Nancy Morgan: After the Bell, Her Fire Wasn’t Done

 

The clatter of boots echoed faintly down the hall as Nancy Morgan stepped into the dim, tiled sanctuary of the women’s locker room. Her victory still pulsed in her veins, adrenaline mixing with sweat as it trickled down the curve of her spine. She tossed her gloves into the metal bench corner and exhaled—half relief, half anticipation.

He had watched.

She felt it.

Derek Cross.

Her training partner. Her opponent. Her distraction.

Their spar had been sanctioned, but the heat they generated wasn’t from the lights above the ring. His moves had been sharp, precise—but his eyes, those eyes, had lingered far too long on her hips, her lips, her throat when she’d pinned him down.

She closed her locker slowly, every sense heightened.

Then came the soft knock.

She turned, towel clutched against her front, one shoulder bare. Derek stood in the doorway, his hoodie unzipped, his chest streaked with sweat and something darker—desire barely masked.

“You fight like you know I’m watching,” he said, voice low and electric.

Nancy tilted her head, lips curving with unspoken challenge. “Maybe I do.”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The steam from the adjacent shower room mingled with the heat rising between them. His gaze dropped to the towel she held, then snapped back to her eyes.

“Coach said we need to work on… control,” he murmured.

“Then you shouldn’t be in here,” Nancy said, backing slowly toward the misted glass door of the shower stall.

“I shouldn't,” Derek agreed, “but that didn’t stop you from pinning me and whispering my name when no one else could hear.”

Her breath caught.

He was closer now, only a heartbeat away.

“Wasn’t whispering,” she said, throat dry. “I wanted you to hear.”

A long second passed between them—charged, silent, and razor-thin. Then the towel slipped slightly, a calculated move, revealing a damp strap of her sports bra and a hint of bare hip. She didn't flinch. Neither did he.

She could feel his restraint cracking like a fault line.

But before either of them moved again, a door slammed somewhere down the hall. Loud voices approached—the next shift of fighters.

Nancy pressed a finger to Derek’s chest, firm and teasing. “Round two’s not in the ring.”

He stepped back, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight with suppressed heat.

“This isn’t over,” he said.

Nancy’s smirk was slow, sultry, and victorious. “Didn’t say it was.”

The steam swallowed her as she stepped into the shower, leaving the door half-open… just enough to promise more.

And just enough to remi

nd him—

the match was over,

but her fire wasn’t done.