Page 3 of Crazy In Love (Love & War #2)

CHRIS

“You’re embarrassing me, dude.” I stand over my fighters—Cliff and Tommy—and shake my head with frustration.

Tommy is my best friend. He’s my twin brother.

Honestly, he’s my whole fucking world, but right now, he’s the enemy, and though everyone expects him to be the better fighter—the title belt hung on his office wall kinda says so—the years I’ve spent working with Cliff on his ground game are starting to feel like an exercise in insanity.

He’s not ready to defeat the champ. Not even close.

“Bridge your hips.” I lower into a crouch and stare into Cliff’s widening eyes. His dark red face. His white neck, wrapped in Tommy’s furious lock. “You gave him your back, then your front. Now you’re all tangled up and about to go to sleep.”

“He can’t escape this one,” Tommy grunts past his mouthguard. “Ready to reset?”

“Nope.” To reset would be to give my fighter a pass . Which is how we repeat our mistakes. So I deny him the out and tap his left ankle. “You gotta get this leg around. Snake it under and use your knee to force that space.”

“He’s not breathing. Reset?”

“Bring your leg under!” I reach between the two of them and grab Cliff’s ankle, dragging it around while I ignore his reddening face. “You fucked up when you put your neck on the chopping block, so now you fight for your life, or you accept your fate and close your eyes.”

“Chris—”

“You wanna win at the next Stacked Deck tournament? Means you’ve gotta focus on your ground and pound. The Rollers dominate on the mats, and they sure as fuck aren’t screwing around when they’re supposed to be training. Right now? You’re embarrassing our gym.”

“Yeah. But I’m making friends.” Cliff wiggles and steals an inch of space, drawing a deep breath into his lungs and snaking his leg around Tommy’s to lock in his hooks. “They like me there. So that’s nice.”

“So retire and become the next Mrs. Kincaid.” Tommy slams his elbow into the side of Cliff’s neck, breaking their grips and rolling away until he flops to his back.

Panting, his sweaty chest lifts and falls in search of air.

“You’re more focused on flirting with those girl fighters than you are about bringing one of those belts back to our gym. ”

“I mean…” Cliff starfishes the canvas, arms and legs spread wide, and a goofy ass grin plastered across his face. “I’m not flirting with them or anythin’, since most of ‘em are married already. But I enjoy the tournaments and training with the champs every year.”

“You’re training with the champ right now,” Tommy snarls. “Fuck you very much.”

He laughs. “ Different champs, Boss. Geez. Don’t get your feelings hurt. If you’d make the drive with me in December, you could fight Conner and put that beef to bed. But you won’t, so you?—”

“Can’t,” I insert. “Contracts were already signed, and some of us like money.” I drop to my ass and rest my elbows on my knees, dangling my head until the stretch in the back of my neck feels good.

“He chose right, and Conner chose right. Their paths were heading in different directions. But you,” I meet his smug gaze, “you’re just a shitty fighter, no matter where you’re competing. ”

“That was unkind.” He runs a gloved hand through his hair, cut short when it’s typically on the shaggier side. “Why do you insist on being mean to me, Coach?”

“Because you won’t fight the way I want you to.”

“With the mongrel in my blood,” he snickers. “You want me to be a killer, when mostly, I just enjoy the sport and meeting new people.”

Literally the opposite of everything I stand for.

“You asked for our blessing to fight at Stacked Deck.” Tommy rolls to his hands and knees and crawls to his water bottle. “You’re never going pro the traditional way, and the Rollers are happy to take your five hundred bucks. We were cool with it. But Jesus.”

“You’re not cool with it anymore?”

“You keep losing!” I lift my head and tilt it backward, extending my throat instead. “You mosey on over to that other gym every December and twirl around like you have no worries in the world. But everyone else is there to win. It’s war for them, but it’s just a fun adventure for you.”

“They fight for the money and belt. I fight for the chance to see those girls in their booty shorts.” His lips curl into a long, arrogant grin.

“Maybe they’re married up and happy, but their booties are booties worth looking at, ya know?

The Rollers have got way more girl fighters than we do.

You could do with a little diversity, Coach.

The War Room’s looking a little ‘ Ol Boys Club right now.”

“We have Eliza.” Tommy gestures toward the boxing bag currently being decimated by Eliza Darling— not a darling in any sense of the word . She may be small, but she’s strong as an ox, and her roundhouse kick will knock even the fiercest competitor down a notch.

