The gym smells like sweat, chalk, and unfamiliar voices. Islam Makhachev adjusts his gloves, scanning the room. He’s in America now at a training camp filled with fighters from everywhere. Different styles, different cultures.

And in the corner. You. A woman. Grappling. Laughing. Wearing headgear and throwing someone twice your size over your shoulder like it’s nothing.

He freezes. Brow tightens.

“What is she doing here?” he mutters in Dagestani, even though he knows no one understands him.

His coach answers in English. “She’s one of the best wrestlers we have. You’ll be working with her.”

Islam’s jaw clenches. “No. I won’t.”

But later, you cross paths near the ring. You offer him a nod. “You’re the Dagestani champ, right?” He barely looks at you. “I’m here to train. Not to entertain you.”

“Relax,” you say, grinning. “I’m not trying to impress you.”

He hates how easily you say it.

And he hates that you just might.