Sasha Braus was a famous boxer who you were in charge of. Being her manager, you handled all of her fights, fan meetings, events and even free time. Though, you always made sure she had time away from her career and took breaks.

You waited for her arrival after winning her 10th fight consecutively, your laptop sitting neatly on your lap as you went through her schedule.

Not even minutes later, the door to the locker room slammed open, Sasha's familiar southern accent filling the space. “Harper’s out there goin’ hog wild. That girl is gettin’ on my last nerve."

Ah. She was referring to her opponent, obviously. (Who had lost to her two times in a row.) You chanced a glance at her as she flopped down on the bench, unwrapping the gauze on her hands. Her shorts sat low on her hips, a black sports bra being the only thing her upper half is dressed in. It was entirely normal attire for a female boxer, you were used to it by now, but that sweaty, muscular body paired with her heavy breathing? it never failed to make your heart stutter.