The Gender Game by Bella Forrest (motivational novels .TXT) 📕

I thundered down the stairs and, grabbing a set of spare keys, raced out to him. He smiled faintly on seeing me, but his expression soon turned to surprise as I dashed toward him like I was being chased.

"Number thirty-two!" I hissed. "It's started again…" I went quiet, straining to hear. Yes, I could make it out from the front yard, although it was very faint.

"Let's get closer," Viggo said. "Get on the bike."

I climbed onto the seat behind him. Wrapping my arms around his waist, he tore up the road and stopped on the sidewalk opposite the house.

We got off the motorbike and moved by foot to the other side of the road, where we ducked down beneath a line of bushes. We held our breath, listening as the noise continued. More smashing had started. More pleas. Our faces inches apart, our eyes locked as we concentrated.

"Okay," Viggo said after a minute. "I've heard enough. First thing tomorrow morning, I'll lodge a complaint and have a colleague take the man in for questioning."

"Good," I said, breathing out in relief. Hopefully whatever was going on in there would be stopped sooner rather than later.

"You know, Violet," Viggo said as we began rolling back down the mountain, "you should have become a warden.”

Arriving at the Brunswick Arena, we descended to the basement and headed through one of the doors at the back of the auditorium. We passed down a narrow corridor and turned through another door into a small rectangular changing room equipped with a punching bag, a bench, a locker, towels, and other items of clothing. I also spotted a second door which led into an adjoined bathroom.

Viggo dumped his bag on the bench before sliding off his coat. Turning his back on me, he removed his black t-shirt. My eyes roamed his chiseled back, watching his muscles ripple as he rummaged in his bag for a pair of black shorts—the same pair he'd worn to his previous fight. He scooped up a towel and moved to the bathroom. "Taking a shower," he grunted. "Helps clear my head before a fight."

Viggo spent twenty minutes in the bathroom before emerging. His hair went straight and almost black when it was wet. The darkness of it somehow accentuated the sharpness of his eyes. His standing there damp and bare-chested made him look like some kind of wild, rugged warrior… and more attractive than I'd ever seen him.

He reached into a pocket at the side of his bag and pulled out a hair tie, fastening his long hair back. Then he pulled out a roll of bandage from his bag and began wrapping it around his knuckles. He used tape to tighten it before standing up and approaching the punching bag. He began to hit it, his punches gradually building in power, until the bag was swinging all over the place, hardly able to catch a break.

"Why don't you wear those thicker, tougher fingerless gloves I've seen the other fighters wear?" I asked him. "Why only bandages? Aren't you more likely to get injured?"

"Yes," he replied. "But it's standard at my level of fighting."

That made no sense to me. "What do you mean?"

"It's what the crowd is used to watching at sub-level. A portion of them prefer sub-level fights for this reason; it's less regulated. More danger involved without hard gloves. More pain."

"Sounds grim," I muttered.

He chose not to comment.

My eyes wandered again around the room. I noticed a pair of flat, cushioned gloves hanging from a hook near the locker. They were apparently designed for a trainer to catch punches. I reached for them and slid them on absentmindedly, as I flexed my wrists.

"Hey," I said, standing and raising my gloved hands. "Want to have a go at punching me instead?"

He paused and turned to me, his expression quickly turning incredulous.

"Why not?" I asked. "Nobody's watching."

He merely shook his head before resuming his focus on the punching bag.

I quirked a brow. "You don't think I can handle it?"

He didn't stop punching to face me this time as he replied through sharp breaths, "I can't throw a punch at a woman."

Hm.

I’d wanted to attempt to recreate the feeling I’d experienced in my gym sparring match with Viggo. But it seemed that wasn’t going to happen.

Not wanting to be pushy, I sat down again, glaring at my gloves. Still, I couldn't help but inform him, "I've fought girls as strong as men before." My mind turned back to Dina. Not as strong as Viggo, of course, but he didn't need to know that.

"It doesn't matter how strong you are," Viggo breathed. "I saw how you took down that guy in the street. I know you're skilled. But if you asked me to punch you, it wouldn't be a punch. It would be a nudge, a light jab at the most."

He worked himself up into another flurry of punches until he appeared to be satisfied that he'd warmed up enough. He backed away from the punching bag, tightening his bandages.

"Okay. How about I punch you? " It wouldn’t be the same as in the gym, but it would be better than nothing.

Viggo smirked. "That I could allow…"

I rose to my feet, removing the training gloves from my hands and handing them to him. But, on taking them from me, he discarded them on the floor. Apparently, he was going to use his bare palms as my target. Suit yourself.

He dipped into his bag and retrieved the roll of bandage. He moved to me, reaching for my hands, but I shook my head. "Come on," I said, rolling my eyes. "We're only going to be at it for a few minutes. You're gonna have to leave for the fight soon."

Still, he looked reluctant. "And what will I tell your husband if you go home to him with bruised knuckles? I already returned you once with grazed knees."

"My knuckles aren't made of flower petals," I replied.

He hesitated a moment more before resuming his position in front