Breaking the Rules: The Breaking Series #1 Page 22

  The confusion tearing through her ebbed in his arms. She stayed there, cheek pressed against the hard plane of his chest, searching out the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat. So much of her wanted to dive headfirst into this man.

  She loosened her grip, and he cupped the sides of her face, his dark eyes searching hers. He pressed his lips to hers, and a hungry kiss emerged, like they hadn’t touched lips for weeks instead of minutes. She clutched at his hands, relishing the sturdiness in his grip, the solidness that emanated from him.

  He knew exactly what he wanted. And it was her.

  Which somehow made everything more unbearably complicated.

  * * *

  Travis floated in a daze for the entire day after the awkward morning with Amara. He couldn’t tell up from down anymore, as if Amara’s confusion had eroded the foundation of everything else in his life as well. Compartmentalization was his only friend—the handiest tool in being able to focus on work, at least, and training.

  It stung like he’d been knifed, came back crashing over him in waves that made him wince. He’d been wrong about them. Or at least half wrong. And it took all his willpower not to beg.

  Because one thing was clear: he’d be in it only if she wanted it too.

  Throughout the daze of his workday, their conversation played on repeat in the background. He came back time and time again to the bedroom before she’d stormed off to the bathroom, trying to piece together what had gone wrong.

  Something bothered her, but she wouldn’t say it. And it had to do with him.

  Asking Eddie for advice was out of the question. Travis wouldn’t drag him into it, not so soon after hearing the first peep out of him. But deep inside, he knew what the first step should be.

  Travis pulled onto the highway later that evening, sweaty and busted. His knuckles smarted from the newest round of cuts, and his mentor had gotten a good jab into his cheek, which had already swelled. Training had been extra intense, even a little desperate, as if he could purge some of the sadness through physical contact, spill it out before he got the verdict from Amara.

  And now he was useless, ready for dinner and bed. Exactly how the last week before the big match should be. Except if Amara were around… That might be an added dose of relaxation that could help things.

  Leave her be until the match. Besides, who knows if she’ll show?

  It was no secret Amara wasn’t a fan of fighting, though he had been slow to catch on. Her lukewarm reception of the interview had been the first inkling, but today sealed the deal for him; she didn’t like showy displays or excessive anger.

  Maybe that’s what she’s been confused about.

  He scoffed as he drove home, toying with the idea like a hesitant cat pawing a foreign object. The outward projection of a sport…that couldn’t be enough reason to drop someone like him. He gripped the steering wheel more tightly, his knuckles aching. Amara was smart enough to see past the sport and see the man.

  Unless she hated fighting so much, she couldn’t divorce the two.

  Travis swerved a little. Why the fuck hasn’t she ever brought this up before? If this was her dilemma, then he was hanging on a prayer. Amara had to either accept him or not, because fighting was in his blood. She could never ask him to give it up.

  Back at home, his head was cloudier than ever. He quick-seared a steak and steamed some broccoli before lying down on the couch. All he wanted was to check out and forget the terrible drama of the day.

  But even more than that, he wanted Amara in his arms. Because having her there was better than not having her. Even if she might potentially disagree with the foundation of his success and livelihood.

  The knot in his belly wouldn’t leave him—a persistent nut that followed him into an early, restless sleep.

  * * *

  When Travis awoke the next morning, it was still dark, and he was spread like a starfish on the sectional. He groaned, rolling to his feet, groping for his phone. On the stagger-walk back to his bed, he squinted at the lit screen of his phone. Almost six thirty. And one new text from Amara.

  He blinked, mind clearing a little. It was a simple text. Good morning, you.

  He grinned, stopping in his tracks to type a response. Better morning, you.

  She had reached out. But for how much longer? The scared core of him warned that she’d bolt and not look back. Leave him in the dust on the West Coast and flee to join her DC brethren. He rubbed at an eye as her response arrived.

  You’re up early.

