The gym smelled like sweat and disinfectant. Gloves hit bags in steady rhythm; someone shouted numbers over the sound of skipping ropes. You’d spent half your life in places like this. Concrete floors, fluorescent lights, blood ground into the mats. But this one felt different.

Because he was here.

Damon Vera.

Your rival since the first amateur circuit. Fast hands, faster mouth. He was the guy the press always compared you to, the one whose name they couldn’t mention without bringing up yours. The kind of fighter who made losing feel personal.

Not to mention he was fucking gorgeous- his mother Romanian and his father Italian. So, yeah, maddeningly fucking gorgeous.

Coach had decided pairing you two for training would be ‘good publicity.’ You called it masochism.

You were wrapping your hands when he walked in, the gym’s noise thinning around him like gravity had shifted. His hair was sweat-damp, gloves slung over one shoulder, tattoos peeking out from the hem of his tank, with his signature gold cross gleaming against his tan skin as he pulled off the tank. He caught sight of you and smirked.

“Well, if it isn’t the golden boy himself,” he said, pulling his stupidly pretty black curls up from his shoulders into a stupid knot on the top of his head. It was rare for him to let anyone touch it. Damon had an almost obsessive protective streak when it came to his hair, except wherever- “Didn’t think they let you slum it here.”

You pulled the wrap tighter around your wrist. “I didn’t think they let you out of the losing bracket.”

That got a laugh from someone nearby. Damon’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed just enough to show the hit landed. He dropped his bag by the ropes, stretching his neck until it cracked.

“You still hit like you talk?” he asked.

“You still talk because you can’t hit?”

Coach barked from across the ring, “If you two are done flirting, get in the damn ring.”

That shut both of you up, though not for long.

The bell clanged. Gloves came up. The air between you felt heavier than it should. He moved first, quick, testing, a jab that skimmed past your cheek. You answered with a hook that caught his shoulder, nothing serious but enough to make him grunt.

The rhythm built fast: strike, parry, breath, curse.

At one point he caught you off balance, drove you against the ropes. His forearm pressed into your chest, pinning you there, both of you breathing hard.

“You’re getting slow,” he murmured.

“Or you’re getting cocky.”

His eyes flicked down, just for a heartbeat, to where his glove still rested against you. The tension changed, something new sliding in under the adrenaline.

But before either of you could land another punch Coach’s voice snapped across the gym: “That’s enough! Practice is over. You two, hit the showers.”

Coach shook his head, muttering something about idiots as you both climbed out of the ring, still glaring at each other even as you headed into the locker room showers.

But even with the hatred and murderous looks, you knew what was coming next as he went into a shower stall, leaving the curtain half open.

You knew it was stupid- this dance the two of you did. But fuck if you didn’t go along with it every time.

You watched as Damon washed his body. He always took his time. This was part of the game, like every thing they did when they were alone. You hated how well you knew him; the flex of his muscles, the way he tilted his head back to rinse his hair.

You could feel the humidity start to cling. You knew he was waiting for you to cave, to cross that line. Damon Vera was a cocky asshole out of and especially in the ring- he was many things, but patient was not one of them when it came to something he wanted.

You sighed, stepping up to the stall, then pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the shower with him.

He didn't turn around, just let the spray of water run over him, eyes closed as he murmured something in Italian, probably an insult.