Touch Me, Daddy

3 - Pierro.

"Good job out there, matey," My best friend Kyle congratulates me immediately I walk into the locker room. I beam at him.

"Thanks, K."

He saunters off to talk to a couple of dudes hanging around the entrance. I can hardly think straight. My ears ring as I prowl past the bank of lockers, shoving the door open to the showers. It's a cavernous room, echoing and cold, but no one will disturb me in here. They wouldn't dare.

Pain throbs in my knuckles as I unwrap them. They're stiff and aching—bruised and split. Apart from using them to smash Anderson, I've been signing autographs for the last hour. My fingers won't straighten fully, so I crank the shower on with my elbow, then yank my shorts down with my thumbs.

I step under the hot spray with claws for hands.

Fuck. I'm getting too old for this.

Oh, I knocked that upstart Anderson out just fine. Not hard, when the asshole's got a glass jaw. But there's no joy in it. My body's not singing the way it used to after a win—in fact it's barely even registering the pain.

I'm nothing.

I'm numb.

Going through the motions, drifting through my days, and with every fight lately it gets worse. The crowd still yells for me just the same, baying for blood, and none of them see it. I'm playing a part.

I tip my head back with a groan. The hot water sluices my shoulders, beating some feeling back; the drumming spray is the only sound in this room, with the distant rumble of the crowd floating through the walls. When I shift my weight wrong, twinging an old injury, my hiss bounces off the tiles.

I need a distraction. Or a change. I need something.

And I know just what I need.

Her.

A pair of wide green eyes, and a curvy body that had no business being near a boxing ring. Not while the boxers are pumped up, the adrenaline coursing, our muscles tensed and shuddering with the need to blow off steam.

A girl like that... she's lucky I didn't climb back out of the ring and snatch her straight from the crowd. Snatch her from her friend. Ditch the fight and take her out into the hall; push her up against the wall and make those pale cheeks flush red.

"Shit." I shake out one hand, forcing a bit more movement, then grip my c**k. I'm always hard after a fight, and this is worse than usual. All because of one glimpse of her.

My mystery lady.

With a groan, I screw my eyes shut and picture her, wincing at the pain in my hand as I jerk myself fast and hard. That startled look when I smirked up at her. When I chased after her after the game. The way her t**s heaved under that prissy white shirt. And maybe it's a fluke, but I'm not numb now. I'm burning up. There's a fire smoldering somewhere deep in my chest.

I grit my teeth and squeeze tighter. There's no point being gentle at a time like this, when my body's already overloaded with pain and adrenaline. If I really did get my hands on her right now, if a girl like that would go with a man like me... it'd be brutal. Fast and hard, until she came screaming my name.

Whoever she is, it's the quickest I've come in a long time. I hang my head, breathing hard, then give myself a shake and finish up my shower.

* * *

Today's Hottest: Is boxing legend Pierro Rush past his prime? The games are not as enticing as before, and no one seems to notice!

I glare at the headline on my computer screen. Over the last four days, this one little question has zipped all around the internet. Gone viral and done the rounds, catching everybody's interest.

Turns out, people have opinions. Strong opinions that they didn't even know they had—not until they read this article, anyway.

Opinions like: I'm getting slower. I've lost my fire. I'm getting old.

The word 'retirement' has floated around.

It's damning. Every athlete's worst nightmare. Hell, if I wasn't in my head before, I sure will be now, and my competitors will be drooling over this—circling me like hyenas, eyes bugging for the slightest show of weakness.

I check the byline, temples throbbing. Kat Valentine. Whoever she is, she's screwed me over. She's done more damage to my career than any heavyweight I've faced down. My desk chair groans in protest as I throw my weight back, scrubbing my face.

Kat Valentine.

How the hell did she see through me? How did she notice what I've been successfully hiding for so long? I won the damn fight. I win every fight. And yet she looked closer.

Fuck.

Rhythmic thumps drift through my office door. I like to keep the door open—keep one ear on the gym, even while I'm slogging my sorry way through admin. God knows I'd rather be out there, working up a sweat with the locals, pounding my knuckles against a bag, but my body still aches from fighting Anderson.

Kat Valentine is right, damn it. I don't bounce back like I used to.

I know it's a bad idea, but I can't help clicking on her name. Checking out her staff writer profile on the Home Run website, with her short bio and a cheery head shot.

Recognition zips down my spine.

No f*****g way.

It's my mystery lady. The girl from the ring. The one I made eyes at. The one I chased afer the game; the one I jerked my c**k to after the fight, wishing she was there. Humiliation crawls up my neck. So what, I was smirking at her, picturing sinking into her soft heat, and she was thinking how I'm getting old? That I'm past my prime?

And meanwhile she's young. That's worse, somehow. She hasn't even been around the block, and she's calling me out to the world. Her green eyes are bright in her head shot, and she's smiling wide like she just thought of something funny.

Was she laughing when she wrote that piece? When she stomped on my career? Did she think it was some kind of joke?

I run a hand over my jaw, the stubble rasping, and glare at her photo. Her creamy skin, dusted with freckles. Her sweet, round cheeks. Her curly hair, tumbling over one shoulder and tugged by an invisible breeze. She's outside somewhere in the photo, grinning in the street outside a tall red brick building.

I jolt, leaning forward. I know that building. I walk past it every damn day. It has those fancy black iron railings. It's got window boxes on the first floor, spilling over with forget-me-nots. My wheels screech over the floorboards as I roll closer, movements jerky, and enlarge Kat Valentine' staff photo.

That's two blocks away from my gym. She's near.

My pulse ticks faster in my throat. I knew she came to watch me—hell, I saw her in the crowd with my own eyes. I made a fool of myself, puffing up for her when it turns out she came there to tear me down.

But I figured she traveled here for it. She could live anywhere in the country, after all.

Two blocks away...

Huh. Interesting.

Something snakes through my gut, and it's not a pretty emotion. It's vicious and wild. The kind of feeling I used to get before a big fight. The last four days, I've been nothing but bitter. Pissed off and unsettled. But maybe this is what I need to set myself back on kilter—to get my fire back. To prove I'm not past my prime.

Maybe I need a little chat with Kat Valentine.

To set the record straight. That's all.