“Sure. We have Eliza.” Cliff twitches at every blow Eliza slams against the bag, a sprinkle of sand hitting the mats after every strike until it becomes the playlist to today’s sweat session.

“But we don’t watch her booty if we wanna keep our insides inside .

Feel like we learned that lesson a long time ago. ”

“And here I thought you were a decent, respectful ally to womankind. Turns out you’re a secret perv looking to scam on girls.”

“Nah.” Re-energized, he pops to his feet and wanders to the cage. “I’m allowed to appreciate so long as I’m not a dick about it. But not Eliza. I’ve known her since she was a kid, so it feels weird checking out her bum.”

“Check out my bum, and I’ll gut you.” Eliza rotates into a ferocious spinning kick, stabbing the bag with her heel and knocking a heap more sand to the floor.

She lowers her hands and folds at the hips, panting past her mouthguard.

But she hits us with a heated glare. A warning most others know to heed .

“Stop talking about me while I’m training. It’s rude.”

“Was just trying to make a point, Ms. Darling.” Blowing an obnoxious kiss, Cliff turns his back to the best chick fighter in this town and the next, too oblivious to be afraid.

Then he leans against the cage and stares at me square on.

“I live in Plainview. I train in Plainview. My allegiances belong to this gym, this family, and this shitty town that doesn’t even have a decent strip club to relax in after a long day of work.

But a little skippity-hop a couple states over once a year makes for a nice vacation.

I’m not there for the belt, Coach. And if that bothers you, then I guess that’s gonna be a you-problem. ”

His non -desire for a win irks me on a soul-deep level, since we train for a purpose, and entering a tournament should come with the intention of winning. But I clamp my lips shut and save myself from their mocking barbs.

Something about routine and being highly strung.

“Somebody help me.”

Ready for war, Tommy’s eyes swing toward the door, his shoulders coming up defensively. Then Alana waddles through with her nine-month-pregnant belly and a groan. Her face is red with exertion, and her bow lips move into a pout. “I’m begging you. Get a steak knife and put me out of my misery.”

“Not really something you should say in public.” Tommy pops to his feet and tosses his water bottle, then he bursts through the cage door in three long strides, wrapping himself around her exhausted body and placing his hand under her belly.

“You’re almost done, baby.” He presses a kiss on her cheek.

Then the other. Her lips. Her forehead. “We already hit forty weeks. We’re just waiting for her to decide she’s ready to come out. ”

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” She drapes her arms over his shoulders, giving him her weight to hold. “I can’t sleep. I can’t hardly eat.” She pulls back and growls. “I can’t breathe! She’s crushing my lungs and bladder at the same damn time.”

Franky meanders through the door with his nose hidden behind a book and his blue-framed glasses slipping along his nose.

He doesn’t watch where he’s walking, which, for a clumsy kid, makes for a treacherous trek, but muscle memory allows him to walk past his mother, scowl as he passes Tommy— that bastard stole his mom —and come all the way to the cage door without stumbling.

Finally, he brings his eyes up and blinks until they focus on me.

“Hey, little dude.” Playful, Cliff strolls across the canvas and peels his fingerless gloves off his hands. “How was school? Make new friends? Beat anyone up?”

Franky merely stares. He’s got this savage ability to look straight through a man and keep his mouth shut, and though society says he should speak, and most others will toss out a ‘ hey ’ just to appease the masses, Franky merely shrugs and brings his eyes back to mine.

He’s my buddy. Not Cliff’s.

“How was school? Molly still causing a ruckus in class?”

He closes his book and sets it on the step, then he toes his shoes off and carefully sets his glasses inside one for safekeeping. “Molly makes a ruckus every single day. But I kinda like it because then everyone pays attention to her and leaves me alone.”

“Wow.” Cliff rolls his eyes—and his head for extra emphasis—before stepping through the cage door. “I’ll get you someday, little dude. I’ll secure that hello and finally become one of the cool crowd.”

Franky watches him in silence, eyes narrowed and breaths measured. And only when Cliff passes into the hall does he bring his gaze back to me. “He’s loud, too. He doesn’t care about my day. He just wants me to talk to him.”

I lower to my knees, a muscle memory I’m not sure I remember creating, and offer my fist for him to tap.

Then I grin and slowly circle. Fight . “Cliff is a pretty nice guy, so if he’s asking about your day, I reckon he cares.

But he’s also a showoff and loud as hell, so I believe him when he says he’s aiming for that hello .

Doesn’t mean he’s an ass for it. He’s just a friendly type. ”