Unleashed (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance) by Emilia Kincade Page A

body. He tries to squeeze it out so I twist him, so that his shoulder is against the mat, so that his own body weight stops him from moving it.
    Leverage, or lack of it.
    And I pull. I pull hard, choke the motherfucking shit out of Coach. His face is going red, and the veins on his temples are bulging. The guy’s pushing sixty, but I won’t loosen this grip.
    If he wants to risk a coronary, a stroke, then that’s on him.
    But I’m not fucking throwing the fight.
    “Coach!” I growl into his ear. “Tap out you fuck!”
    I don’t want to hurt him, but I want to lose even less.
    I hear him roar beneath me, something primal and ferocious, and with astounding strength he rolls me, gets on my back, and holds me in a leg lock.
    He’s got my leg clamped across his torso, one arm around the top of my calf, the other holding onto my ankle, twisting.
    The strain in my knee is almost immediately overwhelming. I try to roll, throw a kick at him, but I can’t get leverage.
    Coach spits out his mouth guard onto me, followed by a trail of sticky saliva.
    “Your left stance lost you positioning in the hold,” he tells me, his voice even hoarser now. I think I bruised his vocal chords. “That’s why I could roll you. You understand?”
    I try to throw a punch at Coach, but he turns me, makes me miss.
    “You understand?” he barks. “You may be ambidextrous, but you lose strength when you reverse stances. You will never be as dominant with your left. It’s genetics. It’s just the way we are.”
    I just grunt. I haven’t given up yet. I go right to the end.
    I try to turn, find purchase, so I can throw a heel into his jaw, but he twists my knee even more, and I groan, and slam my open palm against the mat.
    Coach lets go of me, and I sit up and examine my knee. It’s already starting to swell, but nothing popped, nothing tore.
    “I wouldn’t have hurt you,” Coach says, grabbing my arm and hoisting me up to my feet. “Listen, Chance—”
    He pauses, huffing. I get him a squeeze-bottle of water, watch as he gulps it down. I take out my mouth guard, stick it down my compression shorts.
    “Slower, Coach. Breathe slower.”
    “Don’t tell me how to fucking breathe, boy.”
    I grin at him. “You got me good.”
    “Damn right I did. Chance, you’re talented, but you’re cocky. On top of that, you’re too technical.”
    “Too technical?”
    “Yes. Listen, you got the body, you got the quicks, but you’re not improvising enough. When you’re in the cage, it is about fluidity and adaptation. It’s about improvisation a lot of the time. You’re so caught up in how to hold, what to hold, and your hits are routine. Jab-jab-hook.”
    “I got you on the mat,” I say at him. I don’t hide the competitive bitterness in my voice.
    “You did, and that was your only good move.” He grips my shoulder, slaps my face hard so that I look at him. My sweat makes the slap sticky.
    “Chance, I’m teaching you. You got a good left, there’s no denying it. Sometimes, it might even become useful. But never think because you can switch you can dominate. You’ll throw a guy off maybe for a ten second stretch, but that’s it.”
    “Yes, Coach.”
    “And loosen up! For fuck’s sake, you’re wrestling champ.”
    “Wrestling is technical.”
    “It’s also fluid. Think outside the box. It’s cliché, I know, but if you fight by the book you will get beaten by somebody who isn’t constrained by those limitations.”
    “I got it, Coach.”
    “I’m going to send you some video tonight, some fighters who could ad-lib with the best of them. Study their counters, the way they switch pivots, the way they use their bodies. Think Ali. Remember how he moved? That softness? He was like fucking water, Chance! How can you hit water?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Try to understand the thought process. You’ve got excellent reflexes, some of the best coordination I’ve ever seen, and you’re always thinking five steps ahead, and that is