Chapter 14
Fuck dealing. I scowl at the baby birds chirping along the path to the training gym.
It’s not their fault that they get to sit in their trees, eating worms and…
whatever the fuck birds do for fun. But listening to them living their best lives as I deal with an egotistical, misogynistic thorn in my side who’s determined to tear my destiny from my hands is too much to bear.
Someone will have to bear the brunt of my frustration, and since I’ve resolved not to break my brother’s best friend into a million tiny pieces, the sparring mat is the only thing that’ll suffice.
Luckily for the drywall, I learned my lesson long ago about kicking in doors when frustrated.
Instead, I count three sets of breaths, pulling all of my anger deeper and into its box, to be unleashed at the perfect time onto whoever is brave enough to step onto the mat with me.
Misha will rise to the challenge, regardless, but the two of us have fought so many times that it’s more of a choreographed dance than a true bout.
Men immediately stand to attention when I enter, a ripple traveling the length of the gym like a line of dominoes I’ve kicked over in my rage.
They fall back into their workouts soon enough with a wave of my hand to put them at ease, but my presence comes with a certain level of tension, as it should.
I’m their boss. I’m the boss. The day any man feels truly at ease in my company is the day I’ve lost my touch.
“Hiya, Boss.”
“You look like a bear with a sore head, moya tsaritsa.”
Of course, the two men who couldn’t give less of a fuck about my Pakhan status appear at my side as if magnetized.
Misha is as unbothered as ever, giving no clue as to whether he’s been running sessions or taking part.
Thatcher, on the other hand, is dripping.
The white T-shirt he’s wearing does little more than serve as a sweat receptacle.
He realizes this at the same time as I do, and peels the offensive garment from his shoulders just to toss it onto the floor with a wet thump.
“The laundry hamper is right there, Prescott. Jesus—”
“It looks like he’s got his own washboard for doing the laundry—”
“Don’t disrespect the boss like that, man!”
The mostly friendly jibes directed at Thatcher bode well for his reconnaissance mission, and even Kirill tempered his defense of my honor with a playful shoulder nudge.
“It’s alright. It wasn’t my intention to interrupt any of your training. I just wanted to see if you had even groups on the mats or if you needed an extra body.”
Any tittering that had continued in the wake of Thatcher’s strip show ceases, and you’d think I just revealed that Grandfather Frost isn’t real based on the depth of the silence.
“I’ve just finished with Dima, so I can—”
“Want to take a crack at me?” Thatcher interrupts Misha, and I swear I hear a brief “ooo” before silence falls again at my sharp gaze.
If he looked any less earnest, I might admonish him for toeing the line of disrespect in front of the men.
As it is, only his playful wink, hidden from the group, belies the flirtiness I know he can’t help.
There’s no reason to waste time thinking about a decision I’ve already made, even if I end up regretting putting myself in this position.
It’s just two bodies struggling for dominance, writhing for any upper hand, any moment of weakness in the other to gain the upper hand.
Nothing sexual about it. I’ve sparred with Misha thousands of times, not to mention hundreds of other men, and never felt any lust except for blood.
The mat is still warm from the last set of men as I strip to my sports bra and bike shorts.
The long braid that’s my everyday staple won’t serve me well here, so I take it down and quickly rebraid it into a pull-proof style while Misha attempts to get the rest of the men back into their workouts.
He’s sending most of them out on a long run to end the session, which is probably for the best.
“You know I would never pull your hair, right?” Thatcher’s soft voice doesn’t surprise me, since I’m always hyperaware of him these days, but his sincerity makes me pause.
He’s chosen to remain shirtless for our bout, and I can’t blame him.
His lack of shirt will give me one less grip point, and if I’m sliding off his sweat-soaked torso…
“Mila? Hello?”
Fuck. Thatcher and Misha are both in front of me now, and I zoned out for long enough, thinking about sliding up and down the former’s torso like a surfboard, that I drew their attention. “Yep. I’m ready. Let’s see what Misha’s been teaching you.”
I’m gifted a full smile at that, and the rest of the room fades away as I focus on the radius of our mat, and nothing else.
He’s never looked more like a golden retriever than at this moment, golden hair pulled back with a headband and eyes locked onto mine as he tilts his head to receive last-minute advice from Misha.
This is the only place I let my guard down and don’t waste any energy on monitoring my periphery.
In the gym, with Misha close by, all that matters is myself, my opponent, and the mat.
“I like being the center of your attention like this.”
“Just like this?” Shit, don’t flirt with him, Mila. What the hell?
“Touché. Not just like this.” His grin is infectious enough to almost make me forget to be surly, but I rein it back just in time.
“Hmm. We’ll see how long that lasts. You might feel differently once the pain kicks in.”
“I agree.” He laughs. “But it might not be in the way you think.”
Misha’s snort reminds me we’re not alone, and Thatcher moves into position, stretching his hands above his head in the process. His abs flex, and the material of his gym shorts pulls taut, outlining the appendage that’s seared into my brain, regardless of how hard I’ve been trying to forget it.
