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I adjust Cruz’s stance, nudging his left foot back an inch with mine. “Drop your hip lower. You’re telegraphing the takedown.”

“Coach, I could telegraph it from the moon and still get most guys down.” He grins, resets, and does it again. Better this time.

“Most guys aren’t going to win the belt,” he deadpans.

“Fair.”

Cruz Bennett is a thorn in my side. Not because he’s a bad fighter—he’s excellent, actually, powerful and technical when he focuses—but because he’s... Cruz. Six-two of tattooed muscleand that perpetual grin that makes it unclear whether he’s joking or propositioning you. Maybe both. Probably both.

He drops into position again, shoots for my hips. I sprawl, stuff it, and he transitions smoothly into a single-leg. Good instincts.

“Better,” I say, and step back.

He straightens, rolls his shoulders. His tank top is dark with sweat, clinging to the definition of his chest and abs. My attention is purely objective and professional.

Except it’s not entirely professional, and I know it. Otherwise I wouldn’t be trying to talk myself out of it every time he’s within reach.

The thing that’s been scratching at the back of my skull since I got here: Cruz is your typical attractive bad boy, and he knows it. He moves like a man who has never once been questioned, cocky and utterly sure of himself, which makes me envious. When he claps me on the shoulder after a good session, his hand lingers just a fraction longer than necessary. When he laughs at something I say, he leans in close enough that I can smell his deodorant failing under the sweat.

I don’t know if he’s flirting or if this is just how he is.

“You good, Coach?” Cruz is watching me with those bright blue eyes, head tilted slightly. “You got that look.”

“What look?” I ask.

“The one where you’re thinking too hard about something.” He grins wider. “Or someone.”

“I’m thinking about your footwork.”

“Liar.”

He’s not wrong. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately. About how dating my last girlfriend felt like putting on a costume that never quite fit. About the fighter at my old gym who smiled at me in the locker room once and how I’d avoided him for three weeks afterward because my dick had stirred.About being forty years old and still not entirely sure what the shape of my own desire looks like.

About Cruz’s hands when he demonstrates a guillotine choke, the way his fingers lock together, proof he’s someone who understands exactly how much pressure to apply.

“Run it again,” I say.

He does. We cycle through takedown defense for another ten minutes, and I focus on the technique, the minutiae of weight distribution and timing. This, at least, I understand. This makes sense—no risk, no emotion, only the mechanics of the fight.

The gym door opens. We both glance over automatically—fighters do that, always aware of their surroundings at all times—and then we both stop moving entirely. Like the air has been frozen in our lungs.

The woman who walks in is... striking doesn’t cover it. Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, hazel eyes that scan the space. She’s maybe five-seven, athletic build, and she moves like afighter.

Also, she’s gorgeous and the sight of her makes my brain stutter.

Cruz whistles low under his breath. “Well, hello.”

“Don’t,” I say automatically.

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re about to do.”

She walks straight to Victor’s office, her focus absolute. Confident. Purposeful. Victor spots her through the glass, stands, and gestures inside. They start talking, and even from across the gym floor, I can see from the set of her shoulders that she’s making her case.

“New blood,” Cruz says. He’s already moving toward the office before I can stop him. “Come on, Coach. Let’s go say hi.”

“We should let Victor handle it.”