Elara Keane is like a siren's call in a sea of mundane - every guy's dream and every girl's envy. She's the kind of girl who could make your heart do backflips with just a wink, and yet, she's got that adorable vibe that screams wifey material. But if you ask Ryker Draven, the tattooed, smoldering hot mess of a boxing champ, he'd tell you she's pure wildfire - beautiful and dangerous.
The night Ryker defended his title, the press swarmed him like bees to honey. Cameras flashing, reporters elbowing each other out of the way, all itching for a piece of The Ace. And there's Elara, hanging back, her cool gaze slicing through the chaos like a blade.
"So, Ryker, rumor has it you go full monk mode before a fight. Booze and babes-off-limits. True story?" the reporter prods, eager for a scoop.
Ryker, his face a roadmap of bruises and a trickle of blood painting his jawline, gives the kind of grin that should be illegal - it's that cocky. "Yeah, gotta stay sharp," he drawls, his voice a rough caress that could make a saint sin.
Elara's poker face doesn't twitch. But inside, she's rolling her eyes so hard she can see her brain. If only they knew. Ryker's 'abstinence'? More like a joke they shared between tangled sheets and breathless laughs.
Her friend, who's always up for some tea-spilling, nudges her. "Is the sex god really keeping it in his pants for a whole month?"
Elara bites back a smirk. If only she could tweet the truth with a #LiesMyBoyfriendTells. But she plays it coy, her silence a perfect misdirection.
"Poor thing," her friend sighs, "having a Greek god for a boyfriend and you can't even play naughty nurse."
Little does she know, Elara and Ryker have a different kind of fight night ritual - one that involves less fighting and a lot more... cardio.
Ryker's the kind of man who's never taken a knee for anyone, except for Elara. He's the kind of guy who'd dangle a gold medal around her neck like it was a promise ring, joke about buying her a jet because she mentioned liking the view from the sky, and admit that loving her is more thrilling than any adrenaline rush the ring could give him.
Their story isn't just a fling - it's a knock-out, drag-down, heart-racing kind of love. It's the kind of romance that has you double-tapping every steamy selfie and shipping them harder than FedEx.
So, buckle up, because this is more than just a ringside romance. It's a tale of dreams, drive, and a love that hits harder than a heavyweight KO. And let me tell you, it's going to be one hell of a ride. #FightForLove #RykerAndElara
Chapter 1
"Ding-ding-"
The classroom's hush shatters, heads swivel, and the collective gaze zeroes in on the culprit: Elara. She ducks her head, thumb flicking across the screen to silence the treacherous device. It had gone kaput earlier, leaving her incommunicado until she snagged a lifeline - Victoria Wells's trusty power bank. With its resurrection came that telltale chime.
Seniors, with their noses buried in textbooks, are a study in stress. The countdown to finals looms, and every tick of the clock is a reminder. But Elara's attention is hijacked by a text buzz - a message from her brother Charlie, timestamped 7 PM:
"Sis, come pick me up after your evening grind, and don't forget the prize money!!!"
Triple exclamation points scream confidence, or at least Charlie's brand of it.
"Damn it, that little hellion's playing hooky again!" Elara's internal monologue is a mix of annoyance and affection. Time's ticking; she shoves papers into her bag as if packing a parachute mid-freefall. The bell's ring is her starting gun; she's off, backpack slung like a shield, darting for the exit. She breezes past another classroom, power bank in hand, "Yo, Vic, gotta jet!"
Victoria, mid-highlighter swipe, barely looks up, "Your bro's in the ring again?"
Elara nods, a grin breaking through, "Yeah, if he's solo on his way home, he's dead meat. Said there's cash on the line tonight." Her smile's all spark as she throws a casual salute and dashes off.
Charlie's so-called 'competition' is the kind of place with more fists than futures - an underground boxing ring where the victor takes home more than just bruises.
Elara squeezes into the subway, snagging a seat. She's got this quirk, thanks to her rebellious canines that never learned to fall in line. She's forever nudging them with her tongue, a silent rebellion against orthodontic order.
Backpack anchored on her lap, she's the picture of focus - lips pursed, tongue on teeth-taming duty, phone aglow as she checks the time. Charlie better have thrown punches worth their weight in gold tonight.
