2. Eli
ELI
Six months at Oath MMA, and I still can’t get used to the openness of it.
Fighters greet each other regardless of who they’re sleeping with, and the locker rooms hum with easy conversation instead of the tight-jawed silence I’d grown accustomed to at my last gym.
Victor runs a different kind of operation here.
Better, maybe. Definitely more complicated.
He also hired me over coaches who've held this floor down for years. Ray's coached more corners in a fight than most men ever see, and the day I started he just shook my hand and told me where the mitts lived. No territory. No cold shoulder. Six months in, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.
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 muscle and 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 a fighter.
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.”
“Victor’s not the one who’s going to be training her if she signs.” He glances back at me, grinning. “Besides, you want to meet her just as much as I do. It’s written all over your face.”
He’s halfway across the gym before I can stop him. I follow because the alternative is standing here alone looking like an idiot.
By the time we reach Victor’s office, he’s opening the door. The woman looks up, and the full force of those hazel eyes lands on me for a fraction of a second before sliding to Cruz.
“Dakota Fisher,” Victor says. “Two of my best. Cruz Bennett—”
“Hey.” Cruz extends his hand, and his grin shifts into something warmer, more inviting. “Welcome to Oath. You fight?”
“I do.” She shakes his hand firmly, with no hesitation. Her voice is clear, steady. Southern accent underneath it, not strong but present.
“Eli Morgan,” I say, offering my own hand. “Head coach.”
Her grip is strong. When she meets my eyes, there’s something assessing in her gaze, like she’s measuring me the same way I’m measuring her.
“Dakota’s looking to relocate,” Victor says. “She’s got an impressive record. Twelve and two amateur, three pro fights, all wins. I’m inclined to bring her on if she checks out in sparring.”
“I’d like to test that myself,” I state.
Victor nods. “I was thinking you and Cruz could run her through some rounds. See what she’s got.”
“Happy to,” Cruz says. He’s still looking at Dakota with that easy, open interest—one more lie to myself won’t hurt anything, right?. “You eaten yet? We could grab food after, show you around town if—”
“I’m good,” Dakota says. “I’d like to start training.”
Cruz laughs. “I like her already.”
“Locker room’s in the back,” Victor says. “Get changed, they’ll meet you in cage two.”
Dakota nods and walks out without another word.
Cruz watches her go with unabashed appreciation. “Jesus,” he mutters once she’s out of earshot. “Please tell me she’s staying.”
“Focus on the sparring, not her ass,” I say.
“I can do both.” He turns to me, and there’s a playful glint in his eyes. “You into her, Coach?”
“I don’t know her.”
Cruz’s smirk widens. “That’s not what I asked.”
“Drop it, Cruz.”
We head back to ring two. I grab pads and gloves from the equipment rack, trying to ignore my elevated pulse. It’s professional interest. She’s a new fighter, potentially a good one, and I want to see what she can do. That’s all.
Cruz leans against the ring post, arms crossed, watching me. “You got that look again.”
“What look?” I ask
“The one where you’re pretending you don’t want to get your dick wet.”
“Jesus Christ, Cruz!”
“Relax, Coach.” He grins. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“There’s no secret.”
“Uh-huh.” He steps closer, drops his voice just low enough that no one else in the gym could hear. “You know what I think? I think Coach has a hard-on for his potential new fighter. And I think…” His grin widens. “I think he’d love to shove his cock in her tight little cunt while I fuck his ass.”
The image hits me like a punch. Immediate. Visceral. Dakota underneath me, Cruz behind me, the heat and pressure and…
“That’s crude,” I say. My voice comes out rougher than intended. “And inappropriate.”
Cruz chuckles. “Maybe so, but not wrong.”
“You’re out of line.”
“I’m honest.” He doesn’t move back. “That’s what this place is, right? Honest. No bullshit. You’re allowed to want things here, Coach. You’re allowed to want people.”
My dick is half-hard in my shorts, which is absolutely not something I need right now. I turn away, adjusting the pads with more focus than necessary. “Get in the ring.”
“Yes, sir,” Cruz says, and his tone suggests he knows exactly what he’s done.
The locker room door opens. Dakota emerges in fight shorts and a sports bra, her hair still pulled back, hands already wrapped.
She climbs into the cage, and I hand her gloves.
“Standard sparring rules,” I say. “We’re looking at technique, fight IQ, conditioning. Not trying to kill each other.”
“Got it,” Dakota says.
Cruz bounces on his toes, loose and ready. “Ladies first?”
“You want me to hit you first?” Dakota asks.
“I want to see what you’ve got.”
They tap gloves. I step back.
Dakota moves like water, like she’s been fighting since before she could walk.
She doesn’t bull forward or hang back—she flows, slipping Cruz’s jab and countering with a sharp hook to the body that makes him grunt.
He grins, adjusts, and comes back with a leg kick.
She checks it, fires a straight right that snaps his head to the side.
“Fuck,” Cruz laughs. “Okay. Okay.”
They cycle through combinations, and it’s immediately clear that Dakota isn’t here to play. She’s technical but aggressive, patient but opportunistic. When Cruz shoots for a takedown, she sprawls perfectly and catches him in a guillotine attempt that he barely escapes.
I can’t look away.
It’s not just her skill, though that’s exceptional. It’s the way she fights—like there’s something she’s trying to prove with every strike, every scramble. Like the ring is the only place she knows how to speak honestly.
Cruz gets her against the cage, works for back control. She twists out, reverses position, nearly sinks a rear-naked choke before he rolls through. When they separate, they’re both breathing hard, grinning.
“Your turn, Coach,” Cruz calls.
I climb into the ring. Dakota’s hazel eyes lock onto mine, and my chest tightens.
We tap gloves. Her hands are small in the sixteen-ounce sparring gloves, but when she spars, there’s nothing small about her. She’s fire and precision, and when she catches me with a jab I didn’t see coming, I feel it in my teeth.
I adjust. Start reading her rhythm, noticing that she drops her shoulder slightly before throwing the cross. I counter with a body kick that she only partially blocks, and she makes a small noise—not pain, just acknowledgment.
We trade for two rounds. By the end, I’m sweating and my forearms ache from checking her kicks.
When we break, Cruz is leaning on the chain, watching us both with interest.
“Well?” Dakota asks. She’s not even breathing that hard.
“You’re good,” I say. “Really good.”
“So I’m in?”
“That’s Victor’s call, but—” I glance at Cruz, who nods. “Yeah. I’d say you’re in.”
Dakota’s expression doesn’t change, though her eyes soften slightly. Relief, maybe. Or vindication.
“Welcome to Oath,” Cruz says. He’s grinning at both of us now, and there’s something in that expression that suggests he’s seeing more than just a new training partner.
I should be thinking about technique. About how to integrate her into our training program. About coaching logistics.
Instead, I’m thinking about the three of us in this ring, the chemistry crackling between us like a live wire arcing through water.
I’m thinking about Cruz’s words earlier, crude and impossible, and maybe not so impossible afterall.
I’m thinking I might be in serious trouble.