Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3)(22)
Kara debated. Watching up to now had been difficult, but not impossible. She enjoyed teaching yoga to the young Marines, and had found real satisfaction in working with a bunch of testosterone-driven athletes who had initially scorned the practice and now gladly joined her sessions. But watching Graham get punched . . . her heart clenched a little at the thought. “I’m not sure I can stay, Zach. It’s getting late, too.”
“It would mean a lot to him.” That had her blinking and looking back down at her son. “Graham told me he wanted me to see the match. He’s good, too. I mean, I heard . . .” he muttered when her eyes narrowed. He broke eye contact and then sat up straight, staring across the gym.
She followed his eye line and found Graham entering the gym from the locker rooms, looking . . . different. There was no other word for it. Purely male, dominant, aggressive, a little mean.
If this had been the Graham from the other night, she never would have crawled in his lap for a kiss. He would have forced her on her back and taken it without asking, and damn the consequence.
The realization that he had this in him, this domineering, alpha aggressiveness built into his person, and tempered it enough to make her comfortable, to let her lead . . .
She shivered, and Zach gave her a peculiar look. “You can’t be cold, Mom. It’s like, a hundred degrees in here.”
“Just a tickle. We can stay.” That had her son’s eyes lighting up. He had a bad case of hero worship all right.
Graham stepped into the ring, looking a little silly in silky shorts and shoes that looked soft enough to bend laced up to his ankles. His hands were encased in the thick boxing gloves, and in his mouth was a black mouth guard that should have looked ridiculous but only turned his face from a handsome work of art into a menacing gargoyle, uniquely beautiful in its ferocity. She shivered again, then leaned forward, elbows on her knees, to watch.
He met the referee in the middle, alongside his opponent, listened for a moment, nodded, then touched gloves carefully with the man he would be attempting to punch in the face in another minute. They both grimaced at each other, but she assumed it was more of a friendly grin, hampered by mouth guards.
Competitive sports had never made a lot of sense to Kara.
They separated, and Kara took the moment to soak in the sight of Graham’s body before it would be pummeled. His skin was bronzed evenly, unlike many of the Marines before him with their cute, comical farmer’s tans. His back faced her, and she could appreciate how the silk bottoms cupped and molded his very fine ass with each step, riding up as he did a few toe jumps to show impressively muscled thighs. As his arms stretched in front of him for a few practice punches, the muscles of his back moved and morphed in a way that had her salivating.
Probably not just her, either. A woman would have to be both blind and in a coma to not sense the presence of the very hot, very alpha, very desirable male in the ring. His maleness was just . . . overwhelming, really.
The sound of the bell made her shriek a little, and her hand flew over her mouth. Several people turned to give her odd stares, and a few evil eyes. Zach scooted a few inches away, as if he was embarrassed to be seen sitting next to the crazy shrieking lady.
Unlike several others, Graham didn’t come from the corner swinging. He edged in, watching his opponent, circling with him, hands up. The first few punches all came from the other man, and Graham dodged them easily, without swinging back. His eyes were fierce, his dark brows furrowed in concentration. How the other Marine didn’t collapse with fear beneath that intense gaze was beyond Kara.
The other man swung again, and this time Graham retaliated, throwing several punches in some amazing choreographed sequence that seemed to flow without thought through his arms. The other man’s head snapped back, then to the right, then back again as he stumbled a few feet and hit the ropes. Graham then backed off, when she thought he’d pounce.
When the Marine came out swinging from the rope, Graham took one to the chin, and smiled. He actually smiled, though it was a sort of scary, threatening smile that had Kara wanting to look away.
His opponent landed another punch, and Kara covered her eyes with both hands. No more. No more of this. She couldn’t watch him get kicked around. And the worst part was, he was allowing it happen. Even without understanding the sport as a whole, she could tell he was simply playing around, letting the other man get in a few shots of his own. He could stop it, and chose not to.
“Mom, what are you doing? You’re missing all the good stuff!”
She resisted Zach’s tugging on her arm, even after the bell ending round one rang out. “Just watch, and if anything looks too violent, close your eyes. Honor system.”
Zach snorted, which she took to mean, Yeah, okay sure, whatever you say. Except the sarcastic version.
“He’s letting the other guy get him,” Zach said quietly, as if puzzling it out himself. “You can tell, he’s dropping his guard a little sometimes.”
“How do you even know what . . . never mind.” The more she talked, the more she was tempted to look up again. And the bell rang for round two, leaving Zach preoccupied and her wanting to crawl in a hole until it was over.
How did Marianne and Reagan do this every day? How did they listen to the boxing gloves hitting flesh, the grunts and groans and the blood, and not go home with scars on their hearts? She’d cry daily if she had to witness such a violent sport on repeat.