Page 6

Marlon

I run a hand down the front of my shirt for what feels like the hundredth time. It’s the nicest button-up I could find in the rushed hour I spent at that boutique downtown. While the fit is decent, I can’t help but feel like I look like a kid trying to dress up for picture day. The sleeves are stiff, the fabric smells like it’s been folded in plastic for way too long, and the collar is choking me.

Why the hell am I nervous? I’ve stood in octagons with opponents twice my size, faced down journalists who were practically frothing at the mouth to take me down a peg, and fought in front of sold-out crowds who either wanted me to win or see me get my ass kicked. But somehow, meeting Grace’s parents is making me sweat like I’m cutting weight.

I glance at Grace out of the corner of my eye. She’s radiant tonight—her hair straightened out from the usual brown curls and pulled into some kind of loose, effortless updo that probably took her all of five minutes to perfect. She’s wearing this flowy navy dress that makes her look both elegant and approachable, and her smile as she glances at me puts me at ease. For a second.

Then she reaches over, brushing her hand lightly against my arm.

“You’re going to do great,” she says, her voice soft but amused, like she knows exactly what’s going on in my head.

“How can you be so sure?” I mutter, shifting in my seat as we pull into the driveway of her parents’ house. It’s modest but well-kept, with a wraparound porch and a light glowing warmly from the kitchen window. It looks like the kind of place where people sit down for Sunday dinners and talk about their days.

She leans closer, and her perfume—something floral but clean—fills my nose. “Because I know them. And I know you. And I promise, Marlon, they’re going to love you.”

I snort, trying to cover up how her words make something in my chest tighten. “What if I embarrass myself? What if your dad hates me?”

Grace laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that makes everything else fade into the background. “Trust me, my dad’s probably already a bigger fan of yours than I am. He used to stay up late to watch your fights on TV, and he won’t shut up about how he saw your match against Rivera live last year.”

“Rivera? That was one of my worst fights.”

“Exactly.” She grins. “He loved the underdog comeback. And my mom? She’ll win you over as soon as she brings out dessert. Just don’t let her intimidate you—she’s got a sharp tongue, but she’s all bark.”

The truck rolls to a stop and I put it into park. “Stay there.”

Hopping out I jog over to Grace’s side, pulling her door open and holding out my hand for her to step down. She gives me a reassuring smile before stepping out.

Shoulders drawn back and head high, she marches toward the house. Closing the door and locking the truck, I follow her lead, my palms suddenly slick as I smooth them on my jeans. This wasn’t in the plan. Hell, two weeks ago, I was just passing through town, looking for a distraction from the grind of training, the press, and the constant expectations. Grace was supposed to be a momentary reprieve, not the woman I’d be nervously meeting parents for.

But she’s different. And now here I am, standing in front of a house that smells faintly of barbecue and lavender, wondering if maybe—just maybe—I’m falling for her.

Her dad, Frank, meets us at the door with a grin that could rival the sun. He’s a stocky guy with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of warm energy that instantly makes me feel a little less like a fish out of water.

“Marlon!” he says, grabbing my hand in a firm handshake and then clapping me on the shoulder like we’ve been friends for years. “It’s an honor, man. I’ve been following your career since your early days. You’ve got heart, you know that? And skill, of course, but heart—”

“Dad,” Grace interrupts, laughing as she steps between us. “Let him breathe. He just got here.”

Frank laughs, not the least bit embarrassed. “Sorry, sorry. Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready.”

The inside of the house is just as inviting as the outside. The walls are lined with family photos, the furniture is cozy but well-loved, and the smell of something rich and savory fills the air. My stomach growls audibly, and Grace stifles a laugh.

Her mom appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She’s smaller than Grace, but there’s no mistaking where Grace got her sharp eyes and easy smile.

“So this is the famous Marlon,” she greets, looking me up and down like she’s sizing me up for a sparring match.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, suddenly unsure if I should stick out my hand or wait for her to make the first move.

She breaks into a smile that’s equal parts welcoming and mischievous. “You don’t have to call me ma’am. Makes me feel ancient. I’m Nina.”

“Nina,” I repeat, nodding. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She eyes me for another beat before turning to Grace. “He’s handsome. And he doesn’t look as cocky as I expected.”

“Mom!” Grace groans, her face flushing.

“What? I’m just saying.” Nina shrugs, then waves us toward the dining room. “Now, let’s eat before the food gets cold.”

***

Dinner is perfect.

Frank and I talk fights over plates of tender roast chicken, roasted potatoes, and green beans that remind me of home. He’s got a million questions—about my training, my toughest opponents, my favorite fight moments—and I answer them all, enjoying his genuine enthusiasm.

Nina, meanwhile, keeps things grounded with her quick wit, throwing in comments that make Grace groan and roll her eyes but have me laughing.

And Grace watches it all with a soft smile, her hand occasionally brushing mine under the table.

By the time dessert comes out—a homemade peach cobbler that’s somehow even better than the main course—I feel like I’ve known these people for years.

When we’re finally leaving, Frank pulls me into a quick hug and says, “You take care of her, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” I promise, and I mean it. I don’t know when or how I came to mean it that seriously, but I do.

Nina kisses my cheek and winks. “Don’t be a stranger, Marlon.”

