9. Injury Setback
INJURY SETBACK
Icaught an elbow wrong during the third round.
One second I was driving in for a clinch, the next Diego's forearm clipped the side of my head and my knee buckled like someone had cut the wires.
Pain flared hot through my shoulder, sharp enough to blank my vision for a beat.
The mat rushed up. My cheek scraped canvas, the burn immediate and grounding.
Diego dropped beside me before the echo of the impact faded. His hands were careful, one sliding under my arm, the other bracing my ribs. No taunt this time. Just steady pressure as he hauled me upright. Gym lights swam overhead, too bright against the throb building behind my eyes.
"Easy," he muttered, his voice low enough that only I caught it.
His arm looped around my waist, taking most of my weight.
Sweat slicked his skin where it pressed to mine, and the familiar scent of him—liniment, clean effort—cut through the metallic taste in my mouth.
I tried to shake him off, but my legs wouldn't cooperate. The room tilted again.
The trainer's station sat at the far end of the mats.
Diego carried me the whole way, his steps measured, his breath even against my temple.
Each jolt sent fresh sparks down my arm.
I bit back a groan, my jaw locked tight.
Vulnerability sat ugly in my throat, thicker than any choke hold he'd ever landed.
This wasn't how we did things. Not with him. Not after everything.
The trainer, an older guy with steady hands and zero patience for bullshit, took one look and pointed to the table.
"Sit. Don't move." He probed my shoulder, his fingers pressing into the joint until I hissed.
Diego hovered at the edge of my vision, arms crossed, a scar pulling tight at the corner of his mouth.
He didn't speak, but his stance said he wasn't leaving.
"Separated," the trainer announced after a minute.
"Not torn, but close enough to fuck you for the qualifier if you push it.
Ice, rest, and shared baths twice a day.
No solo hero shit. You two are glued at the hip until this settles.
" His gaze flicked between us, pragmatic as ever.
"Vargas, you stay late. Help him stretch after. Coach's orders."
Diego nodded once. I stared at the floor, concrete cool under my dangling feet.
Shared baths. The words landed heavy, stirring a feeling I couldn't name right away.
Not lust, not exactly. More like the ground shifting again, another crack in the certainty I'd built my whole career on.
My shoulder pulsed in time with my heartbeat, a dull reminder that I wasn't unbreakable.
And here was Diego, the man who'd once left me bleeding in a Reno alley, now the one keeping me vertical.
The trainer wrapped my shoulder in a compression sleeve, the fabric snug and restrictive. He handed Diego a printed sheet of instructions, then waved us off. "Bath in twenty. Don't make me repeat myself."
Diego helped me to the locker area without a word.
His grip stayed firm on my good side, guiding me past the benches where our bags sat untouched.
The quiet between us felt different now, weighted with the echo of last night's hotel wall and the supply room shelves.
I kept waiting for the smirk, the straight-boy jab. It never came.
The ice bath room smelled of chlorine and eucalyptus.
Two tubs sat side by side, already filled and steaming faintly from the cold.
Diego eased me onto the bench, then stripped off his own shirt without ceremony.
Muscle flexed across his back, the old scar I'd given him catching the overhead light like a pale hook.
He tested the water with one hand, then turned to me.
"Shirt off. I'll help with the wrap."
I hesitated, the vulnerability from the mat still raw.
My fingers fumbled at the hem anyway. He stepped in close, careful not to jostle my bad arm, and peeled the compression sleeve away.
His touch was clinical, almost gentle. Calluses scraped lightly over my skin, but there was no heat in it.
Just competence. The kind that came from years of patching up training partners after brutal sessions.
The water hit like needles when I lowered in.
I sucked air through my teeth, my shoulders tensing until the cold numbed the worst of the fire in my joint.
Diego slid into the tub across from me, his knees brushing mine under the surface.
The contact sent an unexpected jolt low in my belly, confusion threading through the discomfort.
My body reacted in a slow, uncertain wave—blood shifting south despite the ice, despite the pain still radiating from my shoulder.
It wasn't the raw surge from the hotel or the supply room.
