I’ve seen the look countless times from other women, but not from Mac. Her lips part in appreciation, her pupils expand, and I hear her small uneven breath. When her gaze turns to me, her eyes widen and trail down my bare chest. She’d made it clear she didn’t want to be found. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen that beautiful face. Emotions flood through me like a tsunami. The fucking air in my lungs leaves me in a rush. People talk about things knocking the breath out of you, and that’s exactly what seeing Mackenzie Brooks does. I pull off my gloves and unwrap the bandages from my knuckles, then walk to the front, ready to give her an earful.
After giving her one hell of a ride, the chick had gone loco, stalking the gym, and calling my cell at all hours. If it’s the redhead from last Tuesday, I’m going to lose my shit. My girls know not to disturb me at my gym. What is it? I shout over the sound of fists smacking against leather and flesh.
There’s just something wrong about a six-foot-four, tatted MMA fighter wearing granny hair. Moody pops his head around the corner, his long hair pulled back in what chicks are calling a man-bun. Plans that don’t involve having my teeth rearranged every couple of months. Most men my age are just starting their career in the octagon, but I’ve got bigger plans. It’s a possibility I’ve been mulling over. I’ve got enough in savings to keep the place running, even if I decide to retire after my next match. Cost me a pretty penny, but it’s not like I’m hurting for cash. An exact replica of the one in the MGM Grand. Sweat drips from my hair onto the new cage floor I just installed.
It’s not my fault he won’t keep his eyes up. My trainer, Evan, jumps into the ring and crouches over the bloody bastard lying unconscious on the mat. My fist grinds into my opponent’s nose with a sickening crunch and the man falls, eyes rolling back in his head.
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