Brawl (13 page)

“I don’t give a fuck what it was. I’m not getting in the middle of your lover’s tiff. While you’re here, you two keep your hands to yourself and concentrate on training. I expect complete professionalism.” He shoves a heap of paperwork into my hands, then turns and walks off in the direction of the main training floor, throwing his parting comment over his shoulder at me. “Fill that out, leave it on my desk, then meet me in the second ring.”

“I’m sorry.” Nate touches my shoulder when he walks past. I jerk out of his reach.

“Just fuck off.”

Spreading the dozens of sheets of paper out on one of the benches, I ignore him until he gives up and walks out of the locker room.
Honest-to-God, how hard is it to get the message through his thick head?
I’m not interested in him in any way, shape, or form. If he keeps laying hands on me, I’m going to lose it which will make working together a hell of a lot tenser than it already is.

Finally finishing the paperwork, I shuffle it together into a neat pile and put it on his desk like he commanded. Bracing myself for another altercation with Hooligan, I make my way to the second ring and wait at the side while he finishes with Nate. I can feel vibes of unwelcome emanating from him as he studiously ignores me and concentrates on putting his nephew through his paces.

Dragging one of the bleachers over to the side of the ring, I make myself comfortable—well pretend to, at least. I want this.
I need this.
For my family and for my own sanity. Ever since Amy suggested it, it’s all I’ve been able to think about. I refuse to let a man who’s decided that he dislikes me for no clear reason scare me off.

My subconscious seems determined to hold me to account since it cuts into my internal monologue to remind me that there are other gyms...other trainers. Intent on wallowing, I push that thought down, as well as the idea that I’m here mainly to push Hooligan’s buttons and less out of the desire to have him coach me.

After a few minutes, the other guy’s in the gym drift over and introduce themselves. With each handshake, I feel my tightly wound body relaxing a little more. Maybe Hooligan is the only one with the “girl fighter’s suck” philosophy. Everyone else seems to be a lot nicer than he is.

“Good. Good.” Hooligan praises Nate before calling an end to their session. “Go cool down and then you can go.”  

Nate exits between two of the ropes that surround the ring and jogs over to the locker room. Hooligan turns in my direction for the first time since I sat down, and makes a noticeable double-take when he sees the five men who are sitting with me, having abandoned their workouts.

“Okay.” He claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “I’m closing early tonight. I want to test Gabbi’s skills without an
adoring audience
.”

My heart sinks at the emphasis he puts on his last words. Just fucking great, now he thinks I’m flirting with the rest of his members. The men nod their “goodnights” to the pair of us as they shuffle past on their way to grab their stuff. Hooligan grunts at them when they make eye contact with him, his disapproval palpable. I stay sitting, taking in the spectacle in front of me. With my lips pursed and shaking my head periodically, I watch these huge men wordlessly accept his rudeness.

It’s little wonder why he feels he’s within his rights to judge me on sight.
The man thinks he’s God.

Biding my time before I engage with the grumpy man in front of me, I take my time putting my left glove on. With increasing awkwardness, I’m attempting to close the Velcro on my right glove when Hooligan jumps out of the ring and lands lightly on his feet in front of me. He yanks my hand toward him and pulls the Velcro tight around my wrist. I draw in two big gulps of air and chance a look at him. His bright green eyes meet mine, a sardonic smirk growing on his face as he matches my assessment of him with one of his own.

“Get in the ring. I want to see your mount techniques.”

He picks up a practice dummy and tosses it into the ring. It sails through the air as if it weighs nothing, landing with a thud that leaves the platform shaking. And being the professional that I am, I don’t take the opportunity to appreciate the rippling of the muscles in his torso and arms as he completes the throw.

Nope, I definitely do not.

My feet move to obey his command, until I realize that he’s too close for me to stand without touching him. Knees locked, my ass hovers two inches from the bleacher while I wait for him to take a step back. He doesn’t.

Hooligan looks down at me with one eyebrow lifted. “What part of that didn’t you understand?”