This felt tangled, like my nerves couldn't decide between hurt and want.
He watched me, his dark eyes steady. "Breathe. It'll pass."
I nodded, my teeth clenched. The cold seeped deeper, dulling the throb but sharpening everything else.
The way his calf rested against mine now, solid and unmoving.
The faint steam rising between us. My cock twitched once, half-hard under the water, and shame mixed with a strange relief that he couldn't see it clearly through the murk.
This wasn't supposed to happen here, not when I felt this exposed.
Yet the unexpected comfort of his presence—of him choosing to stay—warmed something behind my ribs that had nothing to do with the ice.
We sat in silence for the full fifteen minutes the trainer had mandated.
Diego's gaze drifted to the tiled wall, but his leg stayed pressed to mine, an anchor I hadn't asked for.
When the timer on his phone beeped, he stood first, water sluicing off his torso.
He offered a hand, and I took it, letting him pull me out.
My shoulder protested, but the ice had taken the edge off.
Towels waited on a rack. He tossed one my way, then helped pat down my back without being asked.
The gym had emptied by then. Echoes of distant traffic filtered through the high windows as Diego led me to the stretching mats in the corner.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the rubber.
He spread a thick towel down, then guided me to sit with my legs extended.
His hands found my calf first, working the muscle with firm, knowing pressure.
Thumbs dug into knots I hadn't realized were there, easing tension that radiated up from my ankle.
"Trainer said hips and hamstrings too," he said, his voice even. No sarcasm. Just fact. "Keep it slow."
I leaned back on my good arm, watching him.
The care in his movements unsettled me more than any takedown.
This was Diego Vargas, the rival who'd broken my nose in our third pro bout, now kneeling between my spread thighs like it was the most natural thing.
His fingers traced the line of my quad, careful around the fresh bruise blooming there.
Heat built under my skin where he touched, not urgent but persistent.
Confusion coiled tighter in my chest. My body wanted more, even now, but my mind kept circling back to the hit, the way he'd carried me without hesitation.
It felt like trust I hadn't earned. Like a door cracking open I wasn't sure I could close again.
He shifted to my injured side, supporting my arm while he guided a gentle stretch. Pain flared, then subsided into a deep pull. I exhaled sharp, and his eyes met mine.
"Too much?"
I shook my head. "Keep going."
His palm flattened against my ribs, steadying me as he worked the shoulder through its limited range.
The contact grounded me, his warmth bleeding through the lingering chill from the bath.
My free hand moved before I could talk myself out of it, landing on his wrist. Not pushing away.
Holding. Testing this new boundary between us, the one that had started with a midnight kiss and kept widening.
Diego went still. His gaze dropped to where my fingers circled his pulse point, then lifted again. His expression shifted, the scar at his mouth softening. He didn't pull back. Instead, he turned his hand, lacing our fingers briefly before releasing.
"Careful," he said, but the word carried weight beyond the stretch. "This changes shit."
I swallowed, my throat dry. My shoulder ached in a new rhythm now, synced to the steady thrum of want low in my body. "I know." My voice came out rough, stripped of the bluster I'd carried for years. "But I started it. In the supply room. On the wall. I'm not backing off now."
He nodded once, then resumed the stretch, slower this time.
His hands stayed professional, but the air between us thickened with everything unsaid.
We worked in quiet for another ten minutes, his touch mapping the limits of my injury while my mind mapped the limits of this pull.
When he finally sat back on his heels, sweat beading at his temples from the effort, I felt steadier. I wasn't healed, but I was held.
Diego wiped his hands on the towel, then met my eyes square. "We keep it hidden. Until after the qualifier. No risks. The promoter's already sniffing around, and one slip ends both of us."
The words landed solid, a boundary drawn in the dim gym light. I held his stare, the vulnerability from the mat still fresh but tempered now by this shared decision. My fingers flexed against the mat, remembering the feel of his wrist under them moments ago.
"Hidden," I agreed, the agreement tasting like both surrender and promise on my tongue. The qualifier loomed closer than ever, but so did the weight of what we'd just locked in place between us.