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THREE

I particularly looked forward to him kissing the hell out of me afterward, claiming me wildly with his mouth, hands, and body. For a moment, it felt like I was the only prize that he ever needed.

Goddammit, Sienna. I mentally slap myself for letting my thoughts catapult to Jax again. He's not worth it. He cheated on you. He's not worth loving anymore.

Banishing thoughts of him from my head, I set my gym bag down, then aim for Julian's office. He's a burly, middle-aged man with a shaved head and ink running down the sides of his arms. When I walk in, I find him perched behind his desk, his huge hands cupping a pink doughnut with sprinkles on it. I like that he just eats whatever the hell he wants. Since leaving the UFC several years back and opening this gym, he keeps up with a training regimen from time to time but can't be bothered with the strict diet.

He's still one of the best MMA fighters I know. Legendary, in fact. Everyone who fights in the area knows who he is: UFC Middleweight Champion for five consecutive years. He was known for having a dynamic fighting style and was skilled at exploiting the gaps in his opponent's game. A truly unique fighter. But to the shock of many, he decided to leave the UFC before he could make it to a double hat trick win. Said he wanted to quit while he was still ahead and leave a legacy that wasn't tarnished by the slow decline of age and sustained injuries. It was a move that invited a lot of controversy, and most people give him shit for it, but I respect his decision. It's the reason why Universal Fighter's Gym exists today, so I'm grateful.

Julian licks his icing-coated fingers and gives me a curt nod when I pop my head into his office.

"Hey." He acknowledges me, raising a perplexed brow as he straightens in his seat. "What are you doing here? I told you your evening class with Parker got postponed. Said he injured his leg hiking a few days ago."

"Yeah, I know. But I just can't seem to stay away from my favorite trainer," I say cheekily, and he makes a big show of rolling his eyes and scoffing his irritation. He hates that I still call him that even though he doesn't do training sessions anymore, preferring to focus on gym operations instead. My head whirls around to see the nearly empty gym. "Where is everyone?"

Julian looks disappointed when I remark about the turnout.

"You know where." He shrugs, his attention falling back to his half-eaten doughnut. "Watching the fight."

My lips pucker into a frown. Usually around this time of the year, Breaking Point, a rival MMA gym, holds the biggest underground fighting event in Boston. It's a no-holds-barred tournament where the stakes are high and one wrong move can quite possibly cripple you for life. This isn't just regular MMA shit. It's MMA on crack, where all the standard rules are thrown out of the window.

There's a strict no gloves and padding rule to maximize the carnage in the cage. The refs don't care about safety, and the fighters aren't insured, which makes watching someone snap a leg or break a rib much more difficult to watch. Every time I go to one of those matches it feels like being in a butcher's shop, the smell of sweat and blood and savagery making my stomach churn with discomfort.

The underground is illegal and circulates a lot of money, but they have a tight relationship with the Boston Police Department, so the force usually turns a blind eye to the gym's affairs.

Julian has a love-hate relationship with Breaking Point. While he doesn't mind watching the occasional fight there, he has a strict no illegal shit rule when it comes to training fighters at his own gym. At UFG, he only breeds fighters he knows are clean—from both steroids and the underground—and those he's hopeful will be able to go pro someday. UFG has a stellar reputation because of this, but unfortunately, a stellar reputation doesn't always equate with profitability, driving some of the most promising fighters who are looking to dabble with the dark side from UFG to Breaking Point.