2. First Lock
FIRST LOCK
Ipulled into the gym lot at five-thirty, the sky still bruised with early dawn.
My truck door creaked when I shut it. The air carried that familiar bite of rubber mats and disinfectant, sharper in the quiet before the morning crowd arrived.
I told myself the extra thirty minutes was smart prep.
Footwork drills. Shadowboxing. Anything to burn off the restless energy that had kept me up half the night.
Inside, the main lights were still off. Only the emergency strips glowed along the baseboards.
I dropped my bag on the bench by the cage and started wrapping my hands, the tape pulling tight across my knuckles.
The familiar ritual steadied me. Then the steady rhythm of feet on canvas, the soft huff of controlled breathing, reached me.
Diego was already in the cage.
He moved through a series of sprawls and shoots, shirtless, sweat already darkening the waistband of his shorts.
The overhead work lights caught on the ridges of his back, the old scar that curved under his left shoulder blade like a pale hook.
I knew that scar. I'd put it there with an illegal elbow in our second pro fight.
He didn't glance my way, but the set of his shoulders changed. Awareness. He knew I was there.
I stepped up to the cage door and gripped the chain-link. The metal felt cold against my palms.
"You're early," I said.
Diego finished a sprawl, rolled to his feet in one fluid motion. That smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the one that always looked like he knew a secret I didn't. "Figured you'd show up ready to prove something. Didn't want to keep you waiting."
His voice carried that low rasp from years of taking shots to the throat.
I ignored the way it settled in my gut and pushed through the gate.
The canvas gave slightly under my bare feet.
I stripped off my hoodie, tossed it outside the ropes.
My own tank clung to my skin already, the gym's chill raising gooseflesh along my arms.
Coach Harlan appeared from the back office, coffee in hand, his bald head catching the light.
He didn't bother with greetings. Just set his mug on a stool and folded his arms. "Warm up's done.
Let's see if you two can work without killing each other.
Three rounds. Hard strikes, controlled takedowns. Keep it clean."
Diego bounced on the balls of his feet. His eyes tracked me as I circled to the center. There was nothing friendly in that stare. It was the same one he'd given me across the weigh-in scale a dozen times. Measuring. Calculating. Like he was already three moves ahead.
We touched gloves. The contact sent a jolt up my arm that I chalked up to nerves. Then we separated.
The first round started with feints. I threw a jab that he slipped, countering with a hook that glanced off my shoulder.
The impact rattled through bone. Good. This was what I needed.
Familiar violence. I pressed forward, landing a body shot that made him grunt. The sound echoed off the high ceiling.
He answered with a leg kick that stung like fire across my thigh. We traded like that for the full three minutes, neither giving ground. Sweat stung my eyes. My breath came harder. Every time our gloves connected, the smack of leather filled the empty gym.
Coach called time. We reset without a word.
Second round got meaner. Diego closed distance faster than I expected, clipping my chin with a short uppercut.
My head snapped back. For a split second the world tilted.
I tasted metal on my tongue and drove in with a combination that forced him against the fence.
The chain-link rattled. His forearm came up to block, muscles corded tight under damp skin.
"Watch the fence work," Coach barked from outside.
I backed off. Diego's chest heaved. A bead of sweat tracked down the center of his sternum, disappearing into the dark hair that dusted his torso.
I looked away fast, focusing on the mat instead.
My pulse thudded in my ears. The air between us felt thicker now, charged with more than just the fight.
We circled again. His gaze locked on mine. Those dark eyes held steady, unblinking. A twist in my stomach came from them. I shook it off and threw a cross that he ducked under.
The round ended with both of us breathing heavy. Coach didn't say much. Just nodded once and motioned for the final round.
This time Diego came at me low. I sprawled to defend the shot, but he adjusted mid-motion, driving his shoulder into my midsection. The world flipped. Canvas rushed up to meet my back. Air exploded from my lungs. His weight crashed down on top of me before I could recover.
He passed my guard in two sharp movements, knees pinning my hips.
