Chapter 2: Rising Action
The bar had closed three hours ago, but Lacey hadn't slept. She'd sat in her apartment with the TV off, replaying Mackenzie's hips in her head, the way Ryan had begged, the way he'd nodded at the end like he'd signed something. She showered twice and still felt dirty.
At nine the next morning she walked into the booking office with her contract already filled out, the rematch clause highlighted, her name printed in block letters at the top. The clerk behind the counter, a kid with a nose ring and tired eyes, looked up and started to say something.
The door slammed open.
Mackenzie swept in still wearing her grin from last night, hair damp and pulled back, a paper cup of coffee in one hand and a folded contract in the other. She looked like she'd just run a mile and liked it.
"Oh, shit," she said, bright and delighted. "You're here early. Trying to get ahead of me, Lace?"
"I'm here to book my match."
Mackenzie walked up to the counter and slapped her contract down next to Lacey's. "Funny. So am I."
The clerk cleared his throat. "Ladies, there's only one slot open for the weekend."
"Then I'll take it," Lacey said.
"You'll take it?" Mackenzie turned, all innocence. "Sweetheart, I'm the one who just rode that boy like a rental car. I earned the right of refusal."
"You handed him his ass in front of everyone and he still left the ring looking at me." Lacey didn't raise her voice. She kept it flat. "You had him. You used him up and he still looked past you."
Mackenzie's grin didn't drop, but something in her eyes hardened. "He looked past you all night. He was looking at me, Lace. My tits, my cunt, my hand on his cock. You think he went home thinking about you?"
"I think he went home thinking about what happened to him," Lacey said. "And he's coming back to finish the job."
"Finish what? You weren't in the ring, baby. You were at the bar watching me take him apart."
The clerk raised both hands. "I can't book two matches. I need a decision."
Mackenzie ignored him. She stepped closer to Lacey, close enough that Lacey could smell her perfume, something sweet and expensive that Lacey instantly hated.
"Feel him," Mackenzie murmured. "He was thick, Lace. He had that fireman's body under all that costume, and he came like a boy who'd never been touched. Made this sound when I sank down on him. You've heard it. I know you've heard the recordings."
"I heard you begging him to pin you."
"I heard him begging me to fuck him."
Lacey's hand moved before she thought about it. She shoved Mackenzie's shoulder, hard enough to rock her back a step. The coffee cup went spinning, hit the floor, burst open in a brown splash.
"Whoa," the clerk said.
Mackenzie looked down at her ruined sneakers. Then she laughed, low and real.
"That's the Lacey I remember," she said. "Fucking finally."
The door swung open again, letting in a gust of morning air and a girl who bounced through it like she'd been launched. She was small, maybe twenty, with a high ponytail and a shiny pink tracksuit, and she had a bright, unbothered smile that cut straight through the tension.
"Morning, everybody!" she chirped, already beaming at the clerk.
Nobody answered. The clerk looked from Lacey to Mackenzie to the coffee spreading across the floor, and said nothing.
"Oh my god, is it still booking time? Please tell me it's still booking time." She hopped up to the counter, dug a folded piece of paper out of her pocket, and smoothed it flat. "I need the next slot for Ryan Thompson. I already filled out the form and everything."
The room went still.
"Ryan Thompson," the girl repeated, and her voice went dreamy and soft, like she was tasting the name. "I saw him last night. Did you see him? He looked so strong. He looked like he was having so much fun."
Lacey turned her head slowly. "You want to wrestle Ryan."
The girl's eyes went wide and bright. "Are you kidding? Since I saw him in that fireman costume I haven't been able to think about anything else. He's so determined. And his arms were incredible. Do you know what time he trains? I was thinking maybe I could match his schedule so we can see each other more."
Mackenzie let out a breath that was halfway to a laugh, and abandoned her ruined coffee. She hoisted herself onto the counter like she owned it.
"Sweetheart, he's booked."
"No he's not." The girl flipped her form, showing a neat grid of checkboxes. "I asked around online. He hasn't signed anything for the weekend."
Lacey's mouth opened, and Mackenzie cut in.
"I've got a rematch clause. I was just handing it in."
"So do I." Lacey snatched her own contract off the counter and shook it at the clerk. "I filed first."
The girl looked between them, finally catching on, and her smile dimmed for exactly half a second before it came back twice as bright.
"Oh," she said. "Oh, I get it. You both want him. That's so sweet." She patted her form. "But it's not like you can both have him. So I'll take the slot, and maybe whoever wins gets to watch me with him. Or join, if she wants."
The clerk cleared his throat. "I can't book three people, and I can't book two matches on the same night. Lacey filed first. Mackenzie filed second."
"You can book a triple threat," the girl said, as if she'd done this before.
"Absolutely not," Mackenzie said, sliding off the counter. "He's not a prize to be shared. He's a contract."
"He's a person," the girl said, her smile going a little sharp at the edges. "And I saw him first. Like, I saw him, you know? Not just as another body to take apart."
Lacey laughed, short and flat. "You saw him for one match."
"I saw him for one match and I knew." The girl's voice dropped, losing its chirp. "I knew he was mine."
Mackenzie stared at her for a long moment, then turned to Lacey. "Did you hear that? She thinks she has claim."
"I heard it," Lacey said. "She's wrong."
"You're both wrong."
"Nobody's wrong," the clerk cut in, "because nobody's booking anything until someone tells me who's actually registered. That's policy." He held up his hands. "Lacey, you'd have first priority. Mackenzie, second. Miss...?"
