Page 2 of Falling for the Forbidden Fighter (She’s Worth the Trouble #3)

LOUIS

I’m fighting for my life.

The second I saw this girl, I knew it.

I’ve been fighting since I was a kid. On the streets, I ran my fist through anyone who gave me trouble. It’s always been a struggle…

Somehow, I’ve never been more afraid than I am right now.

This girl, Catherine , is fucking everything .

All my life, I’ve taken whatever steps necessary to move forward. To live. To survive. And, sometimes, to do the right thing, even when it hurts me. I’m a brick kicked down hill, bouncing and colliding, always moving without a clue as to where I’ll end up.

One look, and I finally feel like I have something to live for.

If there’s any prize on Earth worth winning, she’s standing right in front of me in a pair of tight orange gym shorts and a high-cut sports top.

She’s got the body of a fighter—lean, muscled, thick in the legs, curvy in all the places I shouldn’t look.

Makes sense if she grew up around The Blizzard.

Her old man pats me on the back, finishing up his spiel. Somehow, I knew exactly what he was going to say.

Touch my daughter, and I’ll break your fucking nose.

I’ll let her brother work you like that bag. Kid, you won’t even be able to see past all the blood.

Look at her wrong, hit on her, or try anything I deem inappropriate, and you’re done here. You won’t fight for me. Never.

To be fair to him, he ended the talk friendly enough.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says, clapping me on the back. “Catty, I’ll be in the office. Don’t go easy on him. Potential is wasted when we’re weak.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Catherine says, throwing me a friendly smile. “So… you ready to get to work?”

Work? What? What the hell am I even here for, again?

Training seems like some distant, silly dream. Unless part of that training is sparring with her… I’ll do anything to feel her touch, even if it’s at the end of a jab.

Luckily, her touch comes quickly.

Catherine kneels, working a thick band around my legs. The tension rests on my knees, and she pops up to face me.

“All right,” she says, avoiding eye contact. “I want you to squat slowly, hands out.”

I shoot my arms out, fingertips grazing her shoulders. “Like this?”

“Y-yeah…” She takes a step back. “Now squat, maintain that tension in the band.”

I do as I’m told, keeping my gaze on her, memorizing the birthmarks on her tanned arms. Girls back in Philly are pale, ghostly. She’s been perfectly sun-kissed, and I find myself desperate to taste what the sun has already sampled.

“Any injuries I should know about?” she asks, watching my form. “Broken bones. Torn ACL. Anything.”

“Broke my wrist when I was a kid. My nose. A few fingers. None of it bothers me, though.”

“How’d you do all that?”

“Fighting.”

She doesn’t respond, but I feel her tense. Is she scared of me?

“Your accent…”

“Yeah?”

She laughs. “You kinda sound like Rocky.”

“Whoa. Whoa.” I stop the exercise. “You think every fighter from Philly is Rocky? That’s a prejudice I’ve never experienced.”

“I didn’t tell you to stop, Rock.” Catherine circles me, occasionally placing her hand on my lower back or thighs to make adjustments. “Lower. You do a lot of PT in the Navy?”

“We ran. Calisthenics. Some weight lifting,” I grunt, legs starting to burn. “I mostly trained the heavy bag and jumped rope outside of matches.”

“That’s it?”

I shrug. “Not much room on a ship.”

She instructs me to lie on my back. Again, she puts her hands on me, moving my legs into awkward positions. “That hurt?”

“Na,” I wince. “Well, it feels tight.”

“You are tight. Like most guys.” She presses her chest against my leg, bending toward my face. “We’ll fix that.”

A strand of her auburn hair drapes down and tickles my nose as she leans over me. I lock eyes with her, praying that I can keep the blood from flowing to my cock. From here, I can smell cinnamon. Everything about her is warm .

“What about before the Navy? You’re, what, twenty-three?”

“Twenty-two. You?”

“Twenty-five.” Is she blushing? “I meant, what did you do before the Navy? Were you boxing?”

I pause, shake my head. “Not in a gym…”

Catherine looks like she wants to ask me something else, catches herself. What exactly did Sergeant Brewer tell Don about why I got kicked out?

“I was a dock worker. Port of Philadelphia,” I say so, we don’t have to get into it. “For a while, anyway. It was looking like I’d never get into the union. Needed a place to live. A buddy told me I should try military.”

“You were homeless?” She seems shocked.

“Sometimes. I crashed on couches a lot.”

“What about your parents?”

“Who knows,” I grunt through the stretch. “Dad bailed before I was born. Mom ditched me before I was a year old.”

Catherine holds my gaze. I swear, her fingers dig deeper into my thigh.

“That’s sad,” she says softly.

Is it?

It’s never been more than a fact of life for me. Most people have parents, families—I didn’t. Foster homes were my reality. Being sad about it won’t help anything.

