Fighting the Alpha (Foundry Boxing Gym Alphas #2)

Dylan

I prickle at the mention of my name, and the shit-eating grin that flashes across Levi’s stupid, rugged face. He pushes his dark, sweat-curled hair back like he’s in a fucking cologne commercial, and I lean further into my phone screen, scowling.

The reporter chuckles, clearly delighted with the ready-for-social media soundbites he’s getting. “Predictable? Even with his unbroken record this year?”

“Records are made to be broken, no?” On screen, Levi scoffs and tilts his chin up, grabbing the tiny microphone so he can speak directly into it, making his rasping voice buzz slightly through my phone speaker.

The typical alpha arrogance reads clear as day in his green-flecked eyes.

“He has been fighting little boys. But on Thursday night, he faces a man. A man who has taught him how to submit before.”

He aims an obnoxious wink straight down the barrel of the camera, and my thumb jabs the power button of my phone, cutting the screen to black.

Submit.

The word has been echoing around my head like a broken record since this interview dropped three days ago.

Anyone watching would probably take it to mean that he’s beaten me in a fight before—we’ve been running in the same circles for years, after all, fighting for two rival gyms in the same city; why wouldn’t we have sparred a few times?

But the truth is, we haven’t. I’ve made sure of it. I’ve fought every one of his gym-mates—and knocked most of them out—but I’ve ducked and dodged a fight with the man himself ever since he popped up in the city again like a bad smell after three years back in France.

No, when Levi says Long and I go way back, he means much further back than our boxing careers.

Because before either one of us ever donned a pair of gloves, we had the mat.

The two best wrestlers at Addington High, the eye-wateringly expensive boarding school my grandfather paid the fees for so my parents could skip out on the parenting part of being parents.

I got a stellar education, and my grandad got to sleep a little better at night knowing that my parents weren’t leaving little Dylan at home alone night after night while they frolicked around New York City.

Bastien came over on an exchange program for a year and swiftly knocked me off the podium as regional wrestling champ, igniting a rivalry so fierce I could barely look at a croissant all year without wanting to put my fist through a wall.

And because we were basically living together, that rivalry spilled over into everything.

Sometimes crossing lines I’d rather forget about.

So yeah, I’ve used every excuse in the book to avoid him.

The only reason Marcus and Max, the two co-owners of The Foundry, managed to convince me to fight him this time was because it was unavoidable if I wanted a shot at breaking into the big leagues.

And because despite never having faced each other in the ring, local media and online streamers have still managed to spin up a rivalry between us, which Levi has been more than happy to play into.

“Earth to Dylan,” Marcus grunts. I jump, and my phone slips through my fingers, landing on the floor with a heavy thunk.

“Shit.”

He picks up my water bottle and pushes it into my hand. “Drink up while you still can. You need to start cutting fluids in half an hour if you want to make weight tomorrow, big man.”

He doesn’t need to remind me. I’ve been counting down the hours to the weigh-in for the last week. It’ll be the first time I’ve come face-to-face with Levi since we were in high school, and I’m dreading it.

The next twenty-four hours pass in a blur of dry-mouthed misery.

Cutting the last few pounds of water weight to hit the cruiserweight limit always sucks, but this time, the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the mental exhaustion.

Every time I close my eyes, I see that smug, green-eyed wink.

Every time my throat burns for water, the word submit echoes in the back of my skull in that lilting French accent.

By the time Marcus, Max, and I arrive at the civic center for the official weigh-in, the atmosphere is electric.

The venue is packed with mid-tier athletic commission officials, local sports bloggers, and loud, rowdy fans from both gyms. The air smells heavily of cheap cologne, floor wax, and the cloying pheromones of dozens of alphas crowded into one backstage holding area.

I keep my eyes straight ahead, focused on the digital scale on the stage through the open curtains. I just want to step on the metal platform, hear the official shout ‘one hundred and ninety-nine’, and go eat a massive bowl of pasta.

