4. Chapter 4

One minute, Miranda Priestley was talking about the colour cerulean and the next I was waking up in my bed, tucked so tightly into the covers I could hardly move my arms. When I finally wrestled myself free and my brain started working at close to normal speed, I realised what had happened. I'd fallen asleep watching a movie. And someone had carried me to bed.

I looked to my left, hopeful that Bradley might have decided that our rather unprofessional professional relationship no longer needed the arbitrary boundaries we'd set. But no such luck. The Bradley-shaped hole in my bed remained as it had for years: empty.

Right. Time to get up. I gathered myself and trudged to the little en-suite bathroom to get myself ready. I turned on the warm water, kicking off my pyjamas and Bradley's dressing gown. I stepped under the spray and wondered if Bradley was undertaking the same morning routine in his much bigger bathroom at the other end of the house. Did he know how often I thought of him in the shower? Did he think of me?

One archaic rule that Jase insisted on Bradley following in the week before a fight? No emissions. No women, no men—not even himself. He said it increased performance to let that testosterone build. I wondered how often Bradley got hard knowing he couldn't do anything to relieve the pressure. Did that make it worse?

I always wished he'd let out all of that pent-up pressure on me after a fight—but he never did. I wondered if he was getting it elsewhere, because he never brought anyone back to the house. I just didn't know where. I didn't know whether knowing would make things easier or hurt all the more.

I pictured Brad after a match. Sometimes, one eye would be swollen or there'd be a cut across his jaw. There was something so primal about how he threw himself into the fight that turned me on to no end. I imagined that Bradley, the scary but erotic image of him after a fight, so pent up with energy and testosterone that he felt the need to push me to my knees and make me take him all the way to the back of my throat.

My hand strayed down to my own erection and I gave a couple of tugs, as if that would help relieve the pressure. Of course it didn't, so I let myself give into the fantasy of Bradley until I was shooting down the drain.

The post-nut shame hit hard, and I cleaned myself up as quickly and efficiently as I could. I dressed myself in my usual work gear—fancy-ish chinos and a button-down shirt from the charity shop — and made my way into the main belly of the house. Bradley wasn't awake yet and with a quick check of the clock, I noted that his alarm would wake him in ten minutes. So, I prepped his morning protein shake and waited.

When he finally stepped into the kitchen, I could have killed him. It was like he'd seen my fantasy play out and was determined to taunt me. He wore nothing but a pair of tight, white boxer briefs that left little to the imagination—very little.

"I could file a sexual harassment lawsuit, you know," I said. For a second, Bradley looked startled. And then he grinned.

"I believe it's in your contract that you might see me in ‘different states of undress.' It's hard to be prude when you're an athlete," he said, reaching for the protein shake. I moved it out of his way, then in the other direction when he grabbed again.

"Go put some clothes on and you can have your shake," I told him. "Be a good boy for your boss."

"I'm your boss," he growled, reaching for the shake I childishly hid behind my back. "Seriously?"

"Go put some clothes on," I repeated with a smile. I wish he knew it was for his benefit, so that I didn't start humping his leg.

Brad gave a resigned sigh. "Fine…" he muttered, turning around and taking a couple of steps away. Then, with boxer's speed and reflexes he spun and I found my back pressed against the counter. Despite my best efforts, he reached around me and grabbed the shaker bottle, but I kept a firm hold. Our faces were inches apart, but our bodies were flush from chest to toe.

"Mine," he panted. And it took me a second to remember he meant the protein shake.

"This is assault," I whispered, unable to stop myself from smiling.

"You wish." And it felt like he'd reached deep into my silly fantasy land and conjured up that exact scenario. The thought shocked me enough to let go of the bottle. Bradley grinned, but didn't step back. He was far too cruel for that. He stayed put, pressed against my body and drank the bottle down where we stood. Fuck. I watched as a stray drop dribbled down his chin and hit my chest.

When he was done, he gave me a toothy smile. For just a second, we stood there, so close we could kiss with hardly a movement. And then I shifted slightly, my leg connecting with something hard. Bradley moaned, the sound pulling from deep in his chest—and the moment was broken.

The shaker hit the floor with a clatter, remnants of shake splattering over our feet. I saw the moment the blood drained from Bradley's face before he ran into his room. I wanted to follow him, to ask what the hell he was playing at—but I was just the assistant. And as much as our friendly, antagonistic relationship had served us well, there were certain boundaries I couldn't cross. Rather, ones I shouldn't cross; and we'd definitely just crossed a line.

By the time I'd cleaned up the mess on the floor and washed the shaker bottle. Bradley returned to the kitchen wearing tracksuit bottoms and a grey tank top.

"Shit, that reminds me. Tattoo appointment. Wednesday," I said as I tapped out a confirmation email. "Do you have the design? Sophia's been asking."

"I'll send it through to her," Bradley answered. "Let me sort it.

"Are you sure? Do you even have her number?"

