Craving The Player (Amateurs In Love Book 1)(63)
Keeping my eyes from drifting to where I know Sierra stands watching is a new form of torture. No distractions, Braden. Forget she's there. The reminder has me shaking my head as if the simple movement would somehow do what I've been unable to do for weeks now.
My dad has moved to the crowd now, and I spot him holding my mouthguard from between the ropes. I slip off one of my gloves and pop in the guard, gnawing on the silicone out of habit. It’s always driven my dad crazy, but fear of pissing off the old bastard has never stopped me from doing anything.
I slip mine back on before tapping them against Jesse’s extended ones. Taking a step back, I raise my arms to protect my chest seconds before the round begins and Jesse throws the first punch.
As the hot, thick air starts to fill my burning lungs once again, I let my arm hang from the hand of the referee in celebration of my hard-earned win. It only took six rounds for Jesse to give up a win that he was never going to get, but it was a hard, exhausting six rounds. I’ll be sore tomorrow for sure.
I know that Dad's waiting outside the ring—having seen him take off in that direction as soon as I claimed victory—ready to collect my exhausted body in case I drop dead any minute. Which, if it happens, I wouldn't be surprised.
Jesse deserved way more credit than we gave him. He was faster than I expected for being so massive, more domineering, too. But sloppy with his tells, like a rookie. Like Clayton. That’s what cost him the round, not my speed or experienced throws.
As soon as my arm flops back against my side, I carry myself to the edge of the ring and let Dad help me through the ropes and back to the locker room.
"I hate you," I hiss when he doesn’t make enough room for both of us to fit side by side through the entrance. My side bumps the door handle and I wince, gnashing my teeth. The locker room has never looked more inviting as I fall onto the wooden bench and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ignore the throbbing coming from the left side of my face.
"You didn't strike first," Dad points out, shrugging and sits down beside me with a large medical kit. I have no clue when he went and got that, but I don't give a rat's ass as long as it helps with this fucking pain.
"Oh fuck off, you old shit."
"That was insane!" A shrill voice bouncing off the walls only deepens the throb in my forehead as I throw my hands over my ears.
"Your eyebrow!" Sierra gasps, pushing her way past an exhilarated Sophie to crouch in front of me, concern swimming in her silver eyes. Suddenly the only touch I feel is hers as she drags her thumb above what I can only assume is a decently split brow. My eyes close at the gentle touch as the throb becomes a thing of the past.
"How bad do I look?" I grit out, flinching at the sting in my bottom lip as I speak.
"You've definitely looked better," she replies lightly, her beautiful face all scrunched up with concern. I want to reach out and grab onto her, but her fingertips leave my face before I can, and I’m left with a raw feeling of disappointment.
Opening my eyes again, I see her knelt down on the floor, getting ready to take over my father’s task of cleaning my wounds. It’s then that I realize we’re alone, everyone having taken off.
"I scared them off, eh?" I mumble, watching her with an intensity that I’m sure she feels in her gut. She scrunches her lips to the side as she focuses on what she’ll need to use to clean me up.
After a few silent seconds, a wet towel is pressed to my brow, bringing a burning sensation with it. There’s an unguarded sense of worry on her face, and I would be lying if I said it didn’t fill me with pleasure to have her want to fix me up. I want to bottle up the look in her eyes and keep it for a bad day.
"Your concern is adorable, baby. But I always thought our first time roleplaying nurse and patient would involve a bed, not a wooden bench."
She replies by pressing down way harder than necessary on the cut, laughing lightly when my features twist in pain.
"Hey, hey. Take it easy. I'm wounded." I grin, ignoring my sore lip and reach up to wrap my fingers around her small, dainty wrist. Her skin is warm and soft and I want nothing more than to go home and feel every inch of it pressed against mine. "I'm just teasing, my little fighter. I really do appreciate your help."
She seems pleased with my more sincere words as she pulls the cloth away from my face and nods. "You shouldn't need stitches, but I'm guessing you already knew that."
I did, but it’s adorable that she still felt the need to tell me. "You know what I do need, though?"
She cocks a brow, entertaining the question.
"A celebratory kiss. I did win for you, after all."
Sierra rolls her eyes, only making me inch closer to her, not buying the uninterested facade. I slowly grab the wet fabric from between her fingers and set it down beside me. Her cheeks darken, eyes wandering off behind me.
"Shy doesn't suit you, gorgeous," I mumble, gently pulling her attention back to me. My fingers itch to touch her warm cheeks, to run them down the soft skin that her long lashes flutter against like the wings of a butterfly.
I watch as she rolls her lips, almost as if the voice in her head is telling her the same thing as mine. Calm the fuck down. It’s an impossible task on most days, but as I fall from a boxing induced adrenaline high with Sierra knelt in front of me, her concentration so focused on fixing me up and making sure that I’m okay, impossible has taken on a whole new meaning.