“You’re looking a little pale, kid,” Marcus murmurs, giving my shoulder a heavy, supportive squeeze that almost makes me feel a little better. “Keep your head in the game. Don’t let him bait you out there.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, my voice hoarse from dehydration.

But my body says otherwise. Before I even see him, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

A sudden, sharp scent cuts through the generic alpha musk of the room—a scent of clean linen and something distinctly familiar underneath, like a room that’s been warmed by the sun.

It’s so distinct, and so deeply nostalgic, that I physically take a step back when it hits me.

Levi Bastien has entered the room.

He’s surrounded by his trainers from Southcross, the rival gym he trains at across town, laughing obnoxiously at something his manager is saying.

He’s already down to his silk fighting shorts, his lean, tan chest glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights.

He’s not as broad as most cruiserweights, but he makes up for it in pure muscle density, his tall, lean physique making him lightning fast and helping earn him his near flawless record.

As if sensing my gaze, his head snaps around. Those dark, green-flecked eyes lock onto mine, and that same unbearable, slow-burning grin that used to make me lose my mind as a teenager stretches across his face.

“Ah, look who it is,” he calls out, his lilting accent cutting through the ambient chatter as he detaches himself from his team and saunters straight toward me. Marcus shifts instinctively, his heavy amber-and-tobacco scent flaring protectively, but I step forward, refusing to hide behind my coach.

Levi stops just inches from me, purposefully standing uncomfortably close.

His clean scent hits me full-force, making my inner alpha claw at the walls of my chest in irritation.

He looks me up and down, his eyes lingering on my collarbones and the ridges of my pecs, even more defined than usual thanks to the brutal weight cut.

“You look thin, mon cher,” Levi purrs, his voice dropping to a deep register meant for my ears alone. Max bristles nearby, but keeps his distance. “Did you miss me so much that you lost your appetite?”

“Get bent, Bastien,” I snap, fists clenched at my sides. “Save it for the stage.”

“Always so serious,” he sighs, tilting his head back to look at me through his thick eyelashes. “Just like the old days at Addington. You remember our little arrangement on the varsity mat, yes? When we used to play for keeps?”

My stomach drops. I know exactly what he’s talking about.

Back at boarding school, our wrestling rivalry had been so bitter, so relentless, that plastic medals had stopped being enough of a prize.

We started making private, degrading wagers before every match.

If I won, he had to scrub the mud off my boots or clean my headgear for a week.

If he won—which happened more often than I care to admit—I was stuck doing his laundry, forced to carry his sweaty practice gear back to the dorms while he laughed at me.

It was juvenile and petty, and the best motivation an alpha can get.

“We aren’t kids anymore,” I growl, stepping closer until our chests almost touch, not wanting Marcus or Max to catch what he’s saying. I can feel the heat radiating off him through my jacket. “And I don’t need you to wash my gym gear.”

“No, we are men now. The stakes should match,” Levi says, his eyes darkening, something dangerous and all too familiar bleeding through his playful demeanor. He leans in closer, his lips nearly brushing the shell of my ear as he whispers, “You remember the last time, yes?”

I hold my breath, because of course I remember last time. I remember the heat of his rigid flesh under my palm, and every tiny rasp of his breath, and exactly how my body reacted to it. I’ve been trying to forget it for the last six years. “Fuck off, Bastien. I don’t want to talk to you.”

Levi grips the collar of my jacket, looking like I’ve just given him exactly the reaction he wants, and Max and Marcus are at my side in a flash.

“Get your fucking hands off him,” Max growls. “You’re not in the ring yet.”

“Hey, Hoffman,” Marcus shouts to Levi’s trainer, who’s lingering at the edge of the stage, distracted by his phone. “Can’t you keep your dog on its leash?”

