Katy Evans - Mine

HE’S COMPLETELY SPEEDY.

Two days after the Gift—as we now call it—it was all over the news that the Underground fighter known as Scorpion and his team had been apprehended and charged with damages to a motel room due to the explosion of firecrackers inside.

Yes. Firecrackers.

When I asked Pete and Riley what happened, they just said Remington never leaves a message unanswered. “He could’ve tried for something that would’ve gotten Scorpion kicked off the tour, but he clearly wants to end this in the ring .”

Now Pete is getting some sort of device to protect me during the next fight, and I very much hope that I will be carrying one of those devices in case I need to beat the shit out of anything Scorpion related.

The rhythmic sound of Remy punching his speed bag echoes in the large gymnasium, and today, we can all feel the magic.

I can always tell when he’s having a good training day, because his energy takes over the room. He inspires me, he inspires anyone nearby. His fire lights our fires. It’s palpable, like a rope swishing in the air. Remington’s energy is so powerful, I can smell it, taste it.

Coach has been pacing around the area Remington is training in, clearly buzzed with all that energy. Riley has been watching nearby while swinging in the air in shadowboxing style, and I spent two hours running on a treadmill, facing in Remy’s direction and getting all my inspiration from the way he takes on his every athletic task.

Now I stretch on the sidelines, my body, which is still peppered with scorpion marks, spread out on the floor mats as I do some yoga.

I still remember stirring awake the night of the stings, the small garden outside our room completely dark by then. Little pinpricks of pain ran all over my body when suddenly I felt Remington haul me to his hard body and start swiping all my stings with my own salve. God. And his voice, so lazy, a little drunk with the sedative, but oh so tender and concerned as he said, “Look at you.”

I said, completely disbelieving, “Look at me? Look at you!”

And we laughed miserably. Mine was really just a bluff, because, frankly, he looked lazy and relaxed, his speediness not really apparent because of the downer quality of the drug. He didn’t look pitiful in any way, shape, or form, as I felt. Remington oozes strength. Even when he’s asleep. Or down. A lion sleeping is still a fucking lion.

Now he’s killing it at the gym, and I’m up on down-dog pose when suddenly, I hear him stop punching. Unaccustomed to the silence, I lift my head from where it hangs between my arms to the floor, and peer up at him. He’s looking at my ass—up in the air. My insides do something weird, and I straighten and give him a little smile. His dimples peek out at me in return, then he lifts his powerful arms and starts swinging again, hitting his speed bag again and again.

I love the way he trains. Each powerful hit lands hard and dead center, and his beautiful face has that quiet look of concentration I find so sexy. His biceps bulge as he slams the bag repeatedly, and he’s so focused on what he’s doing, I hear him growl at the bag sometimes, low and deep in his throat.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Coach is having one of his loud afternoons, and I hear him start up again: “We won’t take shit this year! We won’t give anything away. We take what’s ours!”

Remington has no reply except to hit harder.

“We’re going to need a heavier punching bag if we’re going to be champs, Riley,” Coach says from the side of the bag opposite from where Riley is now taking notes.

I love how Coach Lupe uses the word “we” as if he’s up in the ring himself, fighting alongside Remy. Pfft! Like that man really needs any coaching.

“What do you mean?” Riley yells back, signaling at the large, heavy bag Remington is crushing with his fists. “It’s the 270-pound bag—there’s no heavier one here.”

“Sways too much!” Coach yells, shaking his bald head.

Riley laughs and jabs a finger toward Remington. “ Let’s switch him over to speed.”

Coach whistles and signals him to the speedball, and Remington pulls off a glove so he can hydrate.

His gray T-shirt is plastered to his chest, and sweat trickles down his throat, his torso, and his toned, muscled arms. A Celtic tattoo peeks out from under his sleeve as he lifts the bottle to his mouth, his bicep bulging like a mountain at the move, and he looks so fuckable, my nipples bead. He’s been at it for so many hours, I can almost feel the heat of his body all the way across the gym. My fingers itch to work on him, and I’m not even getting started on the rest of me. Let’s just say that when he’s black, I’m particularly aware of his “needs.” And I can’t wait to tend to them in a very good, girlfriendly way.

I’m already tingling in anticipation when a soft vibration nearby jerks my eyes to my cell phone, which I cast aside along with a water bottle. I pick up and read.

MELANIE: I’m having nightmares of that he-beast on your behalf! You recovered from those insects yet?

BROOKE: No. I can sometimes still feel the legs crawling on me! UGH! But I don’t want Remington to know Scorpion fucked me up like this—I don’t want him to fuck with our heads any more than he already has. But I feel shitty. Like, malaise. I go to the second bathroom as discreetly as possible at night and puke!

MELANIE: But why don’t you want to tell Remy that HE-BEAST MUST DIE!

BROOKE: Mel! Because he WOULD do it!

MELANIE: GO RIPTIDE! KILL THE HE-BEAST!

BROOKE: No, Mel, I have to tell him I’m FINE. I’m trying to appease his caveman.

MELANIE: I know of no other way to appease cavemen but through food and sex, and I just felt bats in my stomach thinking of you getting to “appease” an agitated Riptide!

BROOKE: I know, it’s such a HARD task! * ?

MELANIE: OMG, where’s my athlete friend, you whore? I miss you, fly me up soon!

MELANIE: Let him show you how much he loves you again by bringing up the BFF—I mean, what’s the matter with him? He’s got you and now he forgets about impressing you by flying the BFF in?

“Stop looking around and focus! She’s not going anywhere, Tate,” Coach barks as I text Melanie a farewell; then I hear the sounds he makes on the speed bag.

Thadumpthadumpthadump . . .

Today, we aren’t alone in the gym.

Two gymnasts are training at the far end, and my stomach has not been too happy as they blatantly ogle him. They watched him when he was jumping rope. Then, they watched, their eyes almost popping out of their heads, when he was doing his pull overs, mountain climbers, and his upside-down ab work. My beast looks so sexy when he trains, those two have been gaping all morning and afternoon. One even fell on her butt for all the staring she was doing.

And I guess the problem with me now is that with every pretty woman I catch admiring him, I remember the groupies or whores and feel sick to my stomach again.

Exhaling as I lean forward into a downward dog yoga position, I hold it for a moment, then pass on to a cobra stretch—where I’m spread facedown on the mat with my back and neck arched backward—and I get a glimpse of him at the speed bag. There he is, punching and punching, a walking advertisement for sports and sex, his every muscle hot and engaged, powerfully striking. He swings his fists so fast, the ball never stops flapping.

He’s sans T-shirt, and I can see all his muscles as they contract and relax. The sweatpants ride low on his hips, gifting me with a peek at his sexy star tattoo—god, it just drives me crazy. I start thinking about the way his erection somehow rises to tease it, his cock so tall it covers the ink when it’s fully standing, and the memory pierces through me and heats me up in more ways than I’d like to be heated up right now. Aware that my nipples are beading with want, I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment.