I sniffled and shrugged. Perhaps it was possible I’d focused more on TJ and Levi, but not entirely. I’d known back then—partly due to Aunt Mel reminding me a hundred thousand fucking times—that if I didn’t take my recovery seriously, it would come back and bite me in the ass. And I told Daddy as much.
“She sounds like a smart woman.” Daddy smiled softly and combed back my hair with his fingers. “You know who I think you should talk to more?”
I shook my head.
“Kit. He lost his parents too, not that long ago.”
I knew that. It was a good idea.
“He ratted me out, didn’t he?” I mumbled.
“He did, and thank fuck.” Daddy’s eyes filled with affection and mirth. “Don’t hold that against him. He was worried.”
“I won’t. I get it.” I sniffled some more and dropped my forehead to his shoulder. “What’re we gonna do, Daddy? I don’t know how I’d react if I lost a fight either, but…”
He hugged me to him again. “But what? Tell Daddy.”
My thoughts were all jumbled. I kept thinking back on my childhood, how much better everything had become for all of us when Mom and Dad met. He’d taught me so many lessons, and one of them stood out. Because of his work with children and martial arts, he’d always been quick to teach about competitiveness. It was okay to be competitive, but your biggest opponent should be yourself.
“Dad always said that if you spent your life competing against others, you’d never be satisfied,” I said, lifting my head again. I wiped at my cheeks too. “It was better to compete against yourself. Beat your old records, fight to become a better version of yourself. Upgrade yourself, he said.”
Daddy nodded with a dip of his chin. “Good advice.”
“Yeah. And he also said loss was part of life. He wasn’t the type of father or instructor to set the bar too high. So…I don’t know, but I don’t think I would panic. It’s not some coping mechanism or something I’ve gotten into my head because my father didn’t want me to lose.” I swallowed hard and stared at my lap, wondering if I had somehow put Dad on a pedestal, and for as long as…no. That couldn’t be it. It sounded so bizarre in my head.
“What was that cringe for?” Daddy was too perceptive and noticed everything.
I cleared my throat and grimaced. “He was always a champion to me, and I just hope I haven’t subconsciously thought that for as long as I stay undefeated, he lives on in some weird way. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” he argued patiently. “You went through something horrific and traumatic, Shay. In hard times, we sometimes cling to whatever we can. Nothing weird about that.”
Well, I found it weird.
“It’s a bit weird,” I muttered.
He chuckled quietly. “You’re weirdly adorable.”
Dammit! He made me smile so easily, even though I tried to hide it.
“We’ll fight tonight,” he said and kissed my cheek. “If I notice you can’t handle it—and if you notice you can’t handle it—we’ll signal to each other, and you’ll throw the fight. Okay?”
I nodded. Better safe than sorry. “What’s the signal?”
“We can discuss that in…” He checked his watch. “Approximately one minute. I reckon that’s how long it’ll take us to sneak back to the cabin and catch some cuddles. I think we need it.”
I couldn’t help but poke at him. “I wouldn’t trust you to know how long a minute is.”
He let out an infectious laugh and stood up.
I stood up too, and I felt lighter. I loved this whole being-open-and-honest business. Most of all, it was indescribably amazing to have someone to share stuff with.
“Daddy?” I slipped my hand into his and brushed some invisible lint off his tee. It was easier than eye contact for the moment. “I like being Little with you.”
He let out one of those contented sighs and wrapped his arms around me. “You know how to make my day, my sweet, feisty, wonderful boy.”
Christ, the things he made me feel.
Fifteen
Reese Tenley
The tiki torches around the fighting cages were a nice touch.
Standing on the porch outside our cabin, I tightened the drawstrings of my sweats as more and more people trailed down to the cages. Blankets and lawn chairs filled the space around the event area, and I was glad to see KC had joined us. He’d been on the fence, according to Ivy, and he’d been listed as “maybe attending.” He was one of our two members who were in a wheelchair, not that it stopped him from being a cunning Top in mental sadism.
One of these days, I was going to put River and KC in the interrogation room with Shay and enjoy the show.
“Daddy, you’re not wearing anything other than the sweats, right?” Shay hollered from inside the cabin.
“Nope. You almost done?” It was time to join the others.
“Yes, Sir. Just wanted to make sure.”
It was interesting getting to know his quirks about fighting. While he was frighteningly lax about protective gear, he was almost militant about the one piece of clothing he wore. Regular sweats didn’t work for him; he’d bought us matching pairs of three-quarter-length black sweatpants instead, stating that they were the perfect combination of comfortable and easy to move around in. Now that I was wearing a pair myself, I supposed I could see the benefits. They were loose but not baggy, and they weren’t in the way. They didn’t have pockets either.
It hadn’t been all too comforting to find out that he wore just “a bit more” protection during the illegal fights, especially since he’d spent more time talking about these pocket-less sweats than anything else.
The more I grew to care for the boy, the more I disliked thinking about those