“It is what it is,” I say, groaning as she finally releases me from the deep stretch.

Catherine pops up and offers me a hand. Our fingers lock together, lingering a bit after she helps me up. Over her head, I spot Don’s other kid, the guy with the mohawk, throwing me a dirty look from one of the rings before he throws a few punches that are too hard for sparring.

This is going to be trouble.

We work through a bunch of mobility exercises, testing my range of motion, searching for hidden pains. I’ve taken plenty of beatings in my life, but I’ve never had any injuries that could keep me down.

Even if I did, I’d still have to fight.

Catherine grabs my arm, stretching it back until I tell her it hurts. She holds it there, almost hugging my shoulder, eyes scanning down my forearm.

“Nice scar,” she says, eying the straight, thick line of tissue near my bicep. “You get that in the military?”

I shake my head. “Knife. I was fifteen.”

Her green eyes flash like light on steel. Is that fear?

I don’t want her to fear me…

“I avoid knives these days.”

“I hope so.” She clears her throat, releasing me. “Go ahead and work the bag for a while. Not quite full-speed.”

The way my blood’s pumping, I could smash that bag right off its chain. I could step outside and run a marathon in the New Mexico heat. Every time she touches me, I feel like I could go blow-for-blow with Ali, Tyson, and Pacquiao all at once.

“Slow down,” she insists as I wreck the bag. “I’m just gauging your movements. I know you can throw a punch.”

Somehow, it takes more effort to hit with less power.

I grunt through a few combos. My body is coiled and ready to explode.

Either I need to get in the ring with someone soon, or…

“All right. All right,” Catherine says. “That’s good for now.”

She’s writing on a little clipboard, hair falling over her eyes. I stand here awkwardly until she clicks her pen and starts putting her bands and medicine balls away. “Pretty sure my dad will want you back here before sunrise tomorrow morning. Let me check with him.”

“That’s it?” I step forward eagerly, grabbing her gym bag for her. “I mean, you don’t need to watch me hit the speed bag or anything? I could jump rope. We could spar or…”

“Easy, champ,” she laughs, killing me with that bright smile. “Today was just an evaluation. I’ll tell him what I think, and he’ll sit in his office all night sucking down shitty coffee and building your training regimen.”

“Will you be here for training?”

Catherine pauses, slips the bag off my shoulder, and shrugs. “Sometimes. Maybe. My dad and Ricky will handle most of it.”

I glance at her brother; he’s leaning back in the corner of the ring, watching me like a hawk.

“Something tells me your brother doesn’t want to train me.”

She looks back and rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry about him. He always acts like this with new guys.”

I step in front of her as she turns toward the office. “And what do you think?”

“What?”

“You said you’d tell Don what you think of me.” I try not to smile. “So?”

Rather than consult her clipboard, Catherine cocks her head, wearing a confident smirk that drives me wild.

“I think you’ve got potential.”

“Potential?”

“Uh-huh. Good power. Tight body, but nothing I can’t fix.”

I can’t keep the smile off my face.

“Not tight like that,” she says, blushing. “I’m a PT, Louis. Tight means tight . Range of motion. Mobility. Stretchy stretch.”

“Sure.” I nod, bouncing on my heels. “You gonna be stretching me out often, then?”

Catherine’s tongue presses against her bottom lip. “Me or my brother.”

In the ring, Ricky growls as he knocks his sparring partner in their headgear.

I clasp my hands together. “Please, don’t let him stretch me.”

“Just be a good boy and do as your coach says. Behave, and maybe you’ll see me around more often.”

She brushes past me, a wake of cinnamon warmth trailing behind her.

If she smiles like that at everyone, I feel bad for the guys in this gym.

I mess around on the speed bag while Catherine talks to her dad. Never had much practice with this thing, so finding the rhythm is awkward. Some old dude next to me smacks his bag to a perfect, high-tempo beat.

He laughs, “Keep practicing, kid.”

My instinct is to snap back, but I fight that down.

“Any tips?” I ask through bared teeth.

“Yeah,” he says, grabbing the swinging bag and nodding behind me. “Don’t fuck with Don’s daughter.”

I turn to find Catherine walking toward me, those long legs flexing with every step. She’s like gold.

“Tomorrow morning,” she says, hiking her gym bag up on her shoulder. “Five-thirty. Get here early to warm up. It’ll impress the old man.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“Anytime.” She touches me on the arm, fingertips like fire. “Good luck tomorrow, Louis.”

And just like that, she’s walking toward the doors.

My gaze never leaves her body, trailing down her spine, getting lost in that bubble butt as it moves in her tight shorts. She opens the door and steps into the hot afternoon.

I have no idea when I’ll see that angel again.