His chest pressed flush against mine, slick with sweat.
The heat of him sank through my tank top, burning against my skin.
One of his hands gripped my wrist, pinning it above my head.
The other braced beside my skull, forearm corded with effort.
I bucked hard. He absorbed it, shifting his hips to settle heavier.
Our legs tangled. His thigh slid between mine, the muscle there rock solid.
I could feel every inch of him. The hard plane of his stomach.
The way his breath fanned hot across my neck.
The faint scrape of stubble when his jaw brushed my ear.
"Get off," I growled. The words came out strained.
He didn't move. His grip on my wrist tightened a fraction.
Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me he had me.
His face hovered inches from mine. I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the faint scar through his left eyebrow from that Reno night.
His mouth parted slightly, breath coming steady and warm.
Coach's voice cut through. "Position's good. Hold it."
Diego held it. Longer than necessary. His weight didn't ease.
If anything, it seemed to sink deeper, molding us together on the mat.
Sweat dripped from his hair onto my collarbone.
The drop slid down, cool at first, then warming where our bodies met.
My skin prickled everywhere we touched. My cock gave a traitorous twitch against his thigh.
This was all wrong.
I twisted again, harder. He let me create space this time, rolling off in one smooth motion. But not before his eyes flicked down, just once. Not before that smirk returned, smaller now. Knowing.
We finished the round standing. My strikes lacked power. My focus was shot. When Coach called time, I didn't wait for feedback. I climbed out of the cage, grabbed my bag, and headed straight for the locker room. The door banged shut behind me. Echoes bounced off the tiled walls.
The shower area was empty. I stripped fast, not looking at myself in the mirror. The water came on scalding. I stepped under the spray and let it pound against my shoulders. Steam rose thick around me. I grabbed the soap, scrubbing at my chest like I could erase the memory of his weight.
The pressure of him lingered. That solid heat pinning me down.
The way his thigh had pressed right there.
My body reacted again, cock filling despite the disgust curling in my chest. I was straight.
I'd always been straight. Women's bodies, soft and giving, were what got me hard.
Not this. Not a rival who'd tried to put me in the hospital.
I turned the water colder. The shock made me hiss. Still, the ache didn't fade. My dick stood heavy between my legs, bobbing with each heartbeat. I braced one hand on the tile and stared at the drain, water streaming down my face.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
The feel of his chest against mine kept replaying.
The scrape of his stubble. The low sound he'd made when I bucked under him.
My balls drew up tight. Shame burned hotter than the earlier exertion.
I wasn't some closet case getting off on another man's sweat.
This had to be adrenaline. The fight high mixing with old hatred. Nothing more.
I soaped up again, rough strokes over my arms, my stomach, avoiding the part of me that refused to calm down.
The lather slid down my thighs. The cold water raised bumps across my skin but did nothing to kill the persistent throb.
Diego's face swam behind my eyelids. That intense stare.
The way he'd held me there, like he knew exactly what my body was doing.
Disgust twisted through me, sharp and immediate. I didn't want this. Didn't want him. The thought of his hands on me again, deliberate instead of accidental, sent another unwanted pulse through my groin. I slammed my palm against the wall. The smack echoed.
This training arrangement was a mistake. Daily sessions like this would break me before the qualifier even started. I needed to get my head straight. Focus on the title shot. Forget the way his weight had felt. Forget how my cock had reacted to it.
The water continued to beat down. I stayed under it until my fingers pruned and the ache finally started to subside. Even then, the confusion clung to me, thick as the steam. I shut off the spray. The sudden silence pressed in.
Dripping, I reached for my towel. The rough fabric scraped over skin still sensitive from the memory of contact. I dried off without looking down. Without acknowledging the faint twitch that remained.
Diego Vargas had pinned me. That was all. A training mistake I wouldn't repeat.
But as I wrapped the towel around my waist, the lie sat heavy in my throat. The feeling hadn't washed away. It had only settled deeper, waiting.