Touch Me, Daddy

2 - Kat.

"He's looking for you, Kat."

"Shut up."

The match is over, and just as expected, Pierro had beaten Anderson's ass and handed it to him.

The crowd was feral, and it was unlike anything I've seen before. As the crowd dissipates, chattering excitedly, and retelling their highlights for the night, I grab Diana's hand and make a beeline for the crowded entrance.

I don't know what caused Pierro to single me out from the crowd, but I can't be caught dead on camera with him. Maryann would think I went up to him personally and requested an interview.

It would ruin a lot of things.

I wouldn't get promoted.

"Excuse me. Ladies," he calls, and starts jogging up to us. Before Diana can say anything, I tighten my hold around her wrist, and plunge myself deep into the sea of men, knocked from side to side by thick shoulders, but I don't care. It's Diana I'm more worried about.

"Hey! I just wanna talk! Come back!"

Pierro's shout draws some attention to us, but we're already safely out the stadium. I have no doubt he'd follow us and wanted to make sure we're out of sight completely, so we duck in between some cars at the parking lot. Pierro tries to bypass the crowd by coming off casual, but he's the man of the night, so he's drowned by grown ass men seeking his autograph. Diana and I race down the road, and flag down a cab home.

"Why didn't you want to speak with him?" Diana probes as the cab meanders around bends, taking us to the suburbs where we stay. "That was your big chance at getting a good picture with him, and you blew it."

"It's almost 5AM, Diana," I remind her. "A picture won't come out well. Plus, I don't want Maryann to think I requested an interview with him. The report has to be unbiased, and subtle."

"Fairs."

After she clambers down at her home and I bid her farewell, I sink back into my thoughts. Pierro Rush needs a new form of entertainment. I can feel it.

He needs...a woman.

There have been multiple reports of him dating fashion models in the past, but none has ever materialized into a long-term relationship. It's normal that no one else has noticed, but being a Pierro Rush fangirl, with a giant-sized crush on him, that particular detail stands out for me.

How convenient that the biggest boxing champion New York City has ever produced can't be in a stable relationship for past two months?

It's crazy.

I get down and sneak to my window in a daze. The noise of the crowd is still buzzing in my ears; the thrill of the fight still surges through my veins. God, I forgot how alive boxing makes me feel. I need to see more. I need to watch that every freaking week.

My shoulder aches from lugging my backpack around, my work laptop and notepad crammed alongside an old sweater. When I slide my key into the lock, jiggling it in the specific way it needs to open, my fingers cramp from writing so many notes.

Fantastic isn't enough a word to describe Pierro Rush's excellence in the game tonight. A master at work, he owned the ring. Dominated the stadium. He was excellence in motion, his sweat-slicked muscles bulging and his movements graceful, every punch he delivered so brutal, and yet...

There was something missing. I was right. He wasn't fully there.

When I first joined Sports Blitz, I dreamed of writing about Pierro Rush one day. He was always in the back of my mind, my maybe-one-day athlete I'd love to cover. And now that I've watched him fight, I feel... torn. Like calling him out would be disloyal somehow.

But that's crazy. I shake myself as I push inside my room, nudging the door closed behind me. The bulb flickers overhead when I hit the wall switch, and my tiny room lights up: the squashy sofa. The coffee table I bought for twenty bucks in the flea market. The stack of sports magazines that old Mrs. Valenka collects for me downstairs, and the yoga mat, half-unfurled on the carpet.

I'm a professional sportswriter. I'm doing the job I always dreamed of. I can't—can't lie when I write about Pierro Rush. Can't pull my punches, just because he's my teenage hero. The man of my dreams.

It's hard enough getting everyone to take me seriously as a woman in my job. If I let a silly crush stop me from writing what I really think...

I'll be proving the doubters right.

And I'll be proving that I don't deserve a promotion that's long overdue.

My fingers still shake when I pick up my laptop from table, peeling it open and setting it on my lap. I take out the book I'd been using to jot down points in the stadii=um and get to work. Yet...every time I blink, it's like I can feel them: a pair of shocking blue eyes, boring into my soul.

That smirk.

That freaking smirk.

I pluck my shirt away from my heated skin, glad Mom didn't hear me come in. Pierro Rush saw me. No, he wanted to talk to me. f**k.

What would it feel like to have him up close, breathing down my face? To have his hot body mere centimeters away from mine?

I guess I'll never know.

The sofa springs wail in chorus when I throw myself down.

Alright, Pierro Rush. Let's do this.