Ground and Pound (Straight to Gay Sports Surrenders #6)

1. Sparring Orders

SPARRING ORDERS

Istood in the gym's back office, the smell of bleach and old sweat thick enough to coat my tongue.

The injury report lay on the desk between us, a single sheet of paper that might as well have been a death sentence.

Three names crossed out in red. Torn ligaments, a fractured orbital, and one guy with a herniated disc that would keep him out for months. My team. My training partners. Gone.

Coach Harlan tapped the page with a blunt finger. "This qualifier isn't waiting on miracles, Blackburn. You need live bodies. Daily."

I shifted my weight, the mat tape on my knuckles pulling at the skin. "Give me the prospects from the youth program. I'll grind them into shape."

He shook his head before I finished. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead like a dying insect. "They're not ready. None of them. You need someone who can match your pace without folding in thirty seconds."

The silence stretched between us. I knew what was coming. His eyes avoided mine.

"Diego Vargas."

The name landed like a hook to the ribs. My shoulders jerked back before I could stop them. "No."

Coach leaned forward, elbows on the scarred wood. "It's not a request. His camp's in the same boat. Two of his guys are out after that last card in Vegas. The promotion wants this qualifier clean. No excuses. You two spar every morning, six sharp. Work the ground game until it sings."

I laughed once, short and rough. The sound bounced off the cinderblock walls. "You remember what happened the last time we shared a mat?"

His face didn't change. "I remember the bar in Reno. Both of you too drunk to throw straight. I remember the hospital bill the promotion covered to keep it quiet. But that was two years ago. This is now."

Diego Vargas. The name alone brought back the copper taste of blood in my mouth.

His fist had connected just under my eye, the crack that still ached when the weather turned.

We'd hated each other since the regional circuit, back when we were both coming up.

Bad calls in the cage, elbows that lingered too long, stares across the weigh-in room that promised violence.

And then that night in Reno where it spilled outside the ropes.

I planted my palms on the desk. The wood felt cool under my skin. "Find someone else. I'll drive to the desert camp if I have to."

"No one else is available. You think I like this?

The two of you are the only heavyweights on the card who can push each other without one tapping in the first round.

" Coach rubbed a hand over his bald head.

"Look, I know the history. But the promoter's breathing down my neck.

This is the deal. Take it or watch your shot at the title qualifier slip away. "

My jaw worked. The muscles there felt tight enough to snap.

Diego's face swam in my mind, that smirk he wore like armor, the way his eyes always seemed to see too much.

We'd circled each other for years, trading wins and losses that never quite settled the score.

And now this. Daily. In close quarters where every grip, every roll, every press of weight would remind me exactly how much I wanted to put him through the wall.

"Fuck." The word came out raw.

Coach nodded like that settled it. "Six tomorrow. Don't be late. And Blackburn? Keep it clean. No more hospital bills."

I pushed off the desk hard enough that the report slid toward the edge.

My boots hit the hallway with heavy thuds that echoed back at me.

The gym noise swelled as I moved past the bags, the clank of weights, the grunts of guys who still had partners to work with.

My fists opened and closed at my sides. The tape pulled again, biting into the fresh scabs from yesterday's bag work.

The locker room door slammed behind me harder than I meant.

A couple of the younger guys looked up from their benches, then quickly away.

Smart. I stripped my shirt off, the cotton clinging to the sweat on my back, and shoved it into my bag.

The mirror over the sinks caught my reflection, the old scar along my collarbone from our last official fight, the bruise on my ribs still fading to yellow.

All of it courtesy of the man I was now supposed to train with every goddamn day.

I stormed out the side exit, the afternoon sun hitting my face like a slap.

The parking lot asphalt radiated heat up through my soles.

My truck sat crooked in its spot where I'd parked in a hurry this morning.

I climbed in, the leather seat burning against my bare back, and slammed the door.

The engine turned over with a growl that matched the one building in my chest.

The drive home blurred. Stoplights turned green without me remembering to accelerate.

My mind kept looping back to that last brawl, the way Diego had grabbed my collar outside the bar, breath hot with whiskey as he snarled about me being a lucky prick.

The punch I'd thrown in return. The way we'd ended up on the ground, rolling in gravel and broken glass until security pulled us apart.

The promoter had paid off the cops, but the footage still lived somewhere in the dark corners of the internet.

Two fighters trying to kill each other over nothing and everything.

My apartment building loomed ahead, the same squat complex it'd been for three years.

I killed the engine and sat there, hands still on the wheel.

The leather creaked under my grip. Inside, the place smelled like protein powder and the faint trace of last night's takeout.

I dropped my bag by the door and walked straight to the living room wall where the photos hung.

Framed shots from my bigger wins. Me with the regional belt, arm raised, sweat pouring off my face.

Another from my first pro fight, blood on my knuckles but victory in my eyes.

And there, in the corner, the one I couldn't quite make myself take down.

Me and Diego after a fight three years back, both of us battered, the ref holding both our wrists like he wasn't sure who to declare winner.

Our shoulders touched in the frame. Neither of us smiled.

I stared at that photo until my eyes burned.

How the hell was I supposed to survive a week of this, let alone the full training block?

Every morning in the cage with him. His weight on me.

His hands gripping for position. The smell of his sweat mixing with mine.

The thought settled low in my gut, unwelcome and heavy, stirring a feeling I didn't want to examine.

Not anger exactly. Not anymore. Something sharper that made my skin feel too tight.

I turned away from the wall, but the image stayed burned behind my eyelids. Diego's face in that photo, the cut over his eyebrow still fresh, his gaze locked on the camera like he was already planning the next round. The same gaze that would be on me tomorrow at six.

My hands flexed at my sides. The apartment felt smaller than it had this morning.

The week stretched ahead like a bad choke hold I couldn't tap out of.

And underneath the anger, beneath the memories of every cheap shot and bar fight, a different feeling shifted.

Unsettling. Physical in a way that left me confused and pissed off all over again.

I crossed to the window and looked out at the empty street, the photo's weight still pressing against my back. Diego Vargas. My rival. My new training partner. The man who'd broken more than just my skin in that Reno parking lot.

The glass felt cool against my forehead as I leaned into it. The week hadn't even started, and I already knew I was fucked.