Page 23 of Craving the Edge

“Declan, a win in Sydney puts you in line for the title fight in Tokyo, but some say other ranked welterweights deserve to be not eh card. What makes you think you’re the one who deserves it?”

Declan’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting under the harsh lights. “There’s only one name that matters in this division. The rest of them can fight over second place.”

My stomach hollowed out. I couldn’t put the two men together. The polished, arrogant athlete on the screen felt like a stranger. He was a million miles from the man who’d gently tucked a loose piece of hair behind my ear. This public performance was a lie, a slick commercial for a brand I wanted nothing to do with.

Billie jabbed the remote at the screen.

The sound died, leaving Declan’s mouth moving in silence against the backdrop of camera flashes.

Billie’s eyes fixed on my face, her own expression unreadable. She knew. Of course she knew.

“It goes both ways, you know,” she said.

I just stared back, bewildered.

“The attraction,” she clarified. “Anyone with eyeballs can see it. The way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching is…a steamy as fuck.”

My face turned hot. “That’s stupid.”

“Is it?” Billie leant in. “C’mon, Char. The guy is a walking, talking thirst trap and he’s leaving town in less than a month. It’s the perfect set-up.”

I stared at her. “For what?”

“To get some,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You work your arse off. You deserve to blow off some steam. Just hit that. Have some fun. No strings attached.”

My throat tightened. No strings attached. The words sounded simple enough coming from Billie, but for me, the concept was a foreign object…and one hell of a trap.

I had no idea how to separate the warmth of a body next to mine from the fear of the empty space it’d leave behind. For me, the two were a tangled knot. A messy, hopeless snarl of wanting to matter to someone. I wasn’t built for casual. I was built to keep the doors locked and bolted.

The idea of letting someone in, even for a night, with the full knowledge they were already halfway out the door felt like self-torture. I knew it was the point, but I still didn’t like it.

I didn’t know how to let myself have strings without the terror of them being severed.

I didn’t know how to not have strings without letting the fear of being left cold the next morning get to me.

I saw it already. Me, a ghost in the background of his high-profile life for a few weeks. A convenient secret in a beat-up gym, an easy fuck in the office, a quick root in the showers, then easily forgotten when the real world came calling.

My need for self-preservation screamed at me. It told me to keep my distance, to maintain the walls that kept me safe.

He’ll discard you the moment he leaves for Sydney.

I was fucked. Completely and utterly fucked no matter what I did.

The screen went black. Billie tossed the remote onto a stack of kick-shields, the plastic clattering against the vinyl. “Right, that’s enough of that shite. I’m buying you an early lunch.”

“I’ve got work to do.”

“Like what? Burying yourself in a pit of your own over-thinking misery?” Billie grabbed her jacket from the side of the ring. “The invoices can wait. I’m getting you out of this stuffy old gym for an hour.”

Her push was a command I found hard to resist. The silence of the warehouse suddenly felt too loaded. The empty space was full of him. His ghost lingered on the mats, in the air, a constant pressure that pushed on me even when he wasn’t there.

I gave a small nod. “Alright.”

I followed her out the exit and pulled the heavy roller door down, its metal links rattling.

My head swam with the two conflicting images of Declan Walsh. Who the hell was he?

And which version was I lusting over? Was the quiet intensity he showed me here just another part of his performance? Had Fighter’s Edge become a different stage for a different audience? One that was all about his dick ending up inside me?