"Tessa," the girl supplied. "Tessa Mori. I already paid the deposit."
"That's not how it works," the clerk said, and his voice had an edge now. "Deposits are refundable."
"Then refund it."
"No."
"Yes."
The two of them went back and forth, voices rising, and Mackenzie stepped into the gap. She positioned herself directly in front of Tessa, close enough that their chests almost brushed.
"Listen, sweetheart," Lacey said, her voice velvety and low. "I've been doing this for seven years. I've taken apart hundreds of boys. Better boys than Ryan, prettier boys, boys who actually knew what they were doing. He's a fluke. He caught me off guard. And I'm going to fix that. You don't get to swoop in and steal my rematch."
Tessa met her eyes without blinking. "He looked at me when he left the ring. He nodded. That meant something."
"It meant he was tired."
"It meant he was telling me yes."
Mackenzie's jaw tightened. She looked like she was deciding between laughing and throwing a punch. Lacey stepped in before either of them could make the choice for her.
"He nodded at me," Lacey said flatly. "He looked up and he saw me in the crowd and he nodded because he knew there was unfinished business."
"He didn't even see you," Tessa said, and there was no cruelty in it, just certainty. "He was looking at the exit. He was looking at his phone. He was looking at everyone who wanted him, and he was thinking, one of them will be mine."
The room went quiet.
"He's not thinking that," Mackenzie said.
"He is." Tessa folded her arms. "I know what that look means. I've worn it myself."
The clerk made a sound, half laugh, half groan. "You're all insane. You know that? You're all insane, and I'm going to get written up, and I'm going to have to explain why my office smelled like a perfume counter and a catfight."
"Nobody's fighting," Mackenzie said.
"Yet," Lacey added.
The door opened again. This time it didn't swing wide. It eased open, a few inches at a time, as if whoever was on the other side wasn't sure about the welcome.
The door eased all the way open and a girl stepped through like she'd just walked out of a shampoo commercial. Honey-blonde hair in a high ponytail, a pale yellow sundress, a smile so bright it looked practiced. She held a contract in one hand and a glitter pen in the other.
"Hi!" she said, voice like a doorbell. "I'm here to book a slot for Ryan Thompson. I already filled out the form and everything."
The room groaned. All three of them, together, like a chorus of the defeated.
The girl blinked, smile flickering. "Did I say something wrong?"
"How many people know about this boy?" Lacey asked, addressing the ceiling.
"A lot," the girl said, cheerful as a sunrise. She walked past Tessa, past Mackenzie, and set her form on the counter next to the others. "I saw his match last night. The one with the brunette. He was amazing. So strong. And that fireman costume..."
She sighed, dreamy. Then she reached out and stroked her own form with one finger, slow and almost reverent.
"I just thought, why not? He's cute. He's determined. He's got that whole firefighter thing going on. And he lasted so long in the ring. I bet he's got a lot of stamina."
Mackenzie stared at her. "You watched him get fucked on a livestream and you decided you wanted in on it?"
The girl tilted her head, unbothered. "Wrestled. And yes. Why wouldn't I?"
Tessa made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze. Lacey pinched the bridge of her nose.
The clerk cleared his throat. "Miss...?"
"Vanessa," the girl supplied. "Vanessa Holt. I paid the deposit already."
Lacey's hand dropped from her face. "You paid a deposit for a man you've never met?"
"I paid a deposit for a man I've seen shirtless and sweaty," Vanessa corrected, cheerful. "That's enough to know what I'm working with. And he moved his hips so well. Imagine what he'd do in a longer match, on his own terms, with someone who actually talks to him instead of just riding him like a mechanical bull."
Mackenzie's jaw tightened. "Who do you think you're talking to?"
"I was talking about the livestream," Vanessa said, all innocence. "I wasn't talking about you. You were great. Very efficient." She turned to the clerk. "So, is my slot confirmed?"
"No," the clerk said flatly. "You're fourth in line."
"Fourth?" Vanessa's brow furrowed. "But I paid."
"Lacey filed first," the clerk said, pointing. "Mackenzie filed second. Tessa filed third. You walked in fourth. That's the order."
Vanessa looked at Lacey, then Mackenzie, then Tessa. Her smile didn't drop, but something sharpened behind her eyes. "So you all want him."
"Rematch clause," Lacey said.
"Right of refusal," Mackenzie said.
"Destiny," Tessa said, and meant it.
Vanessa laughed, light and easy. "Okay. Fine. Let's make this interesting." She reached into her purse and pulled out a second form, already filled out. "I have a proposition."
Lacey squinted at the paper. "What is that?"
"A tag team match," Vanessa said. "Me on one team. You three on the other. If we win, I get Ryan. If we lose, I'll walk away and you can all fight over the leftovers."
The clerk let out a long, slow breath. "That's not how tag teams work."
"I know. But it's how I work." She tapped the form. "Unless any of you are too scared of a girl in a sundress."
Mackenzie stared at her for a long moment, then did something Lacey hadn't expected. She laughed, a real laugh that took her by surprise.
"You know what? I respect the balls on you, sweetheart. Walking in here with your little dress and your little pen and demanding a shot at the boy I already broke in half. That takes nerve."
Vanessa smiled, sunny. "Thank you. That's very kind."
"It wasn't a compliment."
"I know. I'm taking it as one anyway."
Lacey looked between them, at the four contracts spread across the counter like a tarot spread, and made a decision.
