back if he walks through our front door again. It's painful, but can you blame her? He was her first and only love.

"Well, it's a good thing he's not here. He's not needed, Mom."

"Kat..."

"What?" I burst out. "Did I lie? You might want him around, Mom, but I don't. He made his choice to leave us. And I've never faulted him for us. But it does get exhausting to hear you talk about him every single time. Trust me, he's not thinking about us as much as you are."

"You don't have to sound so cruel," she says quietly, then heads towards her room. "Good night, love."

"Good night, Mom."

At exactly 11:45, I get Diana's text.

D: Out front. Waiting.

N: Be there in a bit.

Jumping out my room window, I crept past Mom's window soundlessly to the front yard where Diana stands waiting. She beams at me, and hands me the little bag I normally keep at her place specifically for our night hangouts. We flagged down a cab heading towards the stadium, and got in.

"Your mom would have a stroke if she knew we still came here," Diana giggles as we squeeze into the second row of seats in the boxing area.

The entire stadium is filling up, and I'm glad we got here on time. People troop in quietly through the central isle, and the ones who already have seats hold up placards of their favorite champions — popcorn cones filled to the brim.

The excitement sizzling through the crowd can be wild with excitement, and the anticipation can almost be felt. Smoke fills the air, obstructing our view of the stage, and the music shakes the earth floor.

The air in the boxing area is hot and humid. It's so loud in here that I can barely make out what Diana says next about Mom. I look around for rows and rows, and note that we're the only women present here.

Fucking exciting.

My heart has always been sold to boxing ever since I was growing up, and Mom had once mentioned how Dad used to being me to matches with him shortly before he disappeared from our lives. He always made sure we hung at the last row, far away from the crowd, where it was safer, quieter, and he'd carry me up, my legs around his neck, my little hands coming together in glee as I clapped whenever my favorite champion won.

You're allowed to wonder how I enjoy it so much, and that boxing is not lady-like. How on earth am I comfortable with the roughness? The rawness? The violent, tactful men.

I can't explain how either.

But I'm not intimidated by them. Not afraid.

Instead, I'm on fire.

In a good way.

And even when I clocked eighteen and we had to move away from Nashville because it reminded Mom so much about Dad, even when I traded coming to matches in person and settled for watching highlights online, boxing has always held a special place in my heart.

What can I say? I love the drama.

"Sorry. Can I just—sorry."

I groan as Diana and I get nudged over and over again by a group of men making their way over to their seats which is in our row too. I don't know what their deal is, and Diana cusses out the last one, but it only makes them laugh.

"Idiots. Pay them no mind, Diana."

Our sour moods dissipates when the announcer announced the name that's haunted my dreams, and has possessed my soul since the moment I laid my eyes on him for the first time.

Pierro Rush.

The man on my wallpaper.

On the poster on my bedroom wall.

Whose picture frame I'd begged Mom to let me hang up next to mine in the living room.

The bane of my existence.

When Maryann, my boss and Editor-in-chief of Sports Blitz inquired if any of us at the office could put together a compelling piece on Pierro Rush, I couldn't pass up on the offer of a lifetime. Aside from having fun tonight, I needed a good enough reason to come and see him so badly. I've written about a few athletes before on Sports Blitz, mostly basketball and track race stars, but I've never covered a boxing champion, much more someone as famous and lovable as Pierro Rush.

It's kind of scary. The second Maryann mentioned his name, this little zap of electricity went through me. It felt like my body came alive. My senses enhanced, and I prayed with everything in me to get chosen.

"Love your enthusiasm, Kat," Maryann had commented, her eyes twinkling. "I have no doubts you'll do a fantastic job. He's your celebrity crush, after all."

I blushed so hard, everyone laughed.

There are other bouts first. Fights to warm up the crowd, to settle old grudges, to give the sponsors bang for their buck. I watch them in disinterest, which slowly turns to impatience. Pierro Rush is all I care about. He's been on a run lately, and if he keeps up his momentum, he'll be a legend soon. He's simply been undefeated for a long while, and it's admirable. But even if he's the man of my dreams and all, I can't afford to be biased in my report, else Maryann will cancel it.

I've watched every boxing match which has Pierro in it. And I've noted one vital detail.

Something no one else sees.

Watching Pierro in his latest matches online, I latch onto it quickly.

Pierro Rush is not enjoying beating up asses like he once used to.

He's not tired, outwardly, no.

It's deep within. In his soul. And even if he wouldn't like to admit it in fear of his appeal dwindling, it's something anyone else would notice if they pay close enough attention.

It's obvious when the headliners come out. The crowd roars louder, the spotlights pulse brighter, and the music thumps in a manic heartbeat. I push out of my seat, caught up in the spell, and crane my neck to spot him. The air is laced with blood, sweat and smoke, and I suck in big lungfuls as I scan the walkways.

There.

Once I spot him, I don't blink. I stand frozen, heart thumping, as the man I hero-worshipped as a teenager strides to the ring. He stands head and shoulders above everyone else, his bulk filling the walkway, and his chin is ducked. His dark hair is ruffled, and dusted with silver at the temples.

He's so huge, it's like I can hear his footsteps, even over the screams of the crowd. Like I can feel them vibrating through my sneakers.

Pierro pushes onto the apron and ducks through the ropes. He may be massive, but he's graceful too. Quick and deadly. And when he shrugs off the robe covering his shoulders, I bite my lip hard.

He's massive. Like he's carved from stone rather than flesh and blood, with biceps as thick as my thighs. Pierro is rough-hewn and packed with muscle—but not those fussy muscles men get at the gym.

He's solid. Smooth. With a barrel chest, dusted with dark hair, and a big, strong belly.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, fighting the urge to fan my cheeks.

So many boxers are showmen. They play up to the crowd, they talk s**t and try to psyche each other out, but not Pierro. He frowns straight ahead, quiet and focused, as his challenger peacocks on the other side of the ring. He's fighting an Irishman called Anderson, a younger man who made headlines with his shocking wins the last few months, but I'm not worried.

Anderson may be a brawler.

But Pierro Rush is a boxing god.

As Pierro waits for the bell, he raises his head. Scans the crowd. And I inhale sharply as pale blue eyes land on me.

He pauses. There's a moment where his eyebrows twitch up slightly, like he's surprised to see someone like me here. Then his gaze drops from mine, and rakes down my body, over every dip and curve.

"Kat, he's looking at you!" Diana whispers excitedly.

I'm a bundle of nerves. His eyes capture everywhere — beneath my faded jeans, my press pass, my white button-down shirt — and I flush hotter than a volcano on the verge of erupting.

Finished with his inspection, Pierro Rush looks at me again. Such shocking pale eyes, narrowing with his smirk.

The bell rings.

The fight begins.