Cut to the club, where the air is thick with anticipation. Charlie, decked out in blue boxing shorts, is propped against the ropes, huffing like a steam engine. His brow's split open, a trophy of the night's battles. They're down to the wire, final match, with just sixty seconds of respite before the last dance.Charlie Keane, with his boy-band looks and soulful eyes that could make a girl swoon from across the room, was in his element, muscles flexing and sweat glistening under the harsh lights of the ring. His coach tossed him a water bottle and Charlie, ever the picture of grace, took it with a tilt of his head, gulping it down like it was nectar from the gods. He scanned the crowd, his gaze hungry for one face in particular, but she wasn't there. Coach gave him a rough pat, snapping him back to reality. "Earth to Charlie, Elara's a no-show. Get your head in the game, bro. Twenty grand is on the line."
Charlie just nodded, his jaw set. He'd been throwing punches in this fight club since his wild freshman days, back when it was just a scrappy little gym teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Now, it was the underground hotspot for anyone with a taste for adrenaline and cold hard cash. Every other week, the place came alive with the promise of glory and the thrill of the bet. Win today, and he'd be the reigning champ with a cool twenty grand in his pocket. Lose, and he'd walk away with barely enough to cover a night out.
The crowd was a mix of hardcore boxing fans and thrill-seekers, all buzzing with the electric possibility of an upset. Knock out the top dog and you'd leave with half the prize money and a story to tell. It was the kind of twist that kept the place packed and the energy crackling.
But if Charlie went down, the consolation was a measly three grand - chump change for the effort.
In the shadows of the stands, lounging like a panther with a smirk, was Ryker Draven. He was the kind of guy who didn't need to fight to prove himself, his confidence a tangible aura around him. Next to him, Benjamin Hayes, with a knack for spotting potential, sized up Charlie. "Thoughts?" he asked, his tone casual but eyes sharp.
Ryker, ever the connoisseur of talent, gave his two cents with his signature nonchalance. Quentin, their coach, was already picturing Charlie in their team colors, but he wasn't sold yet. Boxing was a beast that demanded everything - power, speed, smarts. And guts.
Benjamin, with a sly grin, nudged Ryker. "Why don't you jump in the ring and test him yourself, Ace?"
Ryker snorted, "Nah, man. You're up."
The final round was a blur of fists and footwork, and Charlie emerged the victor, the crowd erupting in a roar of approval. The ring girls did their dance, and the host, amped up on his own hype, threw down the gauntlet. "Who's got the guts to challenge our champ? Ten grand for the brave soul!"
The crowd buzzed, a collective intake of breath, everyone wondering if this was the moment the night would explode into legend.Charlie was owning the ring like a boss, grin all cocky and eyes throwing down a "Who's next?" challenge. He'd just turned his last opponent into a human punching bag, and the crowd was half in awe, half scared to step up.
He was buzzing, all pumped up and ready for a victory ride home with his sis Elara and a fat wad of cash. His night was shaping up to be straight fire.
Quentin, playing the instigator, nudged Ryker with a smirk. "Your turn, hotshot."
Ryker caught the hint - Quentin had been low-key crushing on Charlie. Benjamin might get a pass, but when coach calls you out? You step up. He cracked his knuckles, and when the host hollered for a fresh contender, he shot his hand up like it was nothing.
The host was on him like a hawk, "Yo, we got ourselves a brave soul!"
Heads swiveled to the back of the room, where the club's lights didn't quite reach. There stood Ryker, all chill in his red baseball jacket, his vibe screaming "come at me."
Cutting through the dim like a spotlight hero, Ryker strolled to the ring, his shadow giving way to a face that was straight-up magazine material, topped with a buzz cut that screamed confidence. His eyes had that "try me" look, and when he hit the ring with a "Let's dance," Charlie's cocky smile got a reality check.
Ryker ducked out to gear up, sliding into a red boxing fit that clung to him like a second skin. He loosened up, muscles popping out like they were on 3D, especially those arm tattoos that screamed "I can handle myself."
He hopped into the ring, and some girl in the crowd couldn't help but let out a "Damn, boy!" Her eyes were all heart-emojis on Ryker's tight bod, "That's some felony-level hotness right there."