"
The clerk held up one hand, silencing whatever Vanessa had been about to say next. He looked at the four contracts on his counter and then at the four women spread across his office like a disaster waiting to happen, and he made a sound that was equal parts exhaustion and acceptance.
"Okay," he said slowly. "I'm going to ask this once, because apparently my life is a joke now. Is there anyone else who wants to book Ryan Thompson? Anyone at all? Just so I know the full scope of my misery."
The door swung open behind him, letting in a gust of hallway air and three girls who moved through it like they'd been waiting outside for their cue.
The first one in was tall, almost six feet, with sharp cheekbones and hair chopped short and bleached white. She had a leather jacket over a black tank top, and she walked like she owned the building. Behind her came a shorter girl with honey-brown skin and long braids, wearing a crop top that read, in glitter letters, MINE. The third one hung back, smaller, with round glasses and a shy smile, clutching a clipboard to her chest.
The clerk turned. He looked at the three new arrivals. Then he looked at the four contracts on his counter, and then back at the girls, and something in his face flickered, a tired man reaching for a change of pace.
"Alright," he said, almost hopeful. "You three. What are you here to book tonight?"
The tall one answered first. "Ryan Thompson."
The braids girl bounced on her toes. "Ryan Thompson."
The shy one adjusted her glasses and said, soft but certain, "Ryan Thompson."
The groan that went up from the counter was loud enough to bounce off the walls. Lacey, Mackenzie, Tessa, and Vanessa all made it at once, a choir of pure, aggrieved despair.
"You've got to be kidding me," Lacey said.
"Seriously?" Mackenzie threw her hands up. "Are they handing out flyers?"
"Who are you people?" Tessa demanded, her shiny ponytail swinging as she rounded on them. "I called dibs. I literally called dibs. That's a thing."
The tall one shrugged, unbothered. "Dibs isn't contractual."
"Neither is destiny," Vanessa said, crossing her arms. "But here we are."
The clerk leaned back in his chair, and for the first time all morning, a smile crept across his face. It wasn't a kind smile. It was the smile of a man watching a train wreck that he no longer had to be on.
"This is the best morning I've had in years," he said.
"Shut up," Lacey and Mackenzie said together.
The shy girl with the clipboard stepped forward, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause trouble. I just saw him in the livestream, and he looked so strong, and I thought, maybe, if I got here early enough..."
"Early enough for what?" Mackenzie demanded. "To join the line? There's a line now, sweetheart. You're at the back of it."
"I don't mind the back," the shy girl said. "I just wanted a chance."
The tall one pushed past her, coming up to the counter. She planted both hands flat on it and leaned in, close enough that the clerk had to lean back.
"I don't care about the line," she said. "I care about the match. Ryan Thompson hasn't signed for the weekend yet. That means he's still available. And I'm planning to be the one who takes him."
"Takes him how?" Tessa asked, sharp.
"However he wants to be taken."
Vanessa burst out laughing. "Oh my god. There are eight of us now. Eight. In one office. For one boy."
"Seven," Mackenzie corrected. "The clerk doesn't count."
"I'm not counting the clerk."
The clerk raised a hand. "I'm going to remind everyone that the booking window closes in forty-five minutes, and I still don't have a decision on who registered first."
"I registered first," Lacey said, holding up her contract.
"I registered second," Mackenzie said.
"I registered third," Tessa said.
"I registered fourth," Vanessa said, and then she looked at the three new girls. "And you're all late."
The tall one smiled, slow and easy. "Late doesn't mean wrong. It just means we waited to see which way the wind blew. And the wind blew us straight here."
Mackenzie turned to Lacey, and for the first time that morning, there was something like an alliance in her eyes. "Can we just kick them out?"
"That would be assault," the clerk pointed out.
"It would be efficient."
The shy girl with the clipboard spoke up again, timid but determined. "What if we did it differently? What if we all just... asked him?"
The room went quiet.
"Asked him," Lacey repeated.
"He's a person," the shy girl said, as if this were a novel concept. "He's been booked for matches without ever getting a say in who he faces. Maybe we should let him choose."
The door at the back of the office opened, and every head in the room turned at once.
The man who stepped out was in his fifties, broad-shouldered, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a suit that cost more than the clerk's monthly rent. He held a tablet in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other, and he looked at the crowd of women like he was cataloguing livestock.
"Busy morning," he said.
The clerk scrambled to his feet. "Mr. Calloway. Sir. I was just processing—"
"I can see what you were processing." Calloway walked to the counter, set down his coffee, and looked at the contracts spread across the surface. He picked up Lacey's first, scanned it, set it down. Picked up Mackenzie's. Tessa's. Vanessa's. The three newcomers' forms, still clutched in hands.
"Let me guess," he said. "Ryan Thompson."
A chorus of yeses answered him. Mackenzie's was the loudest. Lacey's was the flattest.
Calloway took a long sip of his coffee. "He's becoming a popular draw."
"He caught a good match," Lacey said. "One good match. That's all it was."
"He caught a great match." Calloway set the cup down. "The livestream numbers came back this morning. He pulled more viewers than the last three main events combined. And Mackenzie—" He nodded at her. "You did exactly what I hoped you'd do."
Mackenzie's grin widened. "I told you. I break them in."
"You do." Calloway turned to Lacey, and his gaze was steady and unblinking. "You broke him on Saturday, and nobody watched. She broke him on Wednesday, and half the internet saw it. That's not a criticism, Lacey. That's a fact."
"His rematch clause is with me," Lacey said, her voice tight. "I filed first. That's policy."
