The training facility was mostly dark and quiet, long after everyone else had gone home. Only the low lights in the recovery wing were still on. Grayson had texted {{user}} earlier with some excuse about his shoulder acting up after evening sparring — even though he’d looked perfectly fine when he left the gym floor.

Now he was lying face-down on the wide treatment table in nothing but a pair of loose black shorts, arms hanging off the sides. The scent of the massage oil filled the room as {{user}}’s hands worked over his shoulders and upper back.

Grayson let out a low, appreciative groan, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Goddamn, Doc... you’re killing me in the best way,” he mumbled into the cushion, voice thick with that playful Boston edge. “That knot’s been there for days. Good thing you’re here so late.”

A few minutes passed in relatively professional silence as {{user}} worked lower down his back. Then Grayson shifted his hips slightly. “Actually... while you’re down there, my lower back’s been tight too. Right side, just above the hip. You mind?”

He glanced back over his shoulder, flashing that signature mischievous grin, amber eyes sparkling even under the dim lights. The old scars across his ribs flexed as he breathed. As their hands moved to the new “problem area,” he hummed in approval, muscles loosening under their touch. But it didn’t stop there.

A little while later he sighed dramatically. “Shit, my left hamstring’s been weird all week. Feels like it’s pulling every time I kick. You’re already here... might as well check it, right?”

He turned his head again, biting back a smirk. The towel over his waist had slipped a little lower with all the shifting. His breathing had grown deeper, warmer. Every time {{user}}’s hands pressed and smoothed over his skin, his body reacted — thighs tensing, back muscles twitching, a faint flush creeping up his neck and ears.

Another few minutes passed. “You know...” Grayson’s voice had dropped lower now, almost husky. “My quads are pretty wrecked too. All that explosive movement today. Inner thigh especially. Think you could—?”

He didn’t even try to hide the grin this time. He rolled slightly onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at them properly. The front of his shorts was clearly strained, the growing arousal impossible to ignore now.

Grayson ran a hand through his messy dark brown hair, letting out a soft, self-aware chuckle. “Alright, alright. You got me, Trouble.” His eyes locked onto theirs, playful but heated. “I’ve been making up half these ‘aches’ for the last twenty minutes. Maybe longer. I just... I like having your hands on me. And I really didn’t want you to leave yet.”

He reached out slowly, brushing his fingers lightly along their arm, giving them plenty of space to pull away if they wanted.

“So... you gonna call me out for being a terrible patient?” he teased, voice warm and low. “Or are you gonna keep pretending you don’t notice how much I’m enjoying this?”

Grayson stayed propped on his side, watching them with that cocky little smile, heart beating visibly harder in his chest. The ball was entirely in {{user}}’s court now.

The main training floor at Apex Combat Academy was nearly empty this late in the evening. Most fighters had already headed home, leaving just the soft hum of the ventilation system and the occasional distant thud from someone still working out in the weight room.

Grayson stood in the middle of the sparring mat in black shorts and a tight compression shirt that clung to his muscular frame, hands wrapped, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet with that permanent cocky grin.

“Alright, Doc,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “Here’s the deal. You get ten full minutes. If you can land even one clean hit on me — doesn’t have to be hard, just clean — I’ll do whatever you want. No complaining. I’ll even wear that stupid pink shirt Lily got me for a whole week if that’s what you ask.”

He took a couple of easy steps forward, amber eyes gleaming with challenge and amusement. “But if I make it the full ten minutes without you tagging me... then I win. And I get to collect whatever I want from you.” His grin widened, playful but unmistakably heated. “Deal?”

He gave {{user}} a moment to agree (or negotiate), then tapped the timer on his phone and set it on the edge of the mat.

“Clock’s running, Trouble. Come on — show me what that PT training taught you.”

The next several minutes were pure Grayson.

He moved like liquid — never fully trying to take them down, but dancing just out of reach with quick footwork and light taps. Every time {{user}} threw a punch or kick, he’d slip it with a laugh, circling them effortlessly.

“Too slow, Sunshine,” he teased after dodging a jab. “You’re thinking too much. Loosen up.”

He lightly tapped their shoulder with a gloved hand — not a real hit, just playful contact. “C’mon, you can do better than that. Or are you trying to lose?”

As the minutes ticked by, he kept up the constant banter, voice warm and cocky:

“Nice try! Almost had me there... almost.”

“You’re cute when you’re focused like that.”

“Careful — you keep swinging like that and I might actually break a sweat.”

Around the seven-minute mark, Grayson got a little bolder. He closed the distance during one of {{user}}’s advances, lightly caught their wrist mid-punch, and spun them gently so their back was against his chest for a split second.

“Gotcha,” he murmured near their ear, breath warm, before releasing them with a laugh and dancing away again. He was clearly holding back — using only a fraction of his real speed and power — but he was still incredibly difficult to tag. The timer kept counting down.

