Page 1 of Falling for the Forbidden Fighter (She’s Worth the Trouble #3)

CATHERINE

I walk through the doors to the sound of gloves hitting bags. The impact, as always, shakes me to life. It jolts me awake.

The gym is crowded. It’s early, and a lot of guys get their workouts in before work or class. Two fighters spar in one of the old rings, dancing on the mat, jabbing and testing each other’s defenses at half-speed.

A few familiar faces pause their training to greet me. They go out of their way for it, smiling too broadly, wiping away the sweat, and obviously flexing for my approval.

“What’s good, Cat?”

“Cat, what you got going on this weekend?”

“Yo, Cat! Wanna run pads for me?”

They all know the rules, but they flirt with the line anyway. Too bad I’d never let any of them cross it. I give them friendly greetings, but that’s all they’ll get.

Growing up surrounded by fighters taught me a few things.

First, always keep your hands up. It’s boxing-101, but fresh and veteran fighters alike still forget it. Drop those paws, and you get mauled.

Second, never pick a fight, but don’t pretend like a fight’s not coming when it is. If some asshole is in your face, it’s better to throw the first punch so there won’t be a second.

And lastly, most importantly, never fall for a fighter.

I leave the boys taking out their sexual frustrations on punching bags and sparring partners, heading straight to the office at the back of the building.

The gym is neat, clean, and orderly (if a little aged), but my dad’s office is a windowless hole in the wall as cluttered as his mind.

Folders are stacked up on most flat spaces, extending the height of file cabinets toward the ceiling, covering up old posters from his glory days as a contender.

My attempts to convince him to let me digitize everything have failed for years.

He’s sitting behind his desk, wading through a sea of membership forms, notes on fighters, and contracts for bouts. That stubby, unlit cigar in his mouth looks so wet that it’ll start molding any minute now. His chair loudly demands WD-40 as he leans back.

“Morning, Catty,” he yawns. “Bring your old man a cup, would you?”

I drop my gym bag on his dusty old sofa and move a few things to access the ancient coffee pot. “We need to retire this thing, get you an espresso machine.”

“What even is that? Espresso. ” He puts his cigar in his ashtray and runs his fingers through his stubble. “Coffee is coffee.”

That’s my dad: Mr. Practical. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

We’ve got equipment older than I am, but he keeps it all working.

He’s a boxer from another age—a stout, solid man who downed a dozen beers after every bout, especially if he took a good beating.

He won’t turn his back on the old ways of doing things, or the old people who did them.

If he weren’t the way he is, he wouldn’t be so respected in the game.

“It’s elevated .” I pour two cups of the grimy stuff he gets from the dollar store. It smells like he brewed it yesterday. “I got a new machine at my place. Come over for dinner and I’ll make you some.”

“Busy,” he grunts. The man spends most of his waking hours here.

“I know, pop.”

I sit in the only uncluttered chair at his desk, slide him his mug, and grimace as I take a sip from mine.

“So, what’s up?” I ask, setting the mug down indefinitely. “I’ve got three patients in the afternoon, so whatever you need me for will have to be done before lunch.”

There’s a certain look my father gets when he sees something exciting on the horizon. He can’t help it. A mischievous grin cuts through his weathered face, making him look twenty years younger and like he hasn’t taken so many punches.

“New fighter,” he says. “Tough as nails, so I’m told. You remember Marcus Brewer?”

“Your old Navy buddy? I haven’t seen him in years. How’s he doing?”

“Nearly retired,” my dad laughs. “Old bastard stuck out the enlistment. There was a kid on his ship, good fighter, a little wild but solid. Undefeated in their ship league. The kid’s out of the military and in New Mexico…”

“He from here?”

My dad shakes his head. “East coaster.”

“Coming out here to train with you?”

“What?” He smiles. “Aren’t I prestigious?”

I hold his gaze. “You’re not telling me the whole story.”

He ignores me. “I need you to evaluate his mobility, help me with him, get him fast, and act as our cutman.”

Growing up around fighters taught me another thing: I don’t want to get punched for a living.

In fact, the idea of taking blows to the head is so repulsive to me that, even without my father telling me my entire life that I’d never be allowed to date a fighter, I never gave any of these guys a second glance.

Turns out, I like fixing people, not hurting them or getting hurt in the process.

Physical therapy became my fight. All the schooling, practical exams, rotations in hospitals, private practices, and rehab facilities to finally become a certified big-girl Doctor of PT two years ago.

Since then, I’ve been helping my dad with his fighters when I’m not helping my patients with my home-health gig.

So, him asking me to check out a fighter’s mobility is normal. But his tone, that smile, and the way he’s dodging my question, are anything but normal.

“What are you leaving out?” I ask. “What’s his deal—”

“Catty!”

Strong arms wrap me up from behind. Only one idiot in the world grabs me like this, and I’m unfortunately related to him.

“Ricky! Let go!” I can’t help but laugh as my big brother tickles me. “Would it kill you to just say Hello ?”

“You know you get special treatment.”

He rounds my chair, leaning against the desk with a shit-eating grin.

“Watch my stuff!” Dad bellows, grabbing a stack of tipping folders.

“I’d have to hold my breath not to knock something over in here, old man.”

Ricky runs his fingers through his low mohawk, sweaty from his morning work in the ring.

At thirty-six years old, he’s past his prime.

He had a good run, racking up a decent record, but he never climbed to our father’s heights.

Not for lack of trying, he just didn’t have it .

He’s even stockier than Dad, but slower and not as clever in the ring.

That doesn’t stop him from picking fights when he shouldn’t.

