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completely. My hand twitches towards my cock, but before it makes contact, I bite the bullet and slap the hot tap, drenching myself in cold water. I grit my teeth against the freezing temperature, and when I’m certain my boner won’t come back, I shut the water off and step out of the shower. I reach for a towel and quickly run it over my body before wrapping it low on my hips.
    My skin is still damp as I march through my room and throw on a white tank top and slip into a pair of shorts, tossing my towel to the side. I glance over my shoulder at the clock on my wall. Fuck. How long was I in there?
    I’m running late and I don’t think I can handle the five minute planks as a punishment today. Darryl makes me do them whenever I’m late and I don’t care who you are, they fucking hurt. I slip into a pair of ankle socks and tear from the room.
    I stroll through my kitchen, swinging by the fridge and claiming a yogurt from inside. As I pass the bench, I reach across and grab a granola and nut bar from the fruit basket. I hate training on an empty stomach. I tear the lid of f the yogurt tub and drink it, pouring the sour Greek yogurt down my throat. The nutritionist the MMAC assigned to me would have a fit if she knew how little food I’m consuming this morning and the fact that I’ve yet to take one of their protein shakes.
    As I reach the front door, I slip into my shoes, step outside , and lock my door behind me.
    The drive to the gym passes by quickly and I pull awkwardly into a space. I’m sure my wheels are over one side of the line, but I don’t bother rectifying it—not while I’m busy staring at the giant billboard of me bolted to the top of the gym. It’s much bigger that I expected…
    This is real.
    This is happening.
    Shit .
    I exhale and close my eyes. I’m a pro MMAC fighter with huge billboards of myself spread all over America …I deserve it. I fought my ass off to make this happen, so why does this whole sport suddenly feel so new to me? I open my eyes and look up at the billboard. I’ve never been the kind of person who loves themselves, despite what other people might say about me—and looking at my picture—topless with my fists up, all taped and dirty, makes me cringe. I never want to do a photo shoot again. I’ve never felt more feminine in my life than I did that day. One shoot is more than enough. They better re-use that same photo for the rest of my career.
    I slip f rom the car and shut the door, pressing the buttons on my keys to lock it. I saunter toward the gym, still tired, even after my shower. I hate skipping breakfast. I need meat, I need eggs, and I need a million other things just to keep me running all day. Going off the way I feel now, I’ll be lucky to make it to brunch.
    As I approach the door, I notice three men in brightly colored overalls installing our new security system and cameras. Olivia fought me a little on the cameras. She insisted they were unnecessary—and they were—until the grocery store down the road was broken into.
    I reach out to push the gym door open, but a buzzing in my pocket forces me to withdraw my hand and retrieve my cellphone from my pocket. Jackson’s name flashes across the screen and I contemplate answering it. He’s undoubtedly going to chew my ass off because I’m running a little late. I hit answer and bring it to my ear.
    “I’m here now ,” I say.
    “Hey, man.” Jackson clears his throat, ignoring my greeting. “I’m not going to make it to the gym today. Selena and I got into it this morning because I almost punched her father in the mouth.”
    A laugh rumbles through my chest. “You almost punched her father?”
    He growls. “You should meet the fucking guy. He’s a fucking dickbag and he treats her like shit. No wonder she has so many issues.”
    I don’t comment. I’ve never really spent time alone with Selena. I don’t know if she has any deep seated issues—hell, I don’t even know what her favorite color is.