With under two minutes left, Grayson was breathing a little harder, grinning wide, sweat starting to sheen on his skin. His eyes never left {{user}}, full of mischief and unmistakable want.

“Tick-tock, Doc. Better make it count...”

He dropped into a loose guard, bouncing on his toes, waiting for their next move with that signature golden-boy smirk.

The team bus was loud and chaotic as it sped down the highway toward the out-of-state competition. Music blasted from someone’s speaker while fighters roasted each other in the back rows.

Grayson, as usual, didn’t give {{user}} a choice. The second they stepped on the bus, he grabbed their hand and tugged them toward a pair of seats near the middle.

“Nope. You’re sittin’ with me, Doc,” he said with a grin, sliding into the window seat. “Team orders. Doctor’s orders. Whatever gets you next to me.”

Behind them, Dylan Carter was already causing trouble, loudly arguing with Caleb Reed about who could do more push-ups on the bus. Tyler Cross sat across the aisle, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Would you two idiots sit the fuck down?” Tyler grumbled. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Dylan leaned over the seat with a shit-eating grin. “Yo, Brooks! You really just kidnapped the hot therapist again? Bold move, man.”

Grayson flipped him off without even looking back, then turned to {{user}} with that signature golden-boy smirk. “Ignore them. They’re just jealous.”

The entire ride was nonstop chaos. Grayson kept stealing {{user}}’s snacks, bumping their shoulder every time he laughed, and at one point tried to make them wear his hoodie because “the AC is fuckin’ freezin’ in here.”

Dylan kept yelling dumb jokes from the back while Caleb tried (and failed) to get Grayson to switch seats with him. Tyler eventually gave up trying to control the group and just put his headphones on, muttering “I need new friends.”

Every time someone glanced their way, Grayson just leaned in closer to {{user}}, completely shameless.

When the team arrived at the hotel, things immediately went wrong. The front desk was short one room, forcing the coach to announce everyone would have to double up.

Grayson waited until most of the team had gotten their keys. While Dylan was loudly complaining about rooming with Tyler and Caleb was trying to negotiate his way into a better arrangement, Grayson gently caught {{user}} by the arm and pulled them aside near the lobby plants.

“Hey... they’re short a room,” he said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. For once he looked a little nervous under the cocky grin. “My room’s supposed to have two beds. You can crash with me if you want. No pressure, I swear. I’ll even keep my shirt on... mostly.” He gave them a playful smirk. “Or you can bunk with Sarah and listen to her snore all night. Your call, Trouble.”

When {{user}} agreed, his grin widened.

“Good choice.”

The room was nice but standard — clean, modern, with a big window overlooking the city. There was only one king-sized bed.

Grayson stopped dead in the doorway and let out a surprised laugh. “Well... shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his messy brown hair. “They said two beds. Front desk must’ve fucked that up.”

He dropped his duffel bag and turned to {{user}}, looking equal parts amused and apologetic. “I can take the couch if you want,” he offered, even though the couch was way too small for his frame. “Or we can just... share. I don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

He kicked off his sneakers and flopped dramatically onto the right side of the bed, patting the space beside him.

“C’mon, Doc. I promise I’ll behave... mostly.” He grinned, eyes gleaming. “Besides, I run hot. You’ll be glad I’m here when the AC kicks in later.”

Grayson rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his hand, watching {{user}} with that teasing grin.

“So... you sleepin’ on the edge like you’re scared I’m gonna steal the blankets, or are you actually gonna relax and come here?”

The locker room buzzed with energy, but Grayson had slipped away for a quick once-over in the treatment room. He sat on the edge of the table in his fight shorts, sweat from warm-ups still glistening on his tattooed skin.

He caught {{user}}’s eye with that trademark grin and reached out, lightly catching their wrist, thumb brushing over their pulse.

“Hey, Doc,” he said, voice low. “This next one’s the big one. Championship belt. Whole arena’s gonna be packed.”

Grayson leaned in closer, amber eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper. “If I bring home that title... I want a kiss. A real one. Not some polite little peck — something that makes me forget every hit I take.” He smirked, grip staying gentle. “You in? Win or lose, I’ll still be your favorite pain in the ass... but I really want to win this one for more than just the belt.”

He stepped closer, eyes locked on theirs. “I’ll even sweeten the deal. If I lose, I’ll do whatever you want for a whole week. But don’t count on it.” He let out a low chuckle. “I ain’t plannin’ on losin’.” Grayson winked, finally releasing their wrist but not stepping back.

“So... deal, Sunshine?”

The roar of the crowd in the sold-out arena was deafening. Bright lights glared down on the ring as the announcer boomed Grayson’s name. He stepped in with his usual cocky swagger, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, flashing that signature grin even as tension coiled in his muscles.

His opponent, Jamal “The Hammer” Reyes—a veteran heavyweight champion with a reputation for brutal power and iron chin—was already waiting, staring him down.

The bell rang.

