Love Tap(31)

I wipe my stray tear, my heart cracking with the thought of giving up what I love, what sets me free. If it saves my family, I’ll do it though.

“I’m going to have to give up fighting, find a different passion. That means I can’t go to anymore classes with you, Camden,” I weep, looking down at my feet. Saying it, and hearing it come from my mouth hurts much more. When I was a little girl I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wanted to be a professional fighter. The idea grew in my heart and mind and I had no doubt I would reach my goal.

God is taking more than my mother away, he’s taking my life away.





Chapter Nine


Camden



When I walk inside the gym I immediately notice Tate is hitting the bag, wincing with every strike. Debs has had her on that bag the last few days, and hasn’t even corrected her stance. It’s no wonder Tate’s hurting.

Taping my hands, it eats at me that Thomas gave Tate the worst trainer and it’s my fault. I know he’s screwing Debs, but surely he knows she’s a shit trainer. Nobody wants her, not even Chase. She wants fighters who are already trained and, making it big. She’s a greedy bitch that knows nothing about MMA. If anyone doesn’t belong here, it’s her.

I’m nervous Tate may get hurt under Debs’ watch.

Flexing my hands, anger pools in my chest that I even care. I let go of Tate a long time ago, I need to keep it that way.

Stepping out of the locker room, I find Thomas and Debs sitting next to the ring. Debs has this love struck look on her face, and is completely ignoring Tate. Again.

Minding my business I climb into the ring, jumping on my feet and roll my shoulders trying to warm up.

“Camden, spar with Pinky for a bit on the mats,” Thomas instructs. Pinky is the one that drew the short straw in assisting my vigorous sparring sessions. He wears the full body shield, and lets me punch him around daily. He does a lot of sparring around the gym, and everyone loves him.

Pinky waddles into the ring with gear head to toe. He gives me a nod, and I start laying combos into him. Staying light on my feet I try to outsmart him, and hit him before he can think about blocking.

Even with all the noise in the gym, all I can hear is her. Tate. She whimpers with every punch, cursing every time the bag comes back at her. Glancing at her I find her bent over holding her wrist, her face in a state of pain.

I try to ignore it, but I keep finding myself looking back at her, worried.

“Stop!” I demand Pinky. He stills, lowering his hands. I glance at Debs, she’s oblivious to Tate’s pain. If I don’t step in, Tate is going to break her damn wrist.

Seeing red I climb through the ropes and I eye Thomas angrily. “When I told you not to train Tate, I didn’t mean find the worst coach you could find to train her,” I spit, before staring daggers into Debs.

“Excuse me!” Debs gasps, holding her chest.

Marching toward Tate, her face goes pale when she notices me coming at her.

She tries to play it cool, and hits the bag.

“Stop,” I snap. She huffs, rolling her eyes before standing straight. “You’re going to break your damn wrists if you keep at it like you are.”

“I don’t need your help.” She steps back, crossing her arms. Her pink nail polish sticks out amongst beautiful, pristine skin. Since when does Tatum Davis wear nail polish?

“That might be so, but between your pink nail polish and that bitch face you keep wearing, nobody wants to tell princess almighty she’s not doing it right. So, that leaves me.”

Her jaw drops, her eyes frantically looking anywhere but at me.

Exhaling an annoyed breath, I step forward and grab her shoulders to position her. Warmth spreads through my palms from the contact, the fire licking up my arms and exploding in my chest. And just like that, years of telling myself I hated and was going to forget Tatum Davis… vanish. All the anger replaced with flashbacks of us together as kids.

Her eyes widen as if she felt it too and quickly I let go. My heart beating wildly as I try and shake out the memories of her.

“Um,” I stumble on my words. “Keep your fists closer to your chest. When you go to strike, twist your hand to where the top of your fist is horizontal,” I school, as I demonstrate. Her brows furrow as she watches me strike the bag.

“Got it?” She blinks a few times, as if she’s trying to focus.

Stepping back, I gesture toward the bag. “Hit it.” She eyes me warily, like she’s embarrassed to do it in front of me. “Do it,” I reaffirm, raising an eyebrow.

Getting into position, she gives it a punch, and her body sways inward.

What the hell? Did she move to LA and forget everything she knew?

“Wait, why are you leaning in like that?” Grasping her shoulders, she takes a quick breath. The subtle sound hitting me right in the cock. Images of her under me when we were teenagers flash in my mind and I have to let go of her.

Anger pulses through me, breaking through my concern for her. I want to hate her, why can’t I just stick to my guns and be an *!

“Just keep your spine straight,” I demand, my tone hard. Pissed at myself for giving a shit.

She nods, and hits the bag again. Her body stays straight, and her hit is more powerful and direct than before. She really is a great boxer.

“Good. Try that.” I can’t help the praise leaking through my tone.