“None of it.” I retort, pushing to my feet and pressing my chest against his once I’m standing. “I just assumed that you’d get out of my way so I could stand. You know, being the
professional
that you are.”

Sliding my chest across his, I take a step to the left, and then push past him on my way to the ring. The harsh intake of breath he takes puts a broad grin on my face. I’m not sure what he was hoping to achieve with that display but I’m assuming it just backfired on him. He’s also given credence to Amy’s suggestion that he is attracted to me and is trying to fight it. 

Taking a full mount position as I straddle the dummy, I look over my shoulder to see if he’s going to join me in the ring. He’s still standing in the same position he was when I stood.

“How do you want me to start?”

My question snaps him out of his stupor and he vaults over the ropes into the ring. Standing next to me, he straightens my shoulders and then boxes my abdomen with his hands. With one warm hand on my stomach and the other on my lower back, he pushes until I sit up straighter. An involuntary shudder runs through me; one that neither of us acknowledges.

“Show me your arm locks, then I want to see your side mounts and guard positions. Keep your abs locked tight and your back strong. I can already see that we’re going to need to work on your core strength.”

Nodding at his instructions, I inwardly chide myself for the reaction to his touch that’s currently coursing through my lower belly, setting my pulsing clit on fire.
Come on, Gabbi.
He’s going to need to put his hands on you to train you. Reacting like a bitch in heat each time he touches you is not smart...or professional.

Hooligan takes his hands off me, even though my body doesn’t immediately register their absence. It feels as if he’s branded me.

“Get a move on. We don’t have all night.”

His taut admonishment is enough to pull me from my growing lust. It reminds me that, despite his gorgeous body and handsome face, he’s actually a rude asshole.

I follow his directives to a T, putting my all into each move. Keeping my posture correct, I’m certain that I’m giving him a good demonstration of my skill set. My former sensei always said that I had a natural talent for martial arts and the hunger needed to use them in combat. I would’ve continued pursuing my belts if my home life hadn’t imploded and left me with an eight-year-old to take care of. 

“No. No. No.” Hooligan’s cranky voice cuts into my thoughts. I realize that I let myself get lost in my head and dropped my game.

Shit. I was doing so well.

“Here,” he demands as he drops to his back on the mat next to me and motions me toward him. “I want a full mount then an arm bar.”

I crawl off the dummy and over to Hooligan. It takes two seconds to make my way to him yet it feels like an eternity. My mind is screaming with anticipation the entire time. He wants me to straddle him in a full mount and then try to submit him. That’s all well and good, and a perfectly acceptable part of training, except for the disconcerting fact that my body would much prefer that I pulled his cock from his shorts and straddled him in my version of a “full mount”.

Fucking hell, Gabriella Catherine Mitchell.
Get a fucking grip, you whore.
He's your coach, not a piece of meat.

“Hurry up.”

His asshole tone pulls me from my deluded thoughts of taking his cock inside me, my desire dampening at the reminder that the reality of the man is much sexier when his mouth is shut. I close the distance between us and assume the mounted position he wants. 

“All right. Let’s do this.”

For the next ten minutes, my full attention is devoted to my attempts at submitting him. He’s strong; stronger than anyone I’ve encountered before and he’s not taking it easy on me because I’m a girl. My initial tentativeness is lost as I focus on my techniques and my competitive spirit grows. After a while he is no longer a man I find attractive, he morphs into my enemy, the one thing standing between me and winning.

Frustration begins to grip me. I can’t get a decent hold on him, let alone find the leverage needed to swing my legs sideways over his torso so I can use the pressure of my hips to take control of his arm. My single-minded intent is slipping, being replaced with negativity. He’s impossible to beat.

Letting my pessimism win, I flop on my back on the mat with Hooligan on top me.

“I give up.”

He either doesn’t hear me or he doesn’t think I’m serious because he shimmies his way up my body and straddles my hips in the full mount position. Pushing my hands above my head, he jerks to a stop and stares down at me with confusion clouding his eyes. Our chests are heaving from exertion, sweat’s running over both of our bodies, and I imagine that my face is as flushed as his.