  He yawned, sliding into bed, the cool sheets sending a waft of her scent up toward him. He sighed, burying his face into the pillow she’d used. Not fucking fair. I miss you.

  The phone slid out of his hand. Early morning honesty or something. Her response was quick. I miss you too. How is it even possible?

  He knew how it was possible. It had to do with the big, heavy L word. Tell me the rest of your idea. He blinked at his text, unsure where that had even come from.

  I will later. I’m getting ready for work. We’ll talk soon. A moment later, a photo message came through. A precious, sleepy-eyed kissy face.

  So that’s how it would be. They’d resume as though nothing had happened? Like her crisis hadn’t shaken their fragile foundation? He put the phone on the nightstand, eyes drifting shut, one thought scrolling through his mind: Please don’t go.

  Travis settled into bed, but he couldn’t fall back asleep. His body wanted it, but his mind had other plans. He tossed and turned for a while, strange fragments of their conversation floating back to him. Fighting for charity. The way he’d scoffed. That look of hurt flashing across her face.

  His brow formed a hard line, mind roiling. Charity was important to her. Important enough that he needed to show more support if he truly wanted to keep her.

  You idiot. He flopped over in bed, eyes popping open while the truth circulated through him. He combed through his business plan, could count on one hand the free, education-oriented services the gym had. Simply the self-defense class he’d offered to do for Amara’s workplace, and the self-defense classes he’d agreed to bring back.

  Not good enough.

  Holt Body Fitness did nothing for charity and nothing for the less fortunate. That would be a problem for someone like her, but furthermore, something he wanted to fix immediately now that he’d opened his eyes.

  This would be an important topic to bring up with his management team, to figure out how to incorporate consistent charitable donations alongside more education-oriented services. His mind leaped into overdrive, brainstorming faster than he could keep up. He reached for his phone to document some notes, furiously tapping out words and fragments that might not make sense in a few hours.

  He stilled as a thought arrived to him—the match. It was the most televised event he had, might have for years. It was a huge promotional boon for his gym, but also one of the most watched platforms he’d ever get access to.

  If he wanted to get a head start…it could begin there.

  Chapter 17

  “Amara.” Eddie’s voice was tinged with the usual grade of annoyance, some blend of distantly amused and ready to snap.

  She sighed, rubbing at her forehead. Ever since his self-imposed week of anger had expired, things went right back to normal between them. And maybe even slightly more annoying now that Eddie had reconfigured his world view to include Travis as his pending brother-in-law. “Listen. I’m just not sure.”

  “You can’t not go,” Eddie insisted, sitting on the couch beside her. They’d been making plans for Saturday, which primarily revolved around Travis’s internationally televised fight with that terrifying-looking man from New York. “This is fucking Travis we’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, I know who we’re talking about.” Thank God their mama was in the shower and wouldn’t intervene in yet another open discussion about Travis’s position in her life. “Trust me, I want him to win. I don’t know if I can support this sort of thing. What if someone see
s me there? It’ll ruin my credibility as a violence mediator. I mean, they could film my face or something.”

  Eddie groaned. “Oh, come on. Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously! This is my career we’re talking about. I can’t fuck up the pool for when I go back to DC.”

  Eddie’s face hardened, which made Amara gulp. “For when you go back to DC?”

  “Yeah.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. She was sick of everyone taking issue with her plans. She was twenty-six goddamn years old. She could have a career in DC if she wanted to. Even if maybe she didn’t entirely want to anymore.

  “I thought you were staying here. You got family, the car, the job…” Eddie gestured in front of him. “My best friend. What the fuck else do you want?”

  She huffed, crossing her arms. “It was always my plan to go back once Mama got better.”

  “You better thank the Lord she can’t hear this right now.”

  “She wants me to pursue what I love.” Amara swallowed a knot in her throat. Maybe what she loved now was Travis, and not the illusion of a better career on the East coast. “I’m just sayin’, is all. I’ve always wanted to move back. But now I don’t know.”

