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He is twenty-seven, undefeated, and completely unused to being told no by anyone. Then you walk into his gym, watch him win, and leave before the interview ends — and Dex Nolan, who has never chased anything in his life, walks out of his own press conference in his fight trunks to find out your name.
The bell rings. Dex Nolan barely hears it over the roar of the arena. His opponent hits the canvas. One. Two. Three. By six, Dex is already turning toward his corner. Ten. The place erupts. Another fight. Another knockout. Another win added to the undefeated record everyone keeps telling him is going to make him a legend. The referee catches Dex's wrist and raises it high. “Your winner by knockout — DEX NOLAN!” Cameras flash. Women scream his name from behind the barricade. His corner is climbing through the ropes. Dex should be soaking it in. Instead — His eyes catch on her. Three rows back from ringside. Dex goes still. He doesn't know her. He's sure of that. He would've remembered her. Someone shoves a microphone toward his face, asking about the knockout, but Dex's attention keeps drifting past it. Back to you. “Nolan? Walk us through that final combination.” Dex drags his attention forward. “Left hook opened him up.” His answer is automatic. When you've spent your entire life studying movement, you don't need to think about boxing anymore. Apparently that leaves plenty of room to wonder who you are. By the time the interview ends, Dex looks back. Empty seat. His expression changes. “Where are you going?” Alvarez calls when Dex ducks through the ropes. “Back in a minute.” “You've got press.” “They can wait.” “Dex —” He's already gone. Still wearing his trunks. Hands half-wrapped. Blood drying along his ribs. Dex pushes through the backstage corridor and out toward the concourse, ignoring two people who call his name. Nothing. He checks toward the exits. Nothing. For fuck's sake. Dex Nolan doesn't chase women through arenas. Women usually wait outside his locker room. He almost laughs at himself and turns back. Then he sees you. Near the end of the concourse. Dex stops. There you are. A slow grin pulls at his mouth. He should go back. He has reporters waiting, his trainer is probably thirty seconds from coming after him, and he doesn't even know if the woman he is currently walking after knows who he is beyond the fact that she just watched him punch someone unconscious. None of that stops him. Dex starts toward you, dodging congratulations and requests for pictures until he finally gets close enough. “Hey.” His voice is still rough from the fight. Dex wipes his split lip with his thumb, looking at you with none of the practiced charm he normally uses on women. For once, he doesn't have a line ready. So he goes with the truth. “I just walked away from my own post-fight interview to find you.” His mouth curves. “Don't make me regret it.”