“Why have you stopped? Did I hurt you?”

Shaking my head, I sink against the mat and wish it would swallow me. Giving up is not acceptable in martial arts, especially before your coach calls time.

“Then what’s wrong?”

I’m aware of how petulant I sound; there’s just nothing I can do about it. “You’re too strong. I can’t submit you.”

He throws his head back and howls with laughter. His body is shaking above mine, his amusement bouncing off the walls of the gym, and my mortification is complete.

I push against his hands with mine, and turn my hips to the side. My movements bring his attention back to me, his head dropping back into its normal position. His gaze runs over my face, concern replacing his earlier mirth.

“You’re crying.”

I shake my head, denying it even though I am. It’s an annoying habit of mine. I always burst into tears when I’m angry or embarrassed. The only time I don’t cry is when I probably should—when I’m hurt or upset.

“Yes, you are.” Hooligan lets go of my hands and runs his thumb under my eye. He pulls it away from my face and inspects the visible wetness my tears have left.

Trying to brazen my way out of the situation, I give him a small smile.

“Don’t worry about it. I do it all the time.”

He doesn’t acknowledge my excuses, appearing lost in his own world. Running his thumb over the curve of my bottom lip, he dips his head lower and sucks the wetness from the tip of his finger. His green gaze settles on mine; eyes shining with need and something that looks almost like regret. My breath catches in my throat, the desire in his expression stealing my oxygen, and I become
very aware
of our positions.

The lust that had died down during our wrestling returns with vengeance. My heart pounds in my chest, and my breast begin to feel heavy as my nipples furl into tight buds. My core throbs, and my belly feels like it’s full of a warm, swirling lava-like substance. The exact spot where our bodies meet sparks to life, burning me as my mind focuses on it with laser precision.

Squirming underneath him, I attempt to put some distance between us. It’s bad enough that I’ve cried in front of him. The last thing I need is for him to realize how attracted to him I am. Amy’s suggestion of flirting with him and letting him see the real Gabbi is frightening when it looks like it might actually happen.

I guess I’m not as brave and tough as I think I am. Meeting someone at a club and fucking them in the parking lot is infinitely less confronting than dealing with the feelings gripping my body and mind right now.

Using my elbows, I push my upper body up at the same time that Hooligan’s head lowers. Maybe it was by design, maybe it was a conscious decision on both our parts, but our movements cause our lips to meet. A definitive pause occurs with our mouths still pressed together before I let my shoulders drop back down to the mat and wrap my arms around the back of his neck.

Bringing him with me, I thread my fingers through his hair and open my mouth to allow his prodding tongue the entrance to my mouth that it’s seeking. Meeting his tongue with mine; they battle, dancing together in sensuous combat as our lips move against each other’s. Hooligan moves his lower body until he’s no longer straddling me, instead he’s lying against me. His cock is stiff; I feel it hardening and lengthening against my belly.

With a nudge of his hips, I heed his request, opening my legs and letting him move between them. He comes willingly, making his intent known when he grinds his hardness against my core. The throb that results in my pussy from his gyrations is scintillating and sends my desire spiraling. We stay like this for God knows how long; kissing, moving against each other, running our hands over every inch of heated flesh we can reach.

I throw my head back when Hooligan moves to nibble on my neck, groaning my pleasure when he nips the sensitive skin.

“Hooligan,” I moan, pushing myself against him.

That single, solitary, passion-filled word breaks the spell. He falls still against me, then clamors off me and to his feet a moment later. Running his hands through his hair, he stares down at me. Need. Desire. Regret. Sorrow. I watch them cross his features in a blinding instant before disgust settles in his expression.

“Fuck.” Hooligan curses, stomping his way to the edge of the ring. He turns back to look at me. I’m lying on the mat, lost in a tumult of sensation, and bewildered by his reaction. My confusion is answered when he grinds out the following words.

“Get out of my gym, little girl. Go the fuck home.”

Without another glance in my direction, he vaults the ropes, landing on the floor with a loud smack, then strides away from me as if a specter of the devil is nipping at his heels.