  Eddie scoffed, shaking his head. “So you get this awesome job here, work it for a month or something and then leave?”

  She shrugged. “I wasn’t—”

  “And what about my best friend, huh?” He turned angrily. “What about him? You gonna leave him behind too?”

  Her eyes widened. “Are you serious? Just last week you were pissed about that, and now—”

  “I told you I needed a week.” He held up a hand. “And now I’m used to the idea. It can’t change again.”

  She almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “This is ridiculous.”

  “You need to think about what you’re doing, and who you’re hurting here.” Eddie clenched his fists, staring at the carpet. In a softer voice, he said, “Don’t you miss being with us?”

  She pinched her eyes shut. She’d missed them every day out East. “Of course. I just…” She sighed, resigning herself to the hard truth. She wanted DC because it was the status quo. It was the long-held pinnacle of achievement, and she was afraid to relinquish it. Because relinquishing it meant that maybe she had somehow slid backward, regressed, grown dull and complacent.

  But dullness and complacency weren’t even within arm’s reach in LA. And the more she thought about it, maybe she wanted the DC job more for the street cred than for the actual good she did. And how was that noble? Here in LA she worked with a diverse cast, confronted significant challenges, and had an ever-expanding role with a great organization. What more could she really ask for?

  It’s exactly what she’d dreamed of eight years ago.

  Amara picked at a nail, allowing the truth to settle in, so deep that it sank into bone. She wanted Travis, despite what her highbrow, morally rigid ideals demanded. She was happy with her job. She actually wanted to stay in LA.

  And somehow, giving herself the room to change was the hardest part of it all. Her squeaky-clean, picture-perfect version of Amara was cracking at the edges, revealing something more complex and interesting beneath.

  Five days without seeing Travis had helped hammer this home too. Because some days it felt like she couldn’t breathe for wanting him. Despite all the things she repeated to herself like a mantra, trying to convince herself that her feelings for Travis weren’t real.

  They were realer than real. And had already blossomed into the very thing that she’d been craving and searching for since girlhood.

  You already have it all here. So why don’t you stay?

  * * *

  Travis paced the cell-like green room in the bowels of the arena, the deep whoosh of the waiting crowd reaching him as if from a nature-sounds tape. The big fight had arrived, and he’d been laser-focused on nothing else for the past three days.

  Amara was the only occasional thought that burst through like a fish breaking water.

  Travis’s mentor—nicknamed Brute more for his demeanor than his stature—poked his head in, the black eye Travis’d delivered earlier in the week now a grayish-brown bruise. “You ready, champ?”

  Travis hopped from one foot to the other, hands in loose fists at his sides, dressed in the standard, tight black MMA shorts and a white team T-shirt that simply read Holt. “Since three years ago.”

  Brute grinned, and the two of them went down the cement-lined hallway, which sloped up to the ground level of the auditorium. The echo and hammer of the voracious fans grew louder as they approached. They paused at a doorway, where Brute talked to one of the coordinators for the introduction. Anxiety gave way to confidence, which blossomed into worry, which smoothed out into total control. Each fight saw the same churn of emotions. But it would all fade away once he stepped into that octagon.

  Brute got the okay, and they headed into the next hallway, located just outside the arena. Hip-hop music reached them, something jaunty and popular. If he craned his neck, he could see some of the fans’ eager faces peering down into the hall. Travis stilled, balling his fists, looking out into the blackness of the arena’s ceiling.

  The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena as he introduced the fight. Travis couldn’t listen entirely, instead only picking up snippets—“three years” and “scrappy” and “longstanding grudge”—all of which elicited cheers. Travis rested his hands behind his head, belly knotting into something deep and complex, which only a victory could unfurl.

  Brute clapped him on the back. “Almost time.”