I look over at Grace, who’s watching me with a warmth in her eyes that makes me want to promise her the world. After our goodbyes, the drive to Grace’s apartment is filled with quiet and tension. My blood is practically vibrating in my veins at her nearness and I can tell from the clench of her thighs and the soft breaths barely escaping her lips that she’s feeling the same draw that I am.

That’s why as soon as we’re inside her place, I press her against the door, my lips finding hers with a hunger I’ve been holding back all night. She responds just as eagerly, her hands sliding up to tangle in my hair as I lift her off her feet.

“You were amazing tonight,” she breathes against my lips.

“So were you.” I kiss her again, deeper this time, my hands sliding down to her hips. She feels like heaven in my arms, and I can’t get enough of her.

We move to the couch, and she pulls me down with her, her legs wrapping around my waist as our kisses grow more heated. My hands slide under her shirt, and her soft moan drives me wild.

“Grace,” I murmur, my voice rough with desire.

Her fingers thread deeper into my hair, pulling me closer as if no space between us can be left untouched. Her breath hitches when I shift my weight, pressing her further into the couch cushions. The scent of her skin is intoxicating, a mix of lavender and something warm and distinctly her.

I trail kisses down her jawline, the sound of her soft gasps and murmured encouragements fueling the fire coursing through my veins. My hands travel under her shirt, grazing the smooth skin of her sides, memorizing the way she arches into me like she’s as desperate for this as I am.

Her hands wander too, one sliding down my back, the other pressing firmly against my chest. When her nails lightly drag along my skin, I groan, deep and guttural, as if all the restraint I’ve been clinging to is about to snap.

“God, Grace,” I mutter against her neck, my lips brushing the sensitive spot just below her ear. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She tilts her head back, her pulse racing against my lips. “I think I’m starting to get an idea.”

The teasing lilt in her voice makes me chuckle, low and breathless, but the laugh dissolves quickly as her nails scratch gently over my scalp. Her legs tighten around my waist, pulling me impossibly closer. The soft fabric of her dress rides higher with every movement, and my hands follow the path of her bare skin, feeling the curve of her thighs under my palms.

Her lips crash into mine again, and it’s like every nerve in my body is on fire. I let my hand slide higher, feeling the edge of lace where her dress ends, and she shivers against me. My heart is pounding so hard it drowns out everything else—the world outside her apartment doesn’t exist.

Her voice is a whisper, but it’s enough to undo me. “Marlon…”

The way she says my name—breathless, full of heat and longing—makes me want to give her everything. To stay here, tangled up with her, where nothing else matters.

But just as my hand dips lower, my phone buzzes. At first, I ignore it, too caught up in the moment, but it buzzes again. And again. Grace pulls back slightly, her lips swollen and her breathing uneven.

“Your phone,” she whispers, her forehead resting against mine.

I groan, the sound guttural and annoyed as I drop my head to her shoulder. “It’s probably nothing.”

She laughs softly, her fingers brushing over the back of my neck. “You should check. What if it’s important?”

I want to argue, to convince her that nothing could possibly be more important than this moment, but the phone won’t stop buzzing. Reluctantly, I pull it out of my pocket, glancing at the screen. My manager’s name flashes across it in bold letters.

I sigh, my free hand still resting on Grace’s hip. “It’s my manager. He doesn’t call this late unless it’s urgent.”

She nods, pulling back slightly, though her hands stay on my shoulders. “Go ahead.”

I answer the call, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“Marlon, I’ve got news.” My manager’s voice is sharp, all business, and it instantly puts me on edge. “There’s a huge opportunity for you. An off-season fight in Chile. Short notice, but this could be career-changing. Build your fanbase, get international exposure—this is the kind of event that gets you on magazine covers.”

“Chile?” I echo, glancing at Grace. Her eyes are on mine, searching, though her expression is unreadable.

“Yeah. It’s a major deal, Marlon. We need to lock it down immediately. Flights leave the day after tomorrow, so you’ll need to head back to LA first thing tomorrow to start prep. Think of the doors this could open for you.”

My chest tightens. The world I’ve always known—the world I’ve fought tooth and nail to succeed in—is calling me back. And I know I need this for my career. I’m on my way to retirement. Another few years and I’ll be old news. I need a steady international fanbase to transition in the sports arena to something more than a fighter.

But it feels wrong. The very thought of being somewhere that Grace isn’t feels like the air is being dragged from my lungs. I glance down at her where she’s still sitting beneath me, her hands now resting in her lap.

“I’ll call you back,” I say abruptly, ending the call before he can push me further.

For a moment, the apartment is silent except for the faint sound of our breathing.

“You know you’re going, don’t you?” Grace’s voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the tension in it.

“I don’t know,” I admit, my hand running through my hair. “This fight…it’s huge. It’s everything I’ve been working toward. But, Grace…” I pause, struggling to put everything I’m feeling into words.

She stands, adjusting her dress, her arms wrapping around herself. “You have to go. It’s a big opportunity for you and you need to start considering what you’re going to do in retirement. Getting a global base of fans is a big deal for that.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. She knows exactly what I’m thinking. She gets me and she isn’t wrong, but hearing it feels like a loss I can’t quite name.

I reach for her hand, but she takes a step back. “Grace, I don’t want to leave you.”

She offers me a small, sad smile, her voice soft but firm. “I know. But you’re going to.”

With those words, she turns away from me, walking into her bedroom and softly shutting the door, leaving me staring behind her wondering what the hell just happened.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know anything but this ache between my ribs. So I do the only thing I can.

I walk away.