"Isn't he that guy from...?" her friend tried to place the face, but got cut off with a laugh, "Girl, you think every snack of a man looks familiar."
"Charlie's off-limits - jailbait alert. But this one? Whole different league."
Up in the ring, Ryker, now Benjamin Hayes for some reason, squared off with Charlie. The host was all grins, "What do we call you, champ?"
"Benjamin Hayes," Ryker played along, cool as a cucumber.
Benjamin, watching from the sidelines, facepalmed hard and muttered, "This dude's loco."
But the crowd? They were eating it up, ready for the showdown between Charlie "The Heartbreaker" Keane and the mysterious, ripped-as-hell 'Benjamin Hayes'. Quentin couldn't help but stifle a chuckle, tossing a sly grin at the real Benjamin, the boss of the gym. "Chill, Hayes. The guy's an athlete about to throw down in the ring. A fake name's his best defense against the Insta-stalkers later."
Only someone like Ryker Draven, with balls enough to be on first-name terms with the kingpin Benjamin Hayes, would dare to jack his name. Anybody else? They'd be cruisin' for a bruisin'.
Hayes threw him a look, half-amused, half-annoyed. "My name's a burner now?"
Quentin just blinked back, the words stuck in his throat.
In the ring, Ryker and Charlie squared up, all pumped and ready to rumble. Ryker's mind was playing chess, thinking three moves ahead on how to bait and switch. Charlie? He was all in, eyes on the prize, so focused he barely registered the ref's spiel.
Gloves tapped. The dance began.
The crowd was hyped, the air electric with bets and wild guesses.
"Who's your money on? Red or blue? Blue's got that undefeated swag, a pretty boy who turns beast mode in the ring."
"Red's got that edge, man. Standing there, he's like a king. Owns the place."
"I'm all in on Hayes. He's got the reach, the look, and those eyes, man. They've got that pro fighter spark. Charlie's good, but Hayes is gold."
Round one, and Ryker's playing it cool, while Charlie's going hard. To the crowd, it's Charlie's game. Shouts are flying. "Come on, Charlie! Light him up! Knock his ass out!"
Charlie's eyes are locked on "Hayes," his punches slicing the air. But Ryker? He's slick, dodging with a lean that's almost lazy.
His moves are a riddle. Sometimes, he'd eat a punch when he could've hit back or blocked. Round one wraps with Charlie ahead, but the dude's ticked. Ryker's not fighting; he's toying with him, studying his moves or maybe just plain mocking him. Whatever it is, it's getting under Charlie's skin, big time.
By round three, the peeps in the stands are catching on. Ryker's just toying with Charlie, his core solid as he ducks and weaves through the storm of fists. Last minute of the round, Ryker flips the script, lighting up Charlie with a flurry of hits that pins him to the ropes.
Quentin's scowling now. "Dude's defense is shot, he's running on fumes. No way he's breaking free."Ben Hayes flashed that killer smile, all charm and no apologies, as he mused, "Kid's green, hasn't got the street smarts or a mentor in his corner. Gotta say, he's doing alright for a - "
But before Ben could drop the mic on that thought, Charlie Keane busted out like a total boss, leaving jaws on the floor.
Quentin Wallace's eyebrow shot up, his face the perfect 'OMG' emoji.
...
Forty minutes on the dot, and Elara Keane was hitting up the club like it was her runway. Under the shade of that old tree, she ditched her schoolgirl vibe faster than a bad Tinder date. Off with the tie, and whoosh - her curls were cascading down like a chocolate waterfall. She shimmied out of her uniform, stuffing it into her bag like evidence, and cuffed those school pants to flaunt killer ankles that could stop traffic.
With her backpack slung over one shoulder, Elara strutted to the club door, serving up pure rebel realness.
The doorman, all side-eye and sass, was like, "Girl, please. Those are Crestview High pants, and my daughter's got the same. I see them every day!"
Elara just smirked, gave those pants another roll - hello, gorgeous calves - and with a quick knot of her sweater, flashed a tease of waist that should come with a warning label. She shot the guard a look that said, 'Happy now?'
He couldn't even. "Just go. But rock up in uniform again, and you're not getting past me."
With a grin and a wave, Elara dashed inside, only to be hit with the crowd going wild: "He's down for the count!"