  Travis straightened, tuning in to the announcer’s booming drawl. “And to my right, may I introduce to the world…the five-time UFC champ, master of floor play, and owner of the most famous MMA camp in Los Angeles…Traaaavis Heaaaavvvy Holt!”

  The crowd roared, and Travis sprang forward, buoyed by the wave of adoration. He burst through the flaps of the doorway and strutted his shit up the path, hands in the air, high-fiving all the hands he could reach. He rocketed up to the arena, the swell of the cheers deafening. Up at the octagon, Lex waited in the sidelines, Lex’s knowing grin grounding him. He paused at Lex’s side while Victor Leon strutted in from the opposite side of the arena. The roar of the crowd didn’t even come close to Travis’s reception.

  He took a swig of water from a bottle Lex offered him, then tore off his T-shirt. Lex got to work taping up his hands while Travis glared at Victor across the octagon. Thumps resonated from the crowd, the pounding of feet. The factions had started; over the din he could make out the chants “Holt” and “Victor.” Eddie, I hope you’re chanting extra hard for me.

  And that Amara was too…wherever she was. Hopefully sitting squarely next to Eddie somewhere in the audience. He’d been too afraid to confirm before the fight. Better that he didn’t know.

  Because if she’d chosen to miss it, then it would have crushed him. And he couldn’t have that sort of thing happen before a fight.

  Once his hands were taped, Travis slunk into the ring, flexing and stretching while he paced the black, rubbery floor. The scent of bleach mixed with sweat. Lex and Brute hooked their fingers onto the cage surrounding the octagon, calling out their support while he paced. Cheers boomed around him, the faceless sea of attendants sprawling around him in a massive circle. A new swell of cheers rose as Victor hopped in a moment later, similarly bare-chested and knuckles taped, glaring at Travis like he’d just killed his mother.

  The announcer climbed through the cage door, taking his sweet time, letting the crowd get tense and rowdy while Travis and Victor circled each other like predators.

  The announcer came to center stage, microphone to his mouth. He raised a hand, and the roar of the crowd dulled to chatter and whoops. In a crystal-clear melodic voice, the announcer introduced the fight, the list of sponsors, and the three judges who surrounded the cage with notepads and beady eyes. After introducing the referee, the only other person allowed inside the ring during the fight,
the announcer made a swooping circle to eyeball the crowd.

  “And heeeere we go with our main event of the evening! Three five-minute rounds scheduled in a middleweight special attraction! And now, ladies and gentlemen in attendance, MMA fans around the world…live from LA, iiiiiiit’s showtime!”

  Cheers erupted, and the announcer swiveled to look at Travis. “Standing to my left, measuring six feet one inch, he weighed in at one hundred eighty pounds, truly a street-brawling professional boasting five UFC wins and one loss, introducing Travis Heaaavvvy Holt!”

  Screams rocketed through the arena, and Travis stood his ground, holding Victor’s gaze while the announcer did his introductions. Then the two were ushered into the center stage, where the referee laid down the ground rules over the microphone for everyone to hear: good, clean fight, no exceptions. They were sent back to their corners while the ref took center stage.

  After checking if each judge was ready, the ref turned to Travis. “Fighter, are you ready?”

  Travis nodded, and the ref asked the same of Victor. Then he X’d his hands in front of him. “Fight!”

  The bell sounded and cheers whooshed, but everything faded to the background for Travis. He advanced quickly to center stage, matching Victor’s approach. The pair hovered around each other for only a moment before Travis stepped and hooked fast. Victor dodged it, so Travis swatted at him, goading him. Psychological play was part of his approach too. “Come on. You scared?”

  “Ain’t never been afraid of you, pansy,” Victor spat, fists held defensively in front of his face. The whisper of their feet dancing over the surface of the ring formed a meditative rhythm. Victor swung, and Travis leaned back, then faked a kick on his left. He switched at the last second, launching his right leg into Victor’s side. The sound of his foot connecting with Victor’s ribs felt like it ricocheted through the arena. The crowd gasped.