by Ciz, Alley
Once she was stretched out to take the shot, a hand grazed her bare thigh, trying to make its way up to the hem of her jean cutoffs. She shot straight up and turned to glare at the asshole who thought he had the right to touch her.
“Touch me again, and I promise you won’t like what happens,” she practically growled at the guy.
She was met with a chorus of oooooohs.
“Whatever you say, babe.” The guy leered at her.
“I am so not your babe.”
Rocky may not have chosen to step into the ring herself, but she made for one hell of a sparring partner. A bunch of drunk assholes—especially those who felt entitled to put their hands on women—should watch themselves.
Shrugging it off, she bent to retake her shot. Right after she made contact with the cue ball, a hand made contact with her ass. Reacting purely on instinct, she dropped the pool stick, spun around, grabbed the wrist of the offending hand, pulled back, and twisted the arm up and back while shoving his face down on the table by the back of his neck. She put pressure on his elbow, making him let out a startled squeak.
“Now you see…” She kept her voice calm. “I know my ass is nice because I work out and train with my brother. Who, I guess I should mention, is a fighter in the UFC. And this right here”—she pulled back on his arm more—“is a variation on one of my favorite moves of his, an armbar.”
She took a moment to check on the douchebag's friends, but they all stood around in a drunken stupor.
“Usually, you use your legs to help pull the arm back and keep pulling until the elbow hyperextends and breaks.” She paused to give the statement a chance to sink in. “That is if the person doesn’t tap out first,” she added. He didn't take her hint though.
Using the space between her thumb and forefinger, she pushed at the top of his elbow joint.
"This move isn’t ideal in a standing position, but my brother wanted to make sure I knew how to defend myself properly from assholes like you, so he showed me how to put the right amount of pressure on the joint to do it while standing. So you see…” She pushed harder on the joint. “All it takes is a little more pressure and snap”—she popped the p—“goes your elbow.”
His jaw clenched as he bit back a retort, her threat finally clicking inside his alcohol-addled brain. She smiled a little.
“You see, you have two choices. Door number one, you apologize to both me and my friend, or door number two, you keep being an asshat, and I push until I hear that satisfying snap.”
She gave another push for emphasis.
“What’s it gonna be?”
It didn’t take long for the guy to make what was probably his first good decision in a good long while.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His words came out so fast they were tripping over themselves to get out.
Once she released his arm, some of his bravado came back. She prepared to defend herself against his next move. She knew the type—if a guy had no qualms about sexually harassing a woman, they usually fell on the wrong side of the moral line when it came to putting their hands on them in other ways.
Before things had the chance to escalate, a deep voice cut through the tension.
“Is everything alright over here?”
She turned toward the sound. And looked up, and up, and up at a curious stranger. At five-ten, she wasn’t used to most guys being significantly taller than she was, but this one managed to tower over her.
His voice was sexy enough, and the rest of him was equally delicious, given the way his black t-shirt clung to his muscular torso and strained against his bulging biceps. Her gaze continued its path up his body to his face, with its strong jaw clenched in anger and full lips she wouldn’t mind feeling pressed against hers.
Damn, he’s tall. Her neck canted back at an angle she generally didn’t experience.
As if the rest of the package wasn’t distracting enough, his eyes were a magnificent electric blue, like a crayon, framed by thick dark lashes and striking against his dark olive complexion.
Then it hit her. There was something familiar about him. Very familiar.
Gage James.
Her mind screamed as it made the connection. Any person with even the most basic knowledge of mixed martial arts would recognize Gage James, and as the staff physical therapist at a professional MMA gym, she certainly was anything but basic.
Worse than that though, was the fact that Gage James was her celebrity crush. Some of her closest friends were the biggest names in the NHL, but no, true to her upbringing, her celebrity crush was a fighter—even if she had a personal motto not to date one.
“Oh, shit! You’re Gage James.” Clearly, her brain/mouth filter was not working, and her cheeks heated in embarrassment. She felt a little better when she saw his eyes crinkle in amusement and a smile start to play at his lips. She had imagined what those lips would feel like on her body more times than she could count through the years.
“Yes, I am. And you are?”
“Raquel.” Crap! Why the hell did I say my legal name? Get your shit together, Rock. She cleared her throat to get rid of the squeak. “But my friends call me Rocky.” There much better. See? You do remember how to flirt.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Rocky.”
Oh, he called me Rocky. That had to be a good thing. Right?
She also liked the way her name sounded rolling off his tongue.
“You’ve got some moves.”
Oh my god. Is he flirting with me?
She swallowed, her face heating as she realized this professional fighter witnessed her using a submission move in public. Sure, her brother taught her well, but this was Gage-Freaking-James. The man had won five of his fights with the move alone.
“Umm…thanks.”
Who the hell is this timid person? Where the hell are your balls, Rock?
It was never good when she started talking to herself in the third person.
A quick glance at Becky revealed she was thinking along the same lines.
“So, Rocky, where does a girl learn to—” The rest of his sentence was cut off when Cindy, their server, cut in.
“Hey, Rocky, Jimmy wanted me to let you know that your tab for tonight is taken care of,” she said.
