Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3)(23)
When the third round’s bell rang, there was a blessed moment of relief from both the crowd’s noise and the sound of the male aggression while the winner was tallied.
Peeking from between her fingers, she found Graham kneeling in his corner, swishing water in his mouth before—ick—spitting it into a bucket held up by Coach Cartwright.
After conferring for a moment with the judges—three men who sat at a folding table off to the side—the referee called both men back to the center, paused for a moment, then lifted Graham’s still-gloved hand in the air victoriously.
Well, of course he won, Kara thought as she surged to her feet and clapped like a wild woman. Of course. There was never a doubt in her mind
Except when she’d covered her face for two out of three rounds.
Zach hopped onto the bleacher beside her and screamed out loud, waving his arm and jumping so much her shoulder felt like it was going to fall off when he grabbed onto her for balance.
“Zach, there’s no way he can see you. Stop, or you’ll fall!”
The jumping ceased, but the yelling and waving didn’t. Kara rolled her eyes, but then when she looked back at the ring, she found herself looking directly into Graham’s eyes. Against the odds, he’d found her in the crowd, and was staring intently at her, as if she were his next opponent. And he wouldn’t go so easy on her.
Except the battle wouldn’t be a violent one. Graham’s war would be a sexual one. A fight of the body and heart.
At this point, Kara figured her odds of winning the battle were about as high as Graham’s boxing opponent’s.
That was to say, nil.
CHAPTER
7
Graham sank down on the bench in the locker room, letting Brad and Greg yank off his gloves and unwrap the tape from his knuckles and wrists. “Anything besides water around here?”
“What, like a flask? Save it for after the match,” Greg suggested.
“I mean like a sports drink, you idiot,” he growled.
“Water,” Brad encouraged, grabbing a bottle from the table against the wall and plunking it down on the bench beside him. “Fill ’er up. It’s best right now. You can grab something later, after you’ve rehydrated.”
“Sweating bullets thanks to the shitty A/C in this place.” He settled against the locker and wiped a hand over his brow. “It’s affecting my sense of smell, too. Everything smells like something burning.”
Greg looked at Brad, and he could sense they were silently wondering if he’d gotten hit in the head more than normal. When Brad leaned down to inspect his pupils, he shoved at his friend’s shoulder. “Get out of my face. If anyone’s giving me a checkup, it’s gonna be your hot girlfriend.”
Brad kicked him in the calf. “The *’s fine.”
“No, I think smelling burning stuff is a sign of a concussion.” Looking uncommonly serious, Greg looked toward the door that led to the outer gym. “I’m not trying to be an ass, but if you’re smelling something burning, I’m worried.”
“You guys don’t smell it? I thought it was the A/C working overboard to keep up with the number of bodies in there.” Two of which had been Kara and Zach. Spotting them in the crowd had made the moment of victory a thousand times sweeter. Though Kara had appeared a bit pale, Zach looked like he’d never been happier. That she’d given him the chance to come watch, even when he should have been grounded, made Graham’s day.
“Actually, I sort of smell it now, too.” Sitting up straighter, Brad scrunched his brown and turned a full circle on the bench. “It smells . . . okay, yeah, he’s not concussed. Something smells like it’s burning. Coming from the vent?”
Greg shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t smell anything.”
“Maybe we should call maintenance. Something might have blown a fuse, or some motor burned out in the HVAC.” Graham stood, shaking his legs out a little. “I’m gonna get dressed, watch the last match and then head straight home. I need some—No.” He froze as the odor grew stronger. “It’s in here. Start looking in lockers.”
They didn’t question him, only began flinging lockers open. Graham started in the back corner, where the smell of something burning was the strongest, though still not overpowering.
“Found it—Jesus H. Who does this shit?” Brad stood back as he opened a locker and thin, white smoke billowed out. There, at the bottom of the locker, sat a candle, flame flickering. The hem of a t-shirt hanging on a hook, dangling over the open flame, smoked, but there was no active fire yet. A pair of workout shorts dangled from the other hook, high enough that it wasn’t in danger. Yet. From the look of it, the clothes were too damp with sweat to make a fire likely, for now. Brad grabbed the damp T-shirt from the hook and tossed it to the tiled floor, stomping on it a little just to be sure there was no live flame. Greg reached around him and blew out the candle.
They all stared into the locker, watching the swinging shorts and the black smoke tendril coming off the charred, extinguished wick.
“Whose locker is this? What * lights a f*cking candle in their locker and then just shuts it? God.” Greg ran a hand through his hair, which really needed a trim if he wanted to be within uniform regs. “How stupid could someone be?”