LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Well, I’m not going to stay in this position, am I?” Of course, it wasn’t only his push that had tipped her off balance. “I thought the idea was to drive forward and attack. Like this.” She lunged at Kyle and crashed into his middle, wrapping her arms around his waist and dragging him down. He was solid and warm, exactly as she’d imagined. And though they’d never sparred, this felt comfortably familiar.

      He fell to his butt as she climbed on top of his chest. She was easily fifty pounds lighter than he was but kept him effectively pinned. She’d only managed that twice with her brothers. Heady triumph filled her as he struggled.

      “Get off me!” Kyle roared.

      She leaped off. Had she hurt him? He scrambled to his feet and took four big steps away.

      “I’m sorry, I didn’t feel you tapping out—”

      He gave her such a nasty look she snapped her mouth shut. “Don’t ever do that again,” he snarled. “We don’t have matches without refs, and we don’t attack people who aren’t ready.”

      “I didn’t mean—”

      “Lesson’s over. Practice your stances. You don’t have the basics down at all.”

      “Kyle—”

      She watched him stalk off. She kicked at the air. Porra! She wasn’t going to get anything right around him, was she?

      * * *

      HADRIAN BLACKWELL WHIPPED his cell phone onto the ground, and the pieces of shattered plastic case scattered across the hardwood floor. He forked his fingers through his hair and grabbed fistfuls at his temples, ready to tear it out.

      Soft footsteps alerted him he was no longer alone in his home office.

      “Babe? Something wrong?”

      He looked up and his heart skipped a beat. He would never get used to seeing her like this—Quinn Bourdain in a silky cream negligee, her red-gold hair tumbling around her shoulders, barefoot and free of makeup toddling around his house. The sight of her nibbling on her lower lip worriedly made him ashamed of his violent outburst.

      “I just got a call from Wendell McAvoy.” He stooped to gather the pieces of the phone. “He’s out. Torn ACL.”

      Quinn’s hazel eyes snapped into focus and she straightened. “That’s official?”

      “Doctor said he’ll be in recovery for months.”

      She left the office in a flutter of silk. Hadrian shook his head and followed her to the bedroom, where she was already pulling on her bra, panties and socks. She cradled her cell phone between her shoulder and cheek.

      “Jason. Yeah, it’s me. McAvoy’s out of the UFF anniversary fight. ACL injury. Can you make room?” She paused, casting her speculative gaze on Hadrian. “No, I’m thinking more like a quarter page. Let me see what I can get first. I’ll call you back.”

      “Do we really have to do this now?” Hadrian groaned.

      She pulled one leg through her jeans. “I have to pay the rent somehow.”

      “That wouldn’t be an issue if you just...” He trailed off at her pointed look and raked his fingers through his hair again. For months, he’d been asking Quinn to move in with him and quit her job, but she’d refused. She loved being a sports reporter on the MMA beat, even though it frequently put them on opposite sides of the table. Seeing her scramble back into work mode, so eager to leave their bubble of bliss, made him want to tie her down. Preferably to the bed.

      “Stop, stop, stop.” He took her by the wrists as she reached for her T-shirt. “What’s the rush?”

      “You don’t want me to interview you topless, do you?” A single, plucked eyebrow arched. “You wouldn’t be altogether there if I did.”

      “Hey, I’ve had to wheel and deal with guys running around with their junk hanging out in the locker room. I think I can handle a little boob.”

      “‘Little’?” She feigned outrage and placed her hands on her hips, making her chest jut forward. Of course, Hadrian had seen bigger. But he opted for the politically correct response.

      “No, perfect.” He tried to give those perfects a squeeze. She evaded him.

      “Sorry, babe. Mood’s gone, and I’ve got a story to chase.”

      He moaned. “Damn it, I shouldn’t have answered that phone.”

      “Told you so.” She grabbed a pen and notepad from her overnight bag then turned on a digital voice recorder. “Okay, so McAvoy’s out of the big tenth anniversary matchup?”

      He sighed. He should’ve asked her to go home and change into her reporter’s outfit—the ugly almost ten-year-old burgundy pantsuit and white button-up shirt she’d been wearing to UFF press gigs since she’d started her career. That suit was as effective as a chastity belt.

      He tore his eyes from her jeans and bra combo, and turned his back to her, mustering up his public voice. “The word from the McAvoy camp is that Wendell suffered a serious ACL injury and will be in recovery for at least six months.”

      “Do you have a replacement in mind?”

      “Gimme a break, Quinn, I heard about this exactly thirty seconds ago.”

      Lips pursed, she waited.

      “Fine. We’re working on finding an appropriate match against Darren Dodge.” He’d be making a lot of calls that weekend. He always had backups for the main event, but he’d already used four of them to fill other holes on the card.

      “This is the fifth fighter to drop out of this event. People have said the anniversary is cursed.”

      “Off the record, people are idiots.” When Quinn gave him her “be serious” look, he went with the company line. “Injuries happen, and the health and welfare of my fighters is important. A torn ACL is nothing to take lightly.”

      “But the last three cancellations—DePolo’s doping scandal, Vasquez’s battery and assault charge against McCaffrey, Brown’s controversial remarks about—”

      “I read the news, Quinn.”

      She sucked in a lip and plowed on. “These infringements are indicative of something more pervasive and widespread in the UFF. You’ve got bigger prizes, more at stake, and more fighters and gyms competing with each other every day. Is the increasing pressure to perform driving fighters to justify unsportsmanlike behavior?”

      Hadrian stared at her, trying to sort out her eye-crossing question. “That’s a lot of ten-dollar words to be throwing around on a Saturday, Quinn. Sounds like you’ve been holding on to that question for a while. When were you planning to spring it on me?”

      “Sunday night, probably.” She shrugged. “It’s just business, babe.”

      He stuffed down his irritation and the resentment that her answer had tweaked. “I have a deep respect for these fighters,” he said, clearing his throat, “and I put all my confidence in them to behave appropriately. Whatever beef they have with each other, whatever they’re doing to their bodies—legal or otherwise—that’s their deal. I can’t control them every second of every day. They know the rules. They should know how to conduct themselves.”

      “But you have to admit, you’ve made the stakes such that the UFF is the only game in town.”

      “That’s not true. There are dozens of other leagues—”

      “That can barely compete, and you know it. That’s why you’ve been buying them up, isn’t it?”

      He threw his hands in the air. “I thought this weekend was supposed to be about having fun.”

      She shut off her recorder. “I’m not attacking you, Hadrian. I’m asking a valid

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