Chapter 1
Bakley's POV
I had spent eight years turning every match against Arthur Davenport into a public execution. The bastard still lived rent-free behind my ribs.
Vivian’s thumbs dug into the knot under my left scapula. The pressure burned. I held my breath the way I always did when pain spiked—an old habit Arthur had once known better than anyone.
Across the glass, Arthur stood with arms crossed, jaw locked. Dark eyes. That same controlled stillness that used to unravel me in locker rooms and hotel beds. My mouth curved into the smirk I wore for cameras.
“Enjoying the show, Davenport?” My words carried through the open door. “Or calculating how many points you’ll lose when I come back sharper?”
Arthur turned and walked away without a word.
My chest tightened. I wanted to follow. I wanted to shove him against the nearest wall and demand why the silence had lasted this long. Instead I stayed on the table while my pulse hammered against Vivian’s fingers.
When the session ended, I pulled on a loose shirt and left the training room. The halls were quiet. I took the elevator up two floors, the same route every evening since the facility assigned us the shared recovery suite.
The door was already unlocked. Arthur was inside, standing by the window with his back to the room, hoodie still on.
Two beds. One bathroom. No space to pretend we were strangers.
I claimed the bed nearer the door. Arthur had taken the one by the window without discussion days ago. We moved around each other like opposing poles—repelled, yet unable to stay apart.
Night settled. Lights stayed low. I sat on the edge of my mattress, shirt discarded, working my shoulder through the range Vivian had ordered. Across the room Arthur mirrored the same sequence with clinical precision, eyes fixed on the wall.
“You’re compensating on the left side,” I said. Silence had never been my strength. “Weight shifts early. You’ll tear something.”
Arthur’s head turned. For a heartbeat the mask slipped. I saw the boy who used to laugh against my mouth in the dark. Then the champion returned.
“I don’t need your analysis.”
“You never did.” I stood and crossed the narrow space until I felt the heat rising from Arthur’s skin. “Didn’t stop me from giving it. Not even after you walked out on me the night before the final.”
Arthur’s breath hitched—small, almost invisible.
Eight years ago we were more than rivals. Secret rooms. Shared victories that tasted better when we came home to each other.
Then the rankings tightened and the sponsors started asking questions. Arthur chose the image. He left a note on the hotel desk and disappeared into the media storm, calling me a distraction in the only interview that mattered. I had spent every match since proving the opposite.
I reached out, slow enough for Arthur to stop me, and pressed two fingers exactly two inches below his shoulder blade—the place that had always released the spasm. Arthur’s body went rigid, then softened. A low sound escaped before he could lock it down.
“Still works,” I said, my voice low.
Arthur’s hand closed around my wrist. Not pushing away. Just holding. The contact burned. Years of press conferences where we spat each other’s names, matches that left us both bleeding from the effort of pretending we were nothing—none of it erased the muscle memory of this.
“Don’t,” Arthur said. The word lacked force.
I leaned in until our foreheads almost touched. The air smelled of clean soap and the faint, unchanged trace of Arthur’s cologne. Rivalry lived in the space where our chests nearly brushed—sharp, electric, desperate.
“You can hate me tomorrow,” I murmured. “Tonight just let me fix it.”
Arthur’s eyes closed. For three heartbeats he allowed the pressure, the closeness, the intimacy that had always lived underneath the war. Then he stepped back as if the contact cost him something vital.
“Get some sleep, Carson. We train at six.”
I watched the careful set of those shoulders. The old ache settled deeper.
Arthur paused at the edge of his own bed. He didn’t turn around.
“I didn’t leave because of the sponsors,” he said quietly. “I left because I knew if I stayed, I would have thrown every match just to keep you.”
The words hung in the dark like a blade.
My laugh came out sharp and ugly. “Thrown matches? That’s the story you’re selling now? You left a note, called me a distraction on live television, and spent eight years trying to bury me on every court we shared. Don’t dress it up as some noble sacrifice.”
Arthur’s shoulders tensed. When he finally turned, his face was cold again—champion mask locked in place.
“You never once asked me to stay. You just started winning louder so the whole world would see how little I mattered.”
My pulse slammed against my throat.
Neither of us moved.
A sharp knock cracked against the suite door. Both our heads snapped toward the sound.
A staff voice carried through. “Carson. Davenport. Management wants you both downstairs. Your exhibition match was moved up. It starts in twelve hours…televised. Ranking points on the line.”
Arthur’s eyes met mine across the narrow room. No softness left. Only the old, familiar hate sharpened by everything is still unsaid.
“Sleep well,” Arthur said, voice flat. “Tomorrow I finish what I should have finished eight years ago.”
He turned away before I could answer. The door to the bathroom clicked shut. The knock came again, harder.
I stood alone in the half-dark, Arthur’s confession still burning under my skin, the announcement ringing in my ears, and the certainty that tomorrow’s match would not just be about points.
It would be about everything we had never said.
