Stiletto Sisterhood

Original Edition: Shay| Get your head in the game

Pain was a white hot flash behind her eyes and Shayne cursed hotly, in fluent and seething Spanish.

"Serves you right," Asher scolded, releasing her face. "What the hell was wrong with you? A toddler could've ducked that elbow." A warm, wet rag was pressed to her throbbing right brow, obscuring half of his stern, unamused face. "We're three weeks out, Melo. You've gotta get your head in the game if you think you stand a chance of beating Pacheco."

"It's just a scratch."

"I can see your f*cking skull, kid. It's more than a scratch. You need stitches."

"Asher, seriously—" Shayne attempted to scoot off the examination table Asher had set up in the back of the gym when the world went a little woozy. His hands braced her shoulders, eased her back so she was propped against the wall.

"If you're lucky—really lucky—this may mend in time to keep you in the ring, otherwise I'll have no choice but to pull you out."

The world pitched a second time, but this time from fear. This was more than a simple fight, but her entire life. Everything she'd fought and bled for—literally—hinged upon this moment. A televised event with her pitted against a welterweight champion would launch her as a serious contender. All that stood in her way was three five minute rounds. And Asher. "Please," she said, closing her hand around his wrist. "Don't do that."

The hard lines framing his stern mouth remained unmoving."I'm waiting for the medic to get here before I decide." Tossing the rag into the bowl of ice water, he crossed his arms, muscles bulging, and his hair gathered into a sloppy man bun atop his head. "You're not focused, Melo. You've been distant and distracted this last week, what's eating you?"

"Nothing." She tried to shrug but her shoulder protested the movement. She'd wrenched in after taking her sparring partner to the mat and won by a gorgeous submission that cost her a swelling eye, sore shoulder and a cut over her brow.

"Shayne—"

"I'm fine, Asher. I'm good."

A soft hand knocked lightly on the door and both Shayne and Asher's attention swung to the doorway where Rita stood, wearing faded stonewash jeans that tapered at the ankle. Her dark hair down and a loosely fitted white t-shirt. This was the most casual Shayne had ever seen her dressed.

"Sorry," face twisted into an apologetic grimace, "I didn't mean—Debbie says there's a call for you, Asher. Something about the mat delivery?"

Asher pushed his hands over his face with a curse. "Right. Okay. You," he jabbed a finger at Rita, "Keep an eye on this one and make sure she doesn't do something stupid, like take off before the medic gets here." Casting Shayne a single, warning glare, he stalked off to deal with business matters. Leaving the two of them alone together.

They'd seen each other a couple of times since the little incident, once for a meet with a speech instructor who worked Shayne through three hours of posture, voice control and pitch, delivery and enunciation—both in English and Spanish.

And the second time was for an afternoon of shopping, as she worked through wardrobe choice and selection, picking out several outfits that were both appropriate to her rising royal image while still holding on to bits of her edgy charm. But in both cases Rita had been removed and glued to her phone, only coming around as much as absolutely necessary to offer input or advice.

A chilling kind of distance that hurt but she couldn't fault Rita for, either.

Shayne jerked as a cold hand brushed the side of her face.