Bradley grimaced. "If you could send it over…"

"Or I could just send over the design, as I always do." I indicated his arm, the one that had been bare when we met. Unlike the wild designs decorating his right, the left was covered in writing. He'd told me they were boxing terms in the native languages of all the countries he'd fought in. After every win, I sent his requested phrasing to the tattoo artist for approval.

"I promise I'm capable of one thing," he said. "Let me handle that, you handle…everything else."

"Like media interviews? You have the Daily Mail coming this afternoon for an exclusive."

Bradley growled, as I knew he would. They had been the ones to out him almost a decade ago, and it had stalled his rise through the world of boxing. But he'd beaten the odds and was at the apex of his career now.

I sighed. "It's a condition of the fight, which you'd have known if you bothered reading anything I ever sent you."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it," he grumbled.

"No, but please don't be too antagonistic. My poor nerves can't deal with another Bradley Tyler Says Straight People Can Suck It headline." I gestured toward the door. "C'mon, Mister. Let's go. Don't want Jase whooping my arse for tardiness."

"You know it's my arse that he'll be whooping," replied Bradley.

The driver waiting outside beeped loudly. I pushed Brad gently towards the door. "Shoo. Move it. Let's get out of here."

I sat in the shadows, away from where the Daily Mail photographer had artfully posed Bradley in the middle of the ring, right under the hanging lights. I was there to observe—and to make sure he didn't say anything stupid. He had a temper, and protective instincts. Once they'd stopped the photoshoot—and I'd added a hundred images of Brad draped over the ropes in seductive poses to my wank-bank—the interviewer sat down with him on some simple metal chairs in the middle of the canvas.

"So, Bradley. How does it feel to be fighting Bartosh, one of the greatest fighters of this age?" she asked. Her tone was polite, but it was just a veneer. Somewhere under it all was a publication waiting for Bradley to fail.

"I'm also one of the greatest of this time," Bradley defended. He held up the belt that he'd won the year prior. "Two fights later and I'm holding on to this; I like my chances."

I sighed. His charm was effortless; he hardly had to think about it.

"Bartosh hasn't lost a fight in six years," said the interviewer. "You're saying that doesn't worry you?"

Bradley pinched the bridge of his nose, reining in whatever sarcastic comment ready to fly out of his mouth. Good boy. The media training I'd put him through had been worth it, though the years of Bad Boy of British Boxing had been entertaining at times.

"What I'm saying is that I can't worry more about this fight than any other. I need to concentrate as much as I would against any opponent." Bradley gestured around him. At what, I had no idea. "I want to fight, and I want to fight well. But I don't get there through fear. I get there through sheer determination. And I haven't lost a fight—ever."

"There's a first time for everything," she muttered.

"Like getting a positive write-up from the Daily Mail?" Bradley asked.

The woman briefly looked stunned before she schooled her features. "Bartosh has spoken about his family values and how having his wife and young daughter in the crowd helps him to focus. When you have none of that, no children, no wife, how do you bring yourself to fight?"

There it was: the question we'd all been waiting for. I stepped forward, ready to bring an end to the interview right then and there. But Bradley saw me out of the corner of his eye and motioned for me to stop, then curled his fingers imperceptibly toward himself. I approached, quietly.

"I have a family, but it doesn't look like the white picket fences you're idolising. I have my parents, who come along to every fight they can. My cousins, who do their best to see me when they're not busy with their own careers. My family is the men and women who come to this gym, day in and day out. It's my trainer, Jason, who is like a father to me. He's worked himself to the bone every day since I was sixteen to get me to where I am today. And I have my assistant, Arthur, who I'm with round the clock and who has become one of my best friends. And I'll remind you that I've been openly gay and an advocate for LGBT rights for almost all of my career, so the lack of wife should hardly be a surprise to anyone. A husband, though? I've hardly had the time."

"So you're saying the only people you consider family are those you pay to be around?" asked the interviewer. I wanted to climb over the ropes and go twelve rounds with her myself. I'd show her boxing. I'd be around Bradley whether or not he was paying me, and whether he wanted me or…okay, perhaps that was a little bit of an exaggeration. If he truly didn't want me around, he could tell me.

"You know what, Cynthia? I think you're right," said Bradley. "I don't know who my friends are. I've spent years winning fights and sitting on a rapidly growing bank account. And sometimes, it's lonely as hell. I've had no time to make friends unless I'm sparring with them in the ring or they're telling me I have yet another interview to do. And something has to change. So I'm retiring. I want to win this fight, then get out of the ring for good. I want to see what my life can be next."

After finishing his Shakespeare-worthy monologue, the ring had gone so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Cynthia seemed to have no idea what to say, but then she gathered herself. "What does come next? A wife…husband? Family?"

For a second, Bradley's eyes drifted to me, and my heart gave a little flutter. "Who knows?" he mused. "The next adventure."

I snapped out of my reverie. With the way the news cycle worked nowadays, I had to be ahead of all of this. I took out my phone and started to type.