Levi pulls his hand away from me, raising his arms defensively as his trainer tugs him away and aiming an infuriating wink in my direction. “I was just saying hello to an old friend, c’est tout.”

“What was that about?” Marcus mutters once he’s out of earshot.

I turn away, stripping down to my boxing shorts. “Nothing. Just shit-talking as always, trying to get in my head. Bringing up stupid shit from school.”

I’ve mentioned in passing that Levi and I used to know each other, but I’ve never divulged the details to Max or Marcus. Or anyone. Just the thought of it makes the tips of my ears hot.

“He’s all talk,” Max says as he takes my jacket, giving Levi a hard stare from across the room. “He won’t be talking so loud when you knock half his teeth out.”

“Damn straight,” I say, with more confidence than I feel, my mind still racing.

But before I can spiral any deeper into the memory of what happened six years ago, an official with a clipboard steps out from behind the curtain. “Long, you’re up. Bastien, on deck.”

Max and Marcus both slap me on the back as I make my way onto the stage, and the bright lights are blinding after the dim lighting of the holding area.

A wall of noise washes over us—the clicking of camera shutters, the shouting of local reporters, and the cheers and whoops from supporters from both gyms.

I step onto the digital scale. I freeze, staring straight ahead as the numbers flicker on the LED screen before settling.

“One hundred and ninety-eight pounds!” the official barks into his microphone. “On the weight!”

A roar goes up from Marcus and Max. I blow out a measured breath, not breaking composure. I made weight. Half the battle is already over.

But as I step off the scale, Levi is already climbing the steps. He looks totally at home under the spotlights, flexing his lean torso and bulging biceps for the cameras, and flashing that maddeningly brilliant smile.

He steps onto the platform, completely unbothered.

“One hundred and ninety-six point five pounds!” the official announces. “We have a fight!”

The crowd erupts, but the sound fades to a dull hum as the promoter grabs both of our shoulders, pulling us toward the center of the stage for the traditional face-off.

This is the part the cameras live for.

Levi steps up to me, his chin tilted high, his chest bare. His scent fills my nostrils, my own caramel pheromones fighting back just as intensely, trying to push his right out of the room as anger and aggression twist hotly in my gut.

I stare directly into his eyes, forcing my jaw to stay rigid, keeping my hands locked firmly behind my back so the cameras don't catch my white knuckles.

The promoter steps back, letting the photographers capture the moment between two rival alphas.

Flashbulbs burst in rapid succession, painting white spots across my vision and casting Levi’s crooked, arrogant grin in an uncanny strobe.

I try not to blink, and Levi leans his head forward just a fraction.

His gaze drops to my lips, then travels back up to my eyes.

“Let’s raise the stakes,” he says, his voice a low growl that easily gets lost under the roar of the crowd, completely inaudible to anyone but me, his lips hidden from the prying cameras. “When you lose tomorrow night, we finish what we started six years ago. Total submission.”

I freeze. It takes everything in my power not to let the shock of what he’s proposing show on my face. “And if I win?”

“Same deal,” he shrugs. “But you won’t.”

Before I can even process the absolute audacity of the wager, and before my inner alpha forces me to push him away in defiance, the promoter shoves his arm between us, pulling us apart.

Levi lets himself be guided backward, his face instantly melting back into that obnoxious, media-ready smirk. He points a finger at me, turns to the cameras, and plays up the crowd one last time before sauntering off the stage.

I stand there in the center of the lights, my throat burning, my ears filled with static.

Total submission.

As I stumble off the stage, chugging the water Max hands to me like a man dying of thirst, I know it’s just shit-talk.

He’s trying to get in my head, and goddamn him, it’s working.

Because I didn’t immediately tell him where to stick his bullshit wager, did I?

I didn’t tell him to fuck off back to whatever hole he crawled out of without a second thought, like I should have.

No—I considered it. For the brief moment our eyes were locked and his breath was at my neck, I fucking considered his insane proposal.

Just like I did six years ago.