“Why would he do that?” Her brow furrowed.
“He said he should have had security keep a closer eye on those guys and it’s his fault things escalated,” she explained as two bouncers escorted the drunks away.
“No. Absolutely not.” Rocky shook her head. “Where is he?”
Cindy pointed toward the bar in the front room. “Behind the bar like usual.”
She followed the direction of Cindy’s finger and narrowed her eyes when she spotted Jimmy. She leaned in to give the server a quick hug goodbye. “Don’t worry about it, Cin, I’ll clear this up with him. Thanks for everything tonight. We’ll see you next week.”
With a nod at Becky, she gestured for them to make their way to the bar. Regret coursed through her at not being able to talk to Gage longer. She turned to look up at him again.
“You have no idea how awesome it was for me to meet you.” She tried really hard not to gush. “But we have to go deal with this drama. But seriously so awesome.” Her words strung together in a rush.
She would love to spend more time with her crush, but in the end, she knew it was probably best to avoid temptation. The last thing she needed was to do something she couldn’t take back with the only fighter able to make her break her own rule.
Using what had transpired as an excuse, she beat a hasty retreat.
Chapter Two
The last thing Gage expected when he met up with his cousin the night before was to come across one of the most intriguing women he ever had the pleasure to meet.
Rocky.
God, even her name was perfect.
What fighter wouldn’t appreciate that? As a lover of all things Balboa—with the exception of Rocky V, because seriously, he could have done without tha
t one—he was drawn to the raven-haired bombshell.
However, it wasn’t her beauty or her name that made every cell in his body stand at attention. No, it was the easy way she pinned that asshole to the pub table, all while calmly explaining what she intended to do to him if he didn’t apologize for his dickish ways. In his world, submission takedowns were highly respected and hers had been admirably executed.
She was taller than most women—a fact he could appreciate given his own massive height—topping out somewhere around five-nine, five-ten if he had to guess. Her killer legs had been displayed in all their muscular glory in a pair of cut-off shorts, ending in a pair of badass army boots.
A fan of the Dark Knight himself, he could respect her choice to rock the long-sleeved Batman shirt. It also helped that the tight v-neck hugged her curves and displayed a generous amount of cleavage.
Visions of the way her long, blue-black hair fell in waves to her waist played through his memory as he pulled into the large parking lot on the side of The Steele Maker gym.
He also may have had dreams of a certain pair of exotic steel gray eyes, peeking from her hair like storm clouds rolling through a copse of trees. He woke up harder that morning than he could remember being in months from imagining what that blood red, cupid’s bow mouth of hers would look like wrapped around his favorite part of his anatomy.
It really was unfortunate he didn’t get her number before she left to deal with the fallout from her confrontation with Tweedledumb and his merry band of morons.
Having been on the way out himself, he didn’t get the chance to ask if Wyatt knew anything about the chick with the badass submission moves. His career came first—he needed to focus on making a good impression with his new coach and not on what his dick wanted.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t hoping the opportunity would present itself to ask about her when he went to Wyatt’s for dinner that evening.
Lost in thoughts of the night before, he was nearly late for his meeting with Vic Steele. Focus, man. Is a girl really worth the cost of your career?
He pushed open the door to his Escalade, banishing all thoughts of sexy-as-fuck beauties to the back of his mind where they belonged.
Following Vic’s instructions, he jogged across the street to the local coffee shop. They'd decided it would be best to meet outside of Vic’s gym first, so as not to be distracted by probing eyes and invasive questions. A gym known for training MMA fighters was an entirely different ballgame compared to being out with the general public. He knew how famous he was in their world—it wasn’t his ego talking, it was fact.
He noted the café's sign and grinned. The Espresso Patronum boasted its name in old-school Broadway marquee bulb lights, with a lighted cartoon to-go cup brandishing a wand and adorned with the trademark Harry Potter glasses and lightning bolt scar.
Cute.
He liked to listen to the books on audio—it helped break up mundane conditioning and was a good way to block outside distractions on fight days. He appreciated his fellow Potterheads at this place.
A bell chimed as he stepped through the glass door to the shop and was hit with an explosion of color.
With the same skill he used inside the cage, he took in the rest of the space in a glance. The floor was a diamond pattern of black and white tiles that contrasted the eclectic furniture.
As he'd noticed on The Steele Maker, the entire front wall of the shop was made of glass. A long, mosaic-tiled counter ran along half of it with crazy barstools for seats. As the sounds of The Fugees' “Killing Me Softly” played through the speakers, he stepped up to the counter to order a large dark roast coffee.
“Well, hello, handsome. Aren’t you a tall drink of water?” The barista—as colorful as the shop—greeted him with a flirtatious smirk. The guy’s sandy brown hair was spiked all around his head, the tips of the spikes dyed hot pink and neon green. There were straw sized gages in each ear, and both his arms were fully sleeved with impressive artwork.
“That’s what my driver's license says at least,” Gage replied with a grin. "Can I get a large coffee?"
His response caused the barista to laugh.
“You must be one of Vic’s new guys,” he commented as he prepared the drink.
“Why would you say that?” How'd the guy peg him so quickly?