"Policy," Calloway repeated, as if tasting the word. "Policy is what I say it is."
The room went very quiet.
"Mackenzie gets the weekend slot," Calloway said. "She's the draw. She's the story. The crowd loves watching her break him in, and after last night, they'll pay to see her do it again. He's hers until he's not."
"That's not fair," Tessa said, her voice wobbling.
"Fair doesn't fill seats." Calloway picked up his coffee. "Mackenzie, you're booked. Everyone else, there's a card next month. We can talk about positioning then."
He turned and walked back through the door, leaving it swinging.
The office exploded into noise. Tessa's protests came out high and sharp. Vanessa laughed, short and disbelieving. The three newcomers exchanged looks, their shoulders dropping like deflated balloons. The shy girl with the clipboard pressed it against her chest and said nothing at all.
But Lacey was silent.
She stood with her contract still in her hand, the paper crumpling under her grip, and she stared at the door that Calloway had walked through. Mackenzie said something beside her, something bright and gloating, but Lacey didn't hear the words. She heard only the hollow click of the latch.
"You okay, Lace?" Mackenzie's voice was mock-concerned, almost sweet.
Lacey turned her head. Her eyes were flat and cold, and her smile was the thinnest thing in the room.
"Enjoy it," Lacey said, and her voice was quiet enough that only Mackenzie could hear. "Enjoy the spotlight while you've got it." She let the crumpled contract fall to the counter. "Because I've spent seven years learning how to take what I want. And I always get it in the end."
She walked out without looking back. The door swung shut behind her, and the ringing sound of it followed her down the hallway.
The office went quiet for a beat after Lacey's footsteps faded. Then Mackenzie turned to face the remaining crowd, still holding her contract, her coffee gone, her grin fresh.
"Well," she said. "That was fun."
Tessa was still gripping her ponytail, her face crumpled. "You can't just take him."
"I didn't take him. I filed a contract. He'll be in the ring Saturday night, and I'll be the one on top of him, and you'll be somewhere else." Mackenzie flicked the paper with her fingernail. "Maybe on your couch. Maybe with your hand between your legs, thinking about it."
Vanessa's smile had gone stiff. "You're not the only one who saw something in him."
"No, but I'm the only one who did something about it. You had a tag team idea with a sundress and a glitter pen. He'd have laughed in your face."
"That's not true."
"It's a little true."
The tall one with the bleached hair hadn't moved from the counter. She watched Mackenzie with flat, unimpressed eyes. "You think this is over. You think because you signed a piece of paper, he's yours."
"Not think, sweetheart. Know. I put in the work. I rode him until he begged for it on camera, and then I did it again even better the second time. You want a piece of that? You've got a long wait."
"Lacey's not going to wait," the tall one said.
"Lacey is going to do exactly what Lacey always does. Get pouty, get loud, and then lose when it matters." Mackenzie shook her head. "She's got good hands. She's never had good timing."
The braids girl stepped forward, planting her hands on her hips. "You can't just decide he's yours. He's a person. He gets a say."
"So tell him that." Mackenzie's grin didn't flicker. "In fact, I'll make it easy for you. Saturday night, after I pin him, he'll be walking the corridor with his head down, looking for a shower. That's your window. Catch him then. Bring him flowers if you want. He'll be in no mood for it, but go ahead and try."
The shy girl with the clipboard hugged it tighter. "You're not very nice."
"No, I'm not. I'm the best. And the best doesn't have time to be nice to the line behind her." Mackenzie picked up her contract, tapped it on the counter once, and slid it into her pocket. "Take the weekend off, ladies. Drink some water. Watch the livestream from the comfort of your own beds. I've got this handled."
She walked toward the door, light on her feet, and paused with her hand on the frame. She looked back over her shoulder, letting her eyes sweep across all five of them, one after the other.
"You know," she said, almost kindly. "The best part is he trains every morning at nine. Same gym. Same corner. If any of you wanted a real chance, you could show up tomorrow and say hello. That's not a booking, but it's a start."
She winked, and then she was through the door, letting it swing shut behind her before any of them could respond.
The gym was quiet at nine in the morning. That was the point. Ryan had the place to himself, just the hum of the air conditioning and the steady slap of his feet on the mat as he ran through his warm-up drills.
He'd been here since seven, running the same combinations over and over. Jab, cross, duck, clinch, trip, pin. Jab, cross, duck, clinch, trip, pin. He'd done it so many times his arms ached and his brain had gone numb, which was exactly what he wanted. Numb didn't think about Mackenzie's hips. Numb didn't replay the way Lacey had looked at him from that bar booth, all heat and hunger and something almost like hurt.
Numb didn't remember begging on camera.
He caught the heavy bag with a kick that rocked it on its chain, then followed through with an elbow strike the way Delilah had shown him. The bag swung back. He caught it with his forearms, steadying it, and leaned his forehead against the worn leather.
He was going to beat her. He had to beat her. Not just because of the title implications or the contract clauses or the way the crowd had watched him get ridden like a rental car, but because of the look in her eyes when she'd talked down to him. Like he was her son caught stealing.
The thought burned him, a low, steady heat under his ribs. She was thirty-two. He was eighteen. She'd been in the ring before he was born, probably. And she'd made him forget all of it, made him beg for her like a schoolboy, made him come so hard he'd seen stars and then kissed his forehead like he was precious.
"Not anymore," he muttered, and threw a combination at the bag that sent it swinging on its chain.