“What has Misha taught you?”
His head tilts again as he settles into a loose stance, ready for anything I have to throw at him.
I’m not making the effort, though. If he wants anything from me, he can come and try to take it.
My defense is my best offense, using my reflexes and decisiveness against men who are almost always bigger than me.
I could spend a lifetime in the gym, and I have, but the reality of the world is that fighting a man’s natural testosterone is an uphill battle.
The idea of exogenously boosting my own levels has tempted me in the past, but until it’s necessary for my health…
why the fuck am I thinking about menopause when Thatcher’s first jab is coming at my face?
It’s predictable, and I waste no time telling him so.
“I know for a fact,” I say as he stumbles, my parry throwing him off balance just a touch, “that he taught you not to telegraph your next moves before you make them.”
“He did, and I’m not—fuck!”
His back hits the mat, and he groans briefly before kipping himself up and pouting.
“You are. Tell him, moya sila.”
Thatcher leans in for advice from Misha, which is better than anything I could give.
I’m an expert at destroying and belittling, not rebuilding.
I can tell someone what they’re doing wrong all day long, but when it comes to teaching and helping them understand how to improve…
Well, there’s a reason Misha does all the training.
By the time he re-enters the mat, he’s a golden retriever again instead of a mopey basset hound, and it’s remarkable how quickly he’s managed to regain his swagger.
That’s a useful quality, and one that no doubt serves him well as a professional athlete.
It’s also annoying, considering that I’ve struggled to rebound from failures big and small for my entire life.
Misha calls it “eldest daughter syndrome,” when I’m being particularly moody.
“So you’re telling me my hips don’t lie?” His serviceable belly dance attempt ends with him on his back again, and my forearm against his windpipe.
“You’re focusing so much on who you think you see across the mat from you that you forget yourself.
” Something about his stupid dance has pissed me off, and I feel the reason I came in here today bubble back to the surface.
Whether it’s him treating Misha’s time and energy flippantly or something else, I snap. “Do you understand?”
I’m not compressing his windpipe, exactly, but he must wise up just in time to realize I do not want an answer to that question. He shakes his head, regarding me as the threat that I am. Good.
“I’m not sure what you’re seeing when you look at me.
I’m a woman, and that’s a fact. You’re bigger and stronger than me, although I’m undoubtedly closer to you in every metric of strength and agility than any woman you’ve ever met.
I’m your hostess, since you live in my house, and I’m your best friend’s sister.
Anything else you see when you look at me is yours alone, and I can’t control that.
But you’re joking on a training mat while we practice, and if it’s because you think for a second I couldn’t kill you right now with my bare hands and no blood spilled, you’re a damn fool. ”
He’s turning purple, and I finally release the pressure I was holding to allow him to breathe deeply again.
As I sit back and move to stand, the rock-hard cock underneath me shocks me into complete stillness.
Time freezes, and I vaguely note Misha making an excuse and clearing out with the few men who had still been in the gym.
Alright, how do I regain control of this situation? Apologize for being an asshole…eh, he kind of deserved it. Maybe I can still salvage this lesson and give him some pointers, even if teaching isn’t my forté.
“Um, sorry. I’ve had a rough day, and I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” Okay, I guess I am apologizing. What the hell…
“You can.”
“Sorry?”
Thatcher turns back around, having collected himself and tucked things securely away, based on my glance.
He doesn’t look too put out about anything, although he isn’t as bubbly as he was either.
“You can take things out on me. Besides, you were right. I wasn’t taking this seriously enough, and I know better than to goof off in a gym where people could get hurt.
But truly, when you’re having a bad day, you can take it out on me. I can handle it.”
The heavy thwomp of the air-conditioning unit kicking on saves me from having absolutely fucking no response to that. The decision I made not to pursue…whatever this is, or could be…I can’t even remember why it would be a bad idea. Teddy, distraction, danger, to-do list…
Okay, the reasons are valid. Compartmentalization it is, then.
“Still, you didn’t deserve that. I do have a lot of pent-up energy today, though, so if you’re not too tired…”
For half a second, his eyebrows threaten to wag suggestively, and I can see the restraint it takes him to keep his face neutral. Good boy.
“I can try to teach you how to fight more spontaneously. Or rather, how to make it seem spontaneous while also being calculated to stay well ahead of your opponent. I’m not as patient as Misha, and I’ve never taken pedagogy courses like he has.
But I can try to teach you some things. Maybe even some of the tricks I use to get him on his back. ”
Thatcher lights up again at the suggestion, and my laugh escapes before I can stop it this time.
“I will do literally anything necessary to learn that skill. I’ll probably only ever get one shot at it, so please have a camera ready when I try, but I promise you’ve never had as eager a student as I am.”
He repositions his headband, and my hand twitches with the urge to run my fingers through his thick hair again, even as wet with sweat as it is.
Clearly, I’m just going to have to deal with my unprofessional, horny subconscious desires when it comes to this man.
As long as I resist, I can avoid anybody getting hurt.
“I’ll try my best. Lesson One: Your Hips Have to Lie.”