“Oh, honey.” He waved him off like he was being silly. “Why do you think I opened this place across from a gym that trains guys like you?” His fingers waved up and down the length of Gage’s body. “I can pick a fighter out a mile away.”
“You own the place?” He indicated with a circling finger.
The barista nodded, holding out his black coffee. “According to the mortgage, I do.”
He accepted the paper to-go cup that advertised the same Harry Potter-style logo as outside and stretched a hand across the counter to shake the guy's hand. “I’m Gage. Nice to meet you.”
“Lyle.” His handshake was firmer than expected after that flirtatious banter. “I’m sure I’ll see you around. My place is a favorite of all you gym rats. Vic’s in the back corner talking to our resident author.” He pointed to a section by the window.
Even seated, Vic Steele was an easy man to spot at six-five. He was currently leaning over, talking to a very pretty woman who looked a few years younger than Gage's own twenty-seven.
Vic made his excuses as Gage approached.
With a smile that bespoke their closeness, the blonde slipped a pair of Beats headphones decorated with Mickey Mouse over her ears, refocusing her attention on the pinkish Mac in front of her.
“Gage.” Vic rose to stand, stretching out his hand in greeting. “Nice to finally meet you in person.”
“Same here.” He returned the friendly smile, then had to shake his head to clear it when he met Vic’s grey eyes. They reminded him so much of Rocky’s that it was clear she hadn’t been banished far enough from his thoughts.
As he settled into an armchair with—owls? Yup, those were definitely little Hedwigs on the chair—Lyle delivered an over-sized mug topped with whipped cream to the blonde author.
Lyle tapped her on one of her Mickey earphones and nodded toward Gage. “Fresh smut inspiration, Madz.” His whisper-shout could be heard by their entire section and Gage couldn’t stifle his laughter.
The girl glanced at him with icy blue eyes then turned back to Lyle.
“You’re the worst, Ly. What does your husband have to say about you ogling Vic’s guys?”
Lyle’s eyes watched him unabashedly as he spoke to her. “Oh, honey. You know he doesn’t care where I get my appetite, as long as I eat at home.”
She facepalmed as she giggled. “I can’t even with you.” She looked back at Gage. “Don’t mind him. We told Kyle not to let him out of his cage, but he’s a sucker.”
“Kyle and Lyle?” he asked.
She held up a hand as if to stop him. “Don’t even get him started”—she hooked a thumb at Lyle—“or your coffee will be cold before you and Vic even get around to talking.” She repositioned her headphones again, looking back to the troublemaking barista. “Thank you for my refill. Now go away”—she shooed him with her hands—“I’m on a deadline.”
With a wink at him, Lyle returned to his place at the front counter.
He may not have gotten a formal introduction but his morning was turning out to be way more entertaining than he thought it would be when his alarm went off.
“So…Tony sings your praises,” he mentioned to get his conversation with Vic started.
Vic nodded and sipped his own coffee. “Yeah, Tony and I go back to my judo days. I can’t believe he is actually retiring. Never thought I’d see the day.”
He laughed. Vic wasn't the only one. “Yeah, I have a feeling if I wasn’t looking to move, he would have kept on going until I was ready to retire myself.” A day he was afraid might be closing in on him faster than he would like.
“That sounds like the Tony I know.” Vic paused for a moment. “S
o what made you decide to move to Jersey? Pretty big change from California.”
He appreciated the man's directness, not shying away from asking the important questions.
“My cousin and his wife are expecting their first baby in a few weeks and I wanted to be able to see her grow up. They asked me to be the godfather so it only reinforced the drive to be closer.” He set his coffee cup on the table, spinning the paper cup between his scarred hands.
“Good reason. One I can really respect.” Vic maintained eye contact as he spoke. “Family is important to the Steeles. It’s a family-run business at The Steele Maker.”
“So I’ve heard. I know your brother is also a trainer and you coach your son.”
Vic nodded. “He’s got a pretty impressive record already. Lots of buzz about him being the next Light Heavyweight Champ.”
If memory served, Vic Steele’s son, Vince, was the same age Gage was when he won his first belt. “It really speaks to your team’s talent.”
Vic beamed with pride. “Thanks. Kid’s got drive like no one I’ve ever seen and from what I’ve heard from Tony, you are the same. My daughter and niece also work with the team.”
He was curious to learn more about the team that would be responsible for keeping him healthy. When he and Tony were going over the specifics for picking Gage’s new gym, they focused more on the credentials and specialties of those employed at the gym, not necessarily the personnel.
From what he'd learned last night, there was a tight-knit, core group of fighters who all trained together at The Steele Maker. It was a concept he had a hard time wrapping his head around. In California, aside from his family and coaches, he hadn't been really close to anyone else.
“What do they do?” he asked.
“My daughter is our physical therapist. And my niece—Mick’s daughter—is the team’s nutritionist and a personal chef.”
“That’s gotta be helpful when your guys need to cut weight.” As a heavyweight, he was one of the lucky few that didn’t really have to cut weight for a fight. As long as he maintained a reasonably healthy diet, he didn’t have to make many changes in the weeks leading up to a fight.