The door creaked. He turned, fists up, half expecting Delilah or one of the other gym regulars. It was Lacey Anderson.
She stood in the doorway in a gray tank top and black leggings, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. No makeup. No costume. She looked like she hadn't slept either, dark circles under her eyes that she'd tried to hide with a tight smile that didn't reach them.
"Busy," he said.
"I can see that." She walked in, letting the door swing shut behind her. "I booked the weekend slot. Mackenzie's going to make a fuss about it, but I filed first."
"I know. I heard."
She stopped a few feet from him, arms crossed. "You heard what?"
"That you filed first. That the clerk had to separate you and Mackenzie." He dropped his hands, wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm. "Word travels fast in this circuit. Everyone's got an opinion about who gets to fuck me next."
Lacey's jaw tightened. "That's not what I'm here about."
"Then what are you here about?"
She was quiet for a long moment. The gym hummed around them, the distant thud of a treadmill from the other room, the squeak of a fan. She looked at the mat, then at the bag, then at him, and the tight smile faded into something more honest.
"I'm here to help you train," she said. "For the match. Against Mackenzie."
He stared at her. "You want me to beat her."
"I want you to beat her bad enough that she stops talking about you like a piece of meat she's got on lease." Lacey's voice was flat, controlled, but there was a heat underneath it that didn't match her calm words. "She beat you twice. She's going to talk about that forever if you don't give her a reason to shut up. And I'm tired of hearing about how she owns you."
"So you're going to teach me to beat your competition."
"I'm going to teach you to beat her because I'm tired of her name in your mouth." Lacey stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her, something clean and sharp. "I lost to you, Ryan. I lost a match I should have won, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. About you. And I'm not going to let Mackenzie be the only one who ever had you."
He swallowed. "You're not making this easy."
"I'm not trying to make it easy." She unzipped her hoodie, let it fall to the mat, and stood in the tank top with her arms bare, her biceps defined, her shoulders set. "I'm trying to make you dangerous. There's a difference."
"Okay." He set his stance. "Show me something."
She smiled, a real one this time. "Get ready, fireman."
She came at him fast. Not a wrestler's approach, but a fighter's, low and explosive, trying to get under his hands and drive through his center. He dropped his weight, caught her shoulder, and turned her. She rolled with it, grabbed his wrist, and swept his legs.
He hit the mat hard, and before he could recover, she was on top of him, knees pinning his hips, hands on his shoulders.
"First thing," she said, breathing hard. "She's going to come at you like this, low and dirty. She doesn't want a fair fight. She wants to take you down, get on top, and stay there."
"I know."
"Then don't let her." She shifted her weight, and this time her hips deliberately ground against his. The heat of it shot through him, and she smiled when she felt him respond. "Second thing," she said, standing. "She's going to talk. She's going to get in your head with her mouth. She's going to say things that make you angry, make you want to prove yourself. That's how she wins. She makes you fight stupid."
He got up, wiping his mouth. "So what do I do?"
"Shut her up the only way that works." Lacey's eyes were dark and playful. "Beat her on the mat, and beat her so thoroughly that no amount of talking will ever make up for it. Make her think twice about ever opening her mouth about you again."
"Help me do that."
She nodded, and they went again. This time it was technical work, drilling counters and escapes, the kind of moves that didn't flash on a livestream but won matches in the quiet hours. She showed him how to slip her hips when a weight came down, how to use leverage instead of strength when she tried to mount him, how to trap an arm when she made a mistake.
By the time she called a water break, he was sweating through his shirt and she was breathing hard, her tank top dark under the arms.
"You're taking to it," she said, handing him a bottle.
"Good teacher."
She snorted. "Careful. Compliments like that'll go to my head."
"I mean it." He drank, then capped the bottle. "You're the first person here who's actually taught me anything. Delilah showed me how to be playful. Mackenzie showed me how to lose. You're showing me how to win."
Lacey looked at him, and something in her face softened. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"A kid who got lucky once." She shook her head. "Someone who'd fold the moment it got hard. But you keep coming back. You keep asking for more. That's not luck, Ryan. That's something else."
He set the bottle down. "I'm going to beat her. I decided it. I'm going to walk into that ring and I'm going to take her apart, and she's going to look up at me from the mat and wonder what the hell happened."
"Good." Lacey stepped close, close enough that he could feel the heat of her body. "Now prove it."
They went again, harder this time. She drove him across the mat, her weight a constant pressure, her hands everywhere. He took a hip to the cheek, a knee to the ribs, and he kept coming. He caught her ankle, rolled her, and for a moment he was on top, her wrists pinned, her hips spread, and he could feel the shape of her, the heat of her, through the thin fabric of her leggings.
"I've got you," he said, breathless.
She stared up at him, chest heaving, a strand of hair stuck to her lips. Her body was warm under his, her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. The thin leggings did little to hide the heat radiating from her core.
"Prove it," she said, soft, her breath hitching as his body settled against hers.
He didn't move for a long moment. The gym was empty. The fan hummed. Her eyes were dark and full of promises.
"Lacey," he said.
"Ryan." Her voice was rougher than before. "If you're going to beat her on Saturday, you need to stop thinking about what happens after."
"That's not what I'm thinking about."
"Then what are you thinking about?"
He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear, his voice low. "I'm thinking about how you looked at that bar watching her pin me. I'm thinking about how you came in here today to make me dangerous. And I'm thinking that when I walk out of that ring on Saturday, I want to walk to you."