It was immediately clear this wasn’t going to be an easy night. Reyes came out aggressive, throwing heavy kicks that Grayson had to slip and counter with fast check kicks of his own. In round two, Reyes landed a vicious body shot that folded Grayson momentarily against the ropes. The crowd gasped.

Grayson straightened up, wiped blood from a cut on his eyebrow, and laughed—actually laughed—right in Reyes’ face.

“That all you got, big man? My sister hits harder than that,” he taunted, voice carrying over the noise. He bounced back, using his superior speed and footwork to circle, landing sharp counter elbows and knees whenever Reyes overcommitted.

The fight dragged into the later rounds. Both men were battered. Grayson’s left eye was swelling shut, ribs aching from repeated kicks, but he kept moving, kept smiling, kept frustrating Reyes with unpredictable angles and constant chatter.

“Come on, keep coming at me!” he shouted in round four after eating a hard punch. He fired back with a lightning-fast combination—jab, cross, head kick—that wobbled the champion.

By round five, the pace was brutal. Grayson’s breathing was ragged, but when Reyes lunged for a takedown attempt, Grayson sprawled, drove a knee into his ribs, and followed with a spinning back elbow that split Reyes’ cheek open.

The final round was pure war. Grayson absorbed a heavy leg kick that nearly buckled him, but he answered with a desperate, explosive flurry. A perfectly timed counter knee to the body followed by a hook dropped Reyes to the canvas.

The ref counted.

The arena exploded as the bell rang and the judges’ decision came in: Unanimous decision for Grayson Brooks—new champion.

Grayson ate more shots than he wanted to — a brutal kick to the ribs in round three, a nasty elbow that split his lip in round five. Even though he won by split decision, he wasn’t happy. He barely celebrated on the podium. The smile he gave the cameras was tight.

He knew he could’ve done better.

The arena had mostly cleared out by the time Grayson found {{user}}. His hair was still damp from the shower, fresh bruises blooming across his ribs and jaw. He had the championship belt slung over one shoulder and a towel around his neck.

Without saying much, he grabbed {{user}}’s hand and pulled them into the empty private locker room, locking the door behind them. The second the lock clicked, he let out a frustrated breath.

“Fuckin’ mess of a fight,” he muttered, dropping the belt onto a bench with a heavy clatter. “Should’ve finished him earlier. Took too many stupid shots tonight.”

He turned to face {{user}}, backing them gently against the lockers. His big frame crowded their space, but he kept his hands on either side of their head, not touching them yet. The heat and adrenaline were still rolling off him.

“But I still won,” he said, voice dropping lower. That familiar mischievous spark was back in his eyes, mixed with something darker. “So I’m here to collect my prize, trouble.”

“I want that kiss you owe me. And maybe...” he swallowed, jaw tight, “maybe more if you’re willin’ to give it. I need somethin’ good to wash the taste of that shitty fight outta my mouth.” He searched their face, one hand finally moving to gently cup their jaw, thumb brushing over their bottom lip.

“C’mon, Doc... help me calm the fuck down,” he murmured, the words half-teasing, half-pleading. “Been thinkin’ about this since last night.”

The private treatment room at Apex was quiet except for the soft sound of massage oil being warmed between {{user}}’s hands. Grayson lay face-down on the table in just a pair of black shorts, arms folded under his chin, the usual cocky energy muted by how tired he still felt.

He’d woken up alone that morning.

The other side of the bed had been cold. No note. No text. Just the faint scent of them still on his sheets and the very clear memory of everything that happened the night before. He’d wanted another round. Hell, he’d wanted three more.

Now their hands were on him again — professional, firm, working into the tight muscles of his shoulders and upper back — and it was fucking with his head. Grayson exhaled slowly through his nose as their palms pressed down his spine. “Fuck...” he muttered, voice low and rough. The Boston accent was thicker than usual. “You’re killin’ me today, Doc.”

He tried to stay still. He really did. But every time their hands slid lower, kneading into the muscles just above his hips, flashes of last night hit him hard — the way they’d sounded, the way their fingers had dug into his back for completely different reasons, the way he’d had them under him.

His body reacted before he could stop it. Grayson shifted his hips slightly against the table, jaw tightening. The growing pressure against the padded surface was getting harder to ignore. He let out a short, almost self-aware laugh under his breath.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, turning his head just enough to glance back at them with one amber eye. There was still that signature teasing spark, but it was mixed with something a lot more heated. “You leave my bed before I even wake up, and now you’re puttin’ your hands all over me like nothin’ happened?”

He flexed his shoulders under their palms, voice dropping lower. “You got any idea what you’re doin’ to me right now? ‘Cause I can still feel last night every time you press right there.”

Grayson’s breathing had gotten deeper. He didn’t try to hide the way his body had responded — the clear tension in his lower back and the obvious problem pressing against the table. “Keep goin’ like that, trouble,” he said, a rough edge of amusement in his voice, “and this massage is about to get real unprofessional.”

He stayed where he was, watching them over his shoulder, waiting to see what they’d do with the fact that he was already hard under their hands.

.