Page 9 of Between the Ropes

“Oh, I bet,” Annika says with a giggle. “This is exactly what you need! A hot, muscular wrestler to shake things up. Come on, Nat, live a little! Think about how all of that would feel pressed up against you, or better yet, on top of you.”

“Please,” I groan, shaking my head even though she can’t see me. “The last thing I need is to get involved with a wrestler. I’m here for work, not to screw things up by falling for some guy. Especially not a guy like Ryan Pierce.”

“Why not?” Annika teases. “He sounds like exactly what you need. A little fun, a little distraction. A whole lot of muscle.”

I sigh, stretching out on the bed. “There is nothing little about Ryan Pierce, besides I’m taking this job seriously. I’m not going to let a guy mess it up for me. I need this.”

“Sure, sure,” Annika says, not convinced. “But you never know, Nat. Sometimes, the things we least expect are exactly what we need.”

I roll my eyes again, but a small part of me wonders if she’s right. I can’t afford to get distracted right now. But the way Ryan looked at me in the lobby, the way he made my stomach flip… it’s dangerous.

And I’m not sure if I’m ready for that kind of danger.

6

The obnoxious beep of my alarm pierces through the early morning silence, dragging me out of the last remnants of sleep. 4:00 AM. My body groans, but my mind is already on autopilot. I push the covers off and swing my legs out of bed, the cold air hitting my skin. Another day, another grind. I reach for my phone to turn off the alarm, blinking the sleep from my eyes, and let out a sigh before heading into the bathroom.

By 4:30, I’m in the hotel gym. As usual it’s empty, just the way I like it. The quiet morning hours have become my favorite time. The machines are lined up neatly against the back wall, weights stacked, everything pristine. I roll my shoulders, feeling the tightness in my muscles ease a bit. The gym might as well be my church; it's the one place where I can think clearly, without distractions.

Just as I am finishing my warm-up on the treadmill, Travis strolls in, a little late, like always. He smirks when he sees me already getting into it. “You could’ve waited, man. Let me catch up before you start showing off.”

I snort, grabbing a set of dumbbells. “Yeah, because I’m here to wait on you.”

We fall into our usual rhythm, working through a set of chest presses. Travis is good company — we've been on the road together long enough to know each other's pace. The clang of weights and our steady breathing fills the space as we push through the workout. It keeps me at my best working out with Trav, a little friendly competition to push harder with each rep.

“So,” Travis grunts between reps, “how was the new girl? The one you met at the airport and took to the office.”

“Medical massage intern,” I say, my voice even, keeping my attention on the barbell in my hands. “She seemed young, nice enough, I think she’ll stick around.”

He chuckles, raising an eyebrow as he sets down his weights. “She cute?”

I shrug, wiping the sweat from my forehead. “Wasn’t paying attention like that.”

“Yeah, right.” He eyes me skeptically, then shifts gears, the familiar smirk sliding across his face. “You know who’s been looking real good lately? Chrissy. You see her in the ring last week? Damn, she’s fine.” He stares at me, waiting for my response.

I roll my eyes. Chrissy. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Trav. I don’t do relationships. I keep telling you this. You do you, and I’ll do me.”

“It doesn’t have to be a relationship, bro. Could just be some fun. You know, stress relief, a little hookup. Release some of that tension you’ve got.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t shit where I eat.” I stand up from the bench, stretching out my arms. “Just because I don’t tell you every time I get with a chick doesn’t mean I’m not doing it. Trust me, I’m fine.” I smirk at him. “But thanks for your concern, Dr. Travis.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Just making sure you’re not going soft on me.”

We finish our workout in comfortable silence, the sound of weights clinking together in a familiar cadence. It’s what I need — the grind, the sweat, the routine, the competition. When the last set is done, I grab my towel, wiping across my forehead, and the back of my neck.. Travis claps me on the back.

“Alright, man. Time to clean up. We’re meeting at 6:30 in the lobby, right?”

“Yeah,” I nod, grabbing my water bottle and taking a long gulp. “Airport’s not far. I’ll see you down there in a few.”

Back in my room, I strip down and step into the shower, the water scalding hot as it pounds against my skin. My muscles ache, but it’s a good ache, the kind that reminds me I’m alive, that I’m doing something. The heat loosens the tension in my shoulders, running down over the tattoos that cover my arms, chest, and back.

I glance down at the lock tattooed over my heart, my fingers grazing it lightly. The ink stretches across my skin, blending with the other marks of my past — scripture running down my ribs, the sprawling designs that twist over my arms. They’re all pieces of me, reminders of who I was, who I still am, and who I am going to become.

I run my hands through my long, dark hair, now drenched from the shower, and scrub my chin where the scruff’s starting to grow out again. The water drips down over my chest, over the hard ridges of muscle that’ve taken years of work to build. I’ve been religious in the gym, even on days I wanted to skip it. I’veearned every scar, every bruise, every ounce of strength that’s gotten me this far. And I am nowhere close to being done.

The road's long and unforgiving, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. This year, I’m making it to the top. I've put in the time, paid my dues, and now it’s my turn. I won’t stop until that title is around my waist, and even then I will defend it with everything I have.

I step out of the shower, drying off and glancing at the clock. 6:15. Time to move. I pull on some clean clothes, a pair of gray sweats, and a t-shirt, grab my bags, and head down to the lobby where Travis is already waiting. He gives me a nod when he sees me, slinging his own duffel over his shoulder.

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