She went still under him. Her breath caught. For a long, fragile moment, she said nothing.
"Ryan," she whispered. "You're going to beat her because you're better than she thinks you are. And then you and I are going to have a conversation about what you just said."
"Is that a promise?"
She pulled him down and kissed him. Hard and sudden and hot, her mouth open against his, her tongue sliding past his teeth. He tasted sweat and coffee and something sweet. She made a sound low in her throat and hooked a leg around his hip and rolled.
He came up with her on top, straddling him, her hands braced on his chest, her thighs hot around his waist. The tank top had ridden up, and he could see the dark line of her sports bra, the flat plane of her stomach.
"This," she said, her voice raw, "is not training. This is me being selfish. Do not get used to it."
"I won't."
"Good." She leaned down and kissed him again, slow this time, her tongue tracing his lower lip. Then she sat up and smacked his chest lightly. "Up. One more round. Then you rest. You're going to need it."
He grinned, helpless and bright. "Yes, coach."
She got off him, pulling her tank top down, and held out a hand. He took it, and she hauled him to his feet, and they went at it again.
They ran the drills three more times before Lacey called it. Ryan's chest was heaving, his tank top soaked through, and even Lacey was bent over with her hands on her knees, breath sawing in and out.
"Same time tomorrow," she said, straightening. "Rest tonight. Sleep eight hours. No drinking."
"Yes, coach."
She grabbed her hoodie off the mat and slung it over her shoulder. At the door she paused, looked back at him, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across her face.
"You're going to break her in half," she said. "I can already see it."
She walked out into the parking lot and found Mackenzie leaning against the hood of her car, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She'd clearly been there a while.
"Morning, Lace." Mackenzie's voice was all sweetness. "Training the boy on my time, huh?"
"Trying to." Lacey stopped a few feet away, met her gaze. "He's a quick learner. Picks things up fast. You should watch him sometime, he's got a way of getting on top that's hard to shake."
Mackenzie's smile tightened. "Is that right."
"It is right. He's still a little raw on escapes, but give me another session or two and he'll have your number memorized." Lacey tilted her head. "What's the matter, Mackenzie? Worried I've been teaching him how to put you in your place?"
"Not worried, sweetheart. Just amused." Mackenzie pushed off the car, brushing past her. "You think a morning in the gym with a hard cock changes anything? He's still the same boy who begged for me on camera. Twice."
"Then you've got nothing to worry about." Lacey called it over her shoulder, walking to her car. "See you Saturday."
Mackenzie stood in the parking lot for a long minute after Lacey's taillights disappeared. The gym door was still visible from where she stood, and through the window she could see Ryan wiping down the heavy bag, his back to her.
Fight fire with fire. That was the phrase that surfaced in her head, bitter and sharp. If Lacey was going to train him, Mackenzie could do the same. Better. The way Lacey would never think of.
She came back the next morning at eight, before the gym filled up. Ryan was mid-rep on the bench, the bar loaded heavier than she'd expected, and he didn't see her until she was standing in his peripheral vision.
He set the bar back on the rack and sat up, wiping his mouth on his forearm. "You're not Lacey."
"No, I'm not." Mackenzie dropped her bag by the wall and pulled her hair into a high ponytail. She was wearing a sports bra and short shorts, no leggings, no jacket, and she knew exactly what she looked like. "But I figured, since you're getting lessons, I'd get a few in too. Friendly, before the real match."
Ryan studied her for a long moment. "You want to train with me."
"Want is a strong word." She stepped onto the mat, rolling her shoulders. "I want to see what she's been teaching you. And I want you to see what I've got that she doesn't."
"The real match is Saturday. You trying to soften me up?"
"I'm trying to make sure you don't embarrass yourself." She dropped into a loose stance, hands open. "Come on, fireman. Show me the new moves. Let's see if Lacey's worth her fee."
He stood up. She could see the wariness in him, the way he set his stance half a beat late, and she smiled.
"That's your first problem," she said. "You hesitate. Lacey didn't drill that out of you?"
"She drilled plenty." He came at her, and it was faster than she expected, his weight low, his hands snatching at her wrists. She slipped one, caught the other, turned her hip into him. He went with it instead of fighting it, rolled his shoulder, and broke her grip clean.
Mackenzie blinked. "Okay. That's new."
"I learned it yesterday."
"Show me again."
They circled. She lunged for a leg, he dropped his weight and sprawled over her back, dislodging her before she could hook an ankle. She scrambled up and came at him from the side, trying to get her arms around his waist, and he caught her by the hips and drove her into the ropes.
"Useful," she admitted, breathless. "Who taught you that one?"
"Lacey." He held her there, his hands warm on her hips, his body close. "She said you'd try to get under my center. Said I should turn instead of brace."
"Did she." Mackenzie pushed off the ropes and came back at him, and this time she didn't wrestle. She walked straight into him, chest to chest, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her body pressed against his from sternum to hip, and she felt exactly what she'd come to feel.
"She didn't teach you this," she murmured, rolling her hips against the thickening line of his cock through his shorts.
"Doesn't sound like wrestling."
"It's not. It's preparation." She shifted her weight, and the contact dragged hot and deliberate. "Because when I get you in that ring on Saturday, I'm not going to fight you fair. I'm going to ride you like I did last week, and I'm going to feel you get hard inside me before the pin. And I want you to know that now, so you can think about it every time you try to take me down."
His jaw tightened. "You talk a lot for someone who's about to lose."
