Page 32 of Ryder: Shadows and Desires

Ryder’s gaze latches onto the stranger. I ignore him, as I want to prove that I’m not drama and can handle myself. At the same time, why does it matter what he thinks? All he did was buy me a coffee. After telling me he’s actively avoiding me.

The bearded fighter leans in, a slight bruise visible on his pale cheek. “But if Iwasflirting?” he insinuates, raking his gaze over me like nails on my skin.

I roll my head, finally facing him. “Dude, go away.”

“I’m just saying.”

I motion for him to move. “Give me some space.”

He doesn’t advance on me, but he doesn’t move away, either, like a shadow refusing to disperse. “Look, you don’t gotta be so aggressive. I’m hot shit back home.”

“Congratulations, now leave me alone.”

He moves his body so it appears like we are having a private, friendly chat. I tense, uncomfortably scanning the room. This isn’t the first time this has happened, but itisone of the first times Jeremy isn’t here to tell the men to back off.

Not thatIcan’t, but these assholes never listen to me.

I miss the way people didn’t mess with the gym owner’s sister.

Luke picks up on the change in my demeanor, setting down his weights like he’s about to step in.

But then Ryder—from the ring—takes out his mouthguard and leans against the ropes. “Hey, Pittsburgh trash, get in the ring,” he orders, his deep voice carrying through the loud gym.

The guy looks up at Ryder. “What’d you call me?”

“Put on your gloves and get in.” Ryder glares at him, affixing the mouthguard once more.

“Nah, man, you’re just gonna kick my ass.”

I snort, and the guy throws me shade, jutting his jaw to the side as if he’s about to say some rather colorful things. I shrug, motioning with my hand for him to go. “How about I learn your profile while you’re in the ring? I’ll keep a close eye.”

His eyes flare just as another shouts, “Bro, I got in with him. Don’t be chicken shit.”

“You got your ass handed to you,” the bearded one remarks, running a hand over his forearm, looking away from me.

Andrew yells out, “Get in. Or I’ll let your coach know you can’t spar with Ryder. Which is the whole fucking point to you guys coming down here.”

Ryder’s persistent gaze never relinquishes as he squares up his new opponent.

When the Pittsburgh competition puts in a mouthguard, Ryder’s concentrated glower flicks in my direction, then swiftly back at his challenger. My head lightly spins as my body betrays rationality.

When will this man stop having that effect on me?

The rest of the gym gets involved, all shouting and cheering, “Kick him!”

In this sport, like with any profession, people have their specialties. Ryder has three, with his top being his kicks, and the second his grappling. His third is his right hook.

The bearded man shouts through his mouthguard, “You fucking kick me, and I’ll knee the shit out of you.”

Ryder remains silent, his expression unchanged as his chest heavily rises and falls. A deadpan callousness removes all humanity from his face. His shoulders are hunched, his head leans forward, and he paces with a smooth stride.

There’s a violent calm about Ryder, like a caged fighter finally getting to use his body for what it’s designed to do.

Meanwhile, my heart races like it’s anactualfight.

Andrew yells at the bearded guy, “Go for his thighs if you can. He needs to work on that.”

Andrew smacks the ring floor, and the bearded one lunges at Ryder. No doubt, he’s hoping to take advantage of Ryder’s exhaustion—which anyone would suffer from with how much he’s sparred today.