She chuckled. Was Charlie Keane really that fierce? Her eyes locked onto the ring, and damn, there was her boy, blue shorts and all, out cold. Her heart skipped a beat, and she weaved through the crowd like a woman on a mission.
Blue shorts, her gift to Charlie, now a crumpled heap in the ring.
The ref's voice boomed, "Benjamin Hayes takes it!"
Benjamin Hayes? New guy on the scene, and already a legend? Elara peered at the victor's back, curiosity piqued.
In the ring, Red Shorts leaned over Charlie, probably dropping some wisdom. Charlie pushed himself up, a comeback kid in the making, and shot back with what must've been a classic Keane quip. Red Shorts nodded and bounced off, leaving the stage.
Elara was hot on the heels of the med team, hitting the ring before anyone could blink. She dropped low in front of Charlie, her brother, her blood, now a hot mess of bruises and fight.
She bit her lip - this was Charlie at his most wrecked.
"Talk to me, bro. Head spinning?" she asked, eyes all over his battered face, ready to play nurse, coach, and cheerleader all in one.Charlie flashed her a weak grin, "A lil' bit shook up, that's all."
She nudged him lightly, a playful smirk on her lips, "Hit the mat, hotshot."
Without a fuss, he sprawled out. Ryker's fist had rocked his world, leaving him seeing stars. Elara spun around, grabbed the first-aid kit like it was her clutch on girls' night out, and got to work. Hydrogen peroxide fizzed on his skin as she cleaned up the aftermath of his tango in the ring, then dabbed on some iodine like she was painting the Mona Lisa of bruises. She checked his nose and ears - no drama there, just the usual rough and tumble.
Elara've got a knack for this, and the crew's stopped batting an eyelid. Every time Charlie's looking like he went a few rounds with life, she's the one patching him up. No one's got the deets on where she picked up her skills, but she handle boxing boo-boos like she've got a PhD in patch-ups.
Once she was sure he wasn't about to tap out on her, she slapped an ice pack on his forehead to chill the swelling. She handed him another for his ear, "Hold it like it's your last shot at a selfie, press it like you mean it."
Charlie winced, but the cold snap zapped him back to reality. He gave her those puppy dog eyes, "There goes my payday, sis."
Elara'd dropped to her knees ringside, peeling off his gloves and wraps with a tenderness that belied the brutal sport they were wrapped up in. She brushed off his whining with a soothing murmur, "You're still breathing - that's the real jackpot."
He switched hands, keeping the ice on his ear, and reached out, grumbling, "Thought my nose was a goner."
His hand was shaking like he'd been on a caffeine binge. Elara sighed, the sound soft and laced with an 'I've got you' vibe, "Nose is all good - just needs a bit of R&R."
"He's just got more street cred, probably slings punches for a living," Charlie huffed, not ready to throw in the towel on his ego, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers.
Elara humored him with a nod, "For sure."
Little did they know, it wasn't Benjamin Hayes who had sent Charlie for a spin - it was Ryker Draven, borrowing Hayes's rep for the night.
The peanut gallery had their eyes glued to them - Charlie and Elara are Irish twins, but the way he reverts to a toddler when she around? You'd think he was still in pull-ups.
Ryker peeled off his gear and bumped into the club manager on his way out. The manager was all smiles, "Mr. Hayes, about that prize money..."
"I don't need the cash," Ryker cut in, his voice as cool as the other side of the pillow. He wasn't here for the dough.
The manager blinked, "You sure?"
"Positive. Toss it to the one who's hustling for it."
With that, Ryker stuffed his hands in his pockets and ghosted, leaving the manager holding the bag.
He couldn't shake the image of Charlie in the ring, all bruised ego and shadowed eyes, muttering, "My prize money..."
Ryker ran a hand over his buzzcut, a silent chuckle escaping him. He strutted out of the ring, his eyes catching a glimpse of a chick with skin so fair it was like cream, her midriff bare, legs for days, all while she was patching up Charlie Keane. He couldn't catch her face, but damn, those moves were slick. His eyes lingered on the edge of her school pants - Crestview High's getup, huh?
Just a high schooler and already playing it fast and loose in her uniform?
What's with these high school babes, going zero to wild in no time?