"Am I about to lose?" She slid a hand down his chest, to his stomach, to the waistband of his shorts. Her fingers brushed the ridge of his cock, and his breath hitched. "Because this doesn't feel like losing, Ryan. This feels like you remembering exactly what I feel like."
He grabbed her wrist. "Saturday."
"Saturday." She stepped back, and the smile she gave him was pure predator. "But now you know what I'm bringing. And you know that no matter how many drills Lacey teaches you, when I sink down on you, you'll forget every one of them."
Saturday night, the arena smelled like energy drinks and hairspray. Ryan stood in the tunnel in his firefighter costume, black suspenders over a bare chest under the open coat, yellow trousers tucked into boots. He bounced on his toes and told himself he wasn't nervous. He was lying, but the lie was load-bearing.
Mackenzie's music hit and the crowd came up out of their seats.
She'd dressed for distraction, and she'd committed. A tiny black cop dress, latex, cut so short the holster strap on her bare thigh was purely decorative. The zipper down the front stopped at a point that made the referee adjust his glasses and pretend to check his clipboard. Her tits pushed together above it, deep cleavage straining the zipper, and a real-looking toy baton hung at her hip. She wore the little plastic cap at a rakish angle.
She strutted to the ring, dragged one fingertip along the top rope, and blew a kiss at the hard camera.
Ryan's mouth went dry. She clocked that immediately. Of course she did.
"Aw," she said into the mic as he climbed through the ropes. "Look at him. Somebody dressed up all brave for me. You want to frisk me, baby? It's policy."
"Not tonight."
"Tonight especially." She peeled off the cap and set it on the ref's head, same joke as always, and the crowd ate it up. "Rules, sweetheart. Strip me to nothing before I strip you. You already know how this ends."
The bell rang.
She came in hips-first, literally, turning sideways so her ass brushed him as she circled, one hand trailing along his suspenders. It was garbage wrestling and it was effective. He grabbed for her wrist and she stepped inside his reach, pressed her latex-clad body flush against him, and whispered against his jaw, "Feel how warm I am through this?"
He shoved her. Actually shoved, hard enough to send her back two full steps, and the crowd gasped at the disrespect.
"There he is," she said, delighted. "There's the little fight."
She dropped low and shot for his legs. Lacey's drills took over before his brain did. He sprawled, chest heavy on her back, and she snarled as his weight smothered her shoot. She rolled, he rolled with her, and he ended up on top, hooked arm, her face pressed into the canvas.
"Count it," somebody screamed.
The ref dropped, slapped once. Mackenzie bridged, hard, arching so her body bent into him, her ass grinding back against his crotch through the latex. His hips answered before his head could veto it. She slipped out from under him in the half-second he lost.
"There it is," she breathed, circling. "Every time. You think with it and I own you."
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set his stance. Low. Patient. Jab, cross, duck, clinch.
She lunged. He ducked under her arms, caught her around the waist from behind, and hit the trip Lacey had drilled into him forty times on an empty mat. Mackenzie hit the canvas with a thud that knocked the plastic cap off the ref's head. Before she could scramble, Ryan got a knee in her back and both hands on the zipper of that stupid dress.
"No," she said, and for the first time there was an edge in it. "No, you don't."
She clawed his hand away. He came back with both of them, got two fists on the zipper pull, and dragged it down her spine to her ass in one long rip. The latex split open and peeled off her shoulders and the crowd noise went up like a building on fire. She lay there on her stomach, back bare, dress open to the waist, tits pressed against the mat.
Ryan stood up and backed off, hands raised, walking away like he'd been taught. Lacey's voice in his head: Never celebrate. Reset.
She rolled over slowly, deliberately, letting the whole arena look at her bare chest, and she was smiling. Angry under it, but smiling.
"Okay," Mackenzie said, sitting up, shimmying the dead dress down her hips, left now in a black thong, the thigh holster, and nothing else. "Okay, baby. You want to play fast?"
She came at him for real this time. No hip rolls, no whispering. She caught his coat and ripped it off his shoulders, then took his legs out from under him with a sweep that rattled his teeth. He hit the mat and her weight came down on him, knees pinning his biceps, her bare tits hanging over his face.
"First strip," she said, sweet as poison, looking down the length of him. "Now the pants, fireman. Big boy wants to come out and play."
She reached back. His hand shot up and cracked across her ass, hard, and she yelped, an actual yelp, and in the half second of shock he bucked his hips and rolled her off.
The bar was packed shoulder to shoulder, which was Mira's fault, because Mira had posted the watch party on the circuit forum. Chloe had gotten there early enough to claim the good booth and was now defending it against a girl in a yellow sundress and a girl in a crop top that read MINE.
"Absolutely not," Chloe said. "This booth is for people with history."
"I have a glitter pen and no fear," Vanessa said, sliding in anyway.
Tessa took the last seat, clutching a phone with the stream already open. Lacey stood at the bar with her back to the projector and a beer she wasn't drinking. She could hear it. The crowd noise came through the sound system like weather, and Mackenzie's voice, when she talked trash, carried even over sixty people talking.
"You're not watching?" the tall one with the bleached hair asked. Her name was Roxy, apparently. Lacey hadn't asked. "You paid for a booth."
"I'm listening."
"Listening's worse," Roxy said. "Trust me. You fill in the pictures yourself."
The sound system crackled. The crowd screamed. Chloe's head snapped toward the screen and her mouth fell open.
"Uh, Lace?"
"What."
"He stripped her. Like, thirty seconds in. He ripped her dress off her."