“This is controlled chaos,” Dad sighs. “Don’t fuck with it.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” my brother laughs. “New guy’s here. The chump who got kicked out of the Navy.”

I hide my face in my hand. “Kicked out? What did he do?”

“Beat the shit out of a few officers.” Ricky leans in conspiratorially. “Flew off the handle. Total psycho. It’s crazy that they’d let dicks like him in the military—”

Dad’s fist slamming the table shuts him up.

Folders and papers slide off onto the floor, but Dad doesn’t seem to mind, eyes locked on the back of my brother’s head. “You serve, son? In my old age, have I forgotten some stint you did in the Army? Marines?”

Ricky closes his eyes and sighs.

“Didn’t think so. Don’t speak about shit you don’t understand. Come on, kiddos, let’s welcome our new fighter.”

Neither of them meets my eyes as they walk out of the office.

“Come on, Catty.” Dad raps his meaty knuckles on the door. “I need you.”

I sigh and grab my bag. “Fuck.”

Back into the gym. It’s starting to empty out from the morning rush. My brother peels off from us, eager to start his client’s training session early so he doesn’t have to play nice with the new guy.

This is so like him. Anytime a fresh, young fighter with promise shows up in the gym, Ricky has to bluster and make sure everyone knows how tough he is.

Still, did this guy actually get discharged for attacking someone?

“That’s him over on the heavy bag,” Ricky says, pointing to a quiet corner of the gym. “Good luck, Catty...”

My eyes follow his gesture. On the mat, someone is giving our heaviest bag a working .

The hiss of his exhales propels punches that make the bag dance on its chain.

The bag conceals him, so I follow my dad around until he comes into view, silhouetted by the morning sun beating against our foggy windows…

Growing up around fighters taught me a lot.

How to take a hit.

How to give it right back.

How to fight until you’re out of breath, your vision swims, and sweat drips from every pore.

I didn’t grow up to be a fighter, but the lifestyle prepared me for my own fights, my own battles in life. My family made me tough, and they made me vow to never fall for men like them—men who get their heads rocked for a living.

None of it prepared me for this.

The man behind the bag drops his taped hands, chest heaving with his breath.

His lean, muscular body is slick with sweat.

Every inch of him speaks of unwieldy power waiting to be released, all resonating in wild eyes hiding in a stoic, bearded face.

Those eyes… there’s a darkness in them, something deeper than the muddy brown of his irises.

There’s a defensiveness about him, a guard that’s up even though no one’s throwing a punch his way.

Guys who box tend to be peacocks. It is what it is. They fight for glory and money and women… fame. It’s the economics of the fighting world—the culture that lifts up legends and ignites fires in young men hoping to become legends themselves.

This guy doesn’t look like any of those things. He’s unkempt, hair just starting to bristle out from those Navy days of buzz cuts, beard already full. His clothes are faded, like he’s worn them for years.

My dad nods, holds his fist out. “You must be Louis Mason. Don Winters. Welcome to my gym.”

Louis taps my dad’s knuckles as if he’s afraid he’ll hurt him, eyes darting to me, then back.

“Thanks for coaching me,” he says, still catching his breath. His voice is steely and smooth with a slight accent. “I won’t let you—“

“Hold on there, spunky,” Dad laughs. “I ain’t agreed to coach you just yet. I told Brewer I’d consider you. Consider . You know, evaluate. If I think you’ve got potential, then we can talk about training.” He gives the bag a soft jab. “And from what I just saw, I’m leaning toward potential.”

Louis doesn’t smile or boast; he nods a few times, eyes darting to me again.

I blush under the weight of his gaze, even if it’s only on me for split seconds before retreating. It’s like he’s already in the ring, darting in and out of noticing me, testing me…

Dad looks between us. “This is my daughter,” he says heavily. “Catherine. Everyone around here calls her Cat. She’s our resident physical therapist, cutman, medic… anything else?”

“Espresso hawker,” I say.

“Right. Catty’s gonna test your mobility, see if your body can take training with us.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Take it? I can fight, sir.”

“I bet…” Dad eyes the bag, noticing what I’m noticing: the impressions left by Louis’s big fists, still indented. “You can throw a punch, kid. From what Brewer told me, you can take a punch just as well. But I want power and speed.”

Don ‘ The Blizzard’ Winters throws a combination against the heavy bag. Even at his age, he can still muster explosions of speed that are hard to track with the naked eye. Those same indents look a little deeper than before.

“Power and speed,” my dad says, chest heaving from the effort.

Endurance goes with age. “If you train with us, we’re gonna change you, Louis.

We’re gonna beat you down. All your rough edges will be sharpened into fine, lethal points.

Mentally, maybe you can handle it. Maybe not.

That’s for you to decide. For me, I just need to know that your body ain’t hiding some injury or restriction that’s gonna fuck me down the line. ”

I roll my eyes, smiling as Louis catches me.

I know my dad. He’s being dramatic. The second he saw Louis working those combos into the bag, he knew he’d train him. He’d probably decided on Brewer’s word alone.

I’m still trying to figure out what I’m feeling…

“Catty, why don’t you get set up for your eval? I’m gonna have a quick man-to-man with our new guy.”

He pulls Louis aside as I start retrieving bands, small medicine balls, and a few small weights out of my bag. My dad speaks quietly, holding Louis’s gaze.

Yeah, I know what this man-to-man is about, too.

It’s the Golden Rule that anyone who trains here must follow. Betray it, and you’ll have two seasoned fighters going open season on you.

The rule was set down by my father, upheld by him and my brother, and respected by all.

Keep your hands off Don ‘ The Blizzard’ Winters’s daughter.