Lacey turned around despite herself. On screen, Mackenzie stood in a thong and a toy holster, circling a boy in suspenders, and her expression was the one Lacey knew from the mirror. The smile you wear when you're no longer certain.
Vanessa squealed and clapped. Tessa had both hands over her mouth. Mira was standing on a chair.
"Turn it back around," Lacey told the screen, under her breath, because on it Mackenzie had just shot for Ryan's legs with actual violence, no games left. "Stop playing with him and end it."
On screen, Ryan sprawled.
Lacey set the beer down. Her knuckles were white on the bar rail, and she stayed to watch.
Mackenzie got him down and went straight for the trousers, yanking the zip, and his cock was already thickening against his boxers when she peeled them down over his hips.
"Look at that," she cooed into the mic. "Half hard before I even touched him. You came here to lose to me again, didn't you?"
"No."
She wrapped her hand around him through the gray fabric and squeezed, slow, and the crowd noise turned feral. His head tipped back and his jaw locked and for three long seconds the whole arena watched a boy fight his own nervous system.
Then his hand came up and closed around her throat.
Not hard. Just there. Mackenzie froze, her fist still on him, and the crowd went dead quiet, the kind of silence that has weight.
"Get off me," Ryan said, "or I strip you right here on top of you."
Mackenzie's eyes went wide. Then they went dark. Her grip on his cock loosened, and her tongue touched her lower lip.
"Baby," she said, voice gone low and honest, "that might be a mistake you and me both enjoy."
Her hand tightened on his throat, and for a second the whole arena held its breath. Then Mackenzie made a sound, a low, pleased hum, and dropped her grip.
"You know what," she said, loud enough for the mic, "I think I like this new you."
She moved to climb off him, and that was when it happened. He brought his knee up to create space. She was already shifting her weight, off balance, and his knee caught her square in the face. Not a strike, just a scramble, but her head snapped back and she went down hard on her ass.
The crowd gasped. The ref blew his whistle, loud and sharp, and the match ground to a halt.
Ryan scrambled to his feet, hands out, his face gone pale. "Mackenzie. Oh god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."
Mackenzie sat on the mat with one hand over her nose. Blood. A thin line of it running down over her lip and dripping onto her chest. She looked at it, then at him, and something in her eyes went flat.
"Well," she said. "That's a foul, sweetheart."
The ref was already beside her, checking her face, tilting her head back. "Damage control. You okay to continue?"
"I'm fine." She pulled her hand away. The blood was already slowing. "Rule's rule. Foul means one piece of clothing."
The crowd roared with approval. Ryan stood there, his jaw working, his fists clenched at his sides. He'd spent the whole match learning to control his temper. Now the guilt was a worse enemy.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "I didn't mean to. I was just trying to get up."
"I know." Mackenzie got to her feet, wiping her lip with the back of her hand. "That's the only reason I'm not going to make you crawl for it."
The ref raised two fingers. "Foul on Thompson. Sulz, you may replace one piece of removed clothing."
Mackenzie walked to the corner and pulled her top back on. The black latex crop top, the one she'd been wearing when she came out, clinging to her like a second skin. She smoothed it down over her tits, a slow, deliberate gesture that had the crowd screaming, then turned to face him.
She walked back to the center of the ring, and she was grinning now. Not the predator grin from before. Something else. Something almost fond.
"Come here," she said.
He stepped forward, cautious. She grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulled him close, and pressed her mouth to his ear. The mic caught nothing but a whisper, and the crowd strained to hear.
"It didn't hurt," she said, soft. "You should have seen the look on your face though. That was worth every drop."
He exhaled, shaky. "I'm really sorry."
"I know you are. That's why I'm not mad." She pulled back, and her hand dropped from his neck to his chest, over his heart. "Now stop being sorry and fight me. That's an order."
The ref raised his hand. The bell rang.
Mackenzie backed off, rolling her shoulders, and the grin on her face was back at full wattage.
"Okay, fireman. You got one freebie. Now I'm going to make you regret it."
She came at him with a lunge that was all teeth. He caught her, turned her. She rolled with it, gripping his suspenders, and the crowd went right back to screaming. He grabbed her by the waist of that latex top, and she laughed, high and bright, as she hooked her leg through his and sent them both spinning.
The bar had gone quiet around the screen. Lacey watched Mackenzie whisper into Ryan's ear, watched the way his shoulders dropped and the apology came out of him soft and broken, watched Mackenzie's hand pressed flat over his heart, and the beer bottle in her grip creaked under her fingers.
"You okay over there?" Chloe called from the booth.
Lacey didn't answer. On screen, Mackenzie was already coming at him again, all teeth and laughter, and Ryan was backing up, still off balance from the guilt of what he'd done. She saw the shift in his stance, the half-step of hesitation. That was all Mackenzie needed. She always knew exactly when a boy was open.
The bell rang.
Mackenzie changed everything. She stopped playing. Her lunge was hard and low and Ryan was a half-second late dropping his weight. Her shoulder hit him in the stomach and drove him into the ropes and she kept pushing until he bounced off and she caught him by the back of the neck and slammed him onto the mat face-first.
"Lesson one," she said into the mat, her voice sweet and sharp. "You don't get to feel bad about hurting me. You get to feel bad about losing to me."
She hooked his arm behind his back and ground her knee into his spine. Ryan's muffled grunt got picked up by the mic. She twisted the arm until he had to tap, not a pin, just a submission, and the ref called the hold.
"Let him up," the ref said.
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.