by L. G. Kelso
My initial reaction was to sock him in that pretty mouth. Luckily, I somehow restrained, probably because of that damn smile and his teasing tone.
I matched his stance, putting my elbows to the fake wood and leaned my chin onto my hands. I smiled sweetly and looked up through my eyelashes. I had no idea where I had learned that, or when, but it suited the moment. "Dear, you have no idea how close you just came to getting punched in the face."
His partial smile gave way to a full one, and he leaned his head back and laughed. He came forward again, his face mere inches from mine. "Now, since I think I just met that sweet side of Tori, I think you need to show me the other side and go kick some ass. Specifically Shane's."
I laughed and tossed my dust rag at him.
He caught it and straightened up. "You assault me a lot with fabric, you know that? So, when is Tori 'The Amazon' going to start playing with us?"
"The Amazon retired."
"She looks awfully young to retire."
I shrugged.
"How about pie?"
"What about pie?" I asked, trying to connect pie and my retirement status. So far, I came up blank.
"Would you want to get pie? I haven't had pie, well, since you were fired. I miss pie." He leaned his cheek against his hand.
"Why haven't you gotten pie? You were there every week."
"I know. See, I'm pie deprived. I decided to boycott the diner." His easy grin began to turn tight. "So, what do you say? Want to go find a different pie place after training?"
"With you?"
"I thought we already established that." Pink trailed across his cheeks.
"I can't. I'm sorry," I said. I studied the counter.
"I'm starting to think you only used to talk to me because I was buying pie from you." He smiled again, though his eyes searched mine, as though he really wasn't sure if I liked him or hated his guts.
"I'm talking to you now."
"Because I've imposed myself on your desk."
I ran my finger along the edge of the desk, back and forth and back again, before meeting his eyes and giving him the truth. "I don't plan on staying here, Max. This job is temporary. I'll be back out of this world as soon as possible and I can't take any of it with me."
"So, what, you can't have friends who do this sort of thing?"
I shook my head. "You get it. I know you do. It's all or nothing for me. I can't stay out of it and be around you or anyone else from the gym. This is your life. Not mine. Not anymore."
"You miss it," he said. It wasn't a question, wasn't a bold statement either. An observation, maybe?
"Of course." I'm not sure why Max deserved the honest answer, why he didn't get the bullshit I fed everyone else, but he did. "But I can't go back to it."
Max had straightened up, and his eyes stared into mine.
"Can I ask you a question?"
Max nodded.
"Why did you try to prevent a fight that night? At the diner. You obviously could handle probably most anything on the street."
"Fighting is for the ring. Unless it's a last resort, self-defense option, it stays on the mats. Most people who want to brawl on the street don't know who they are dealing with. I prefer my opponent makes the choice to walk in there with me. This, all of it, means something to me. It's not something I do so I can bust drunk's heads up at bars. There's not much skill in that."
"You hiding from me, bro?" Shane's voice came from behind me. He leaned in the large doorway, grinning.
"I'm working on siccing Tori on you," Max said as he moved away from the desk.
"Sending someone else to fight your battles? That's a new one for you."
"I'm allowed to hit a low every now and then." Max shrugged.
"How are you, Tori? Want to come roll around on the ground with me?" Shane asked.
I bit my lip in an attempt to not shout 'no' like I wanted to, but Shane frowned as his eyes narrowed on my mouth.
"Oh crap," Shane said. "I didn't mean it like it sounds. I didn't think it would sound so sexual. Max, when I ask you that, does it sound that way? Or is it just 'cause she's a girl?"
"You sound one hundred percent like you want to bang me," Max said, deadpan.
"And yet you haven't said anything? Thanks, bro. Glad you have my back."
"Will someone turn his phone off? It keeps ringing," Jeff hollered.
Max sighed.
Shane looked at him and crossed his arms over his chest. "Nicole?"
Max nodded.
"Max. Max? Max, get your ass out here. And Shane. Where the hell have you two gone?" Jeff's voice rang through the gym. "It better be to turn that damn phone off."
"Duty calls," Max said.
"That's not your duty anymore," Shane replied.
Max shot him a cold glare before giving me a quick salute.
That thing that had been there, underneath the general admiration, seemed stuck in my chest. It burned hotter than when I had been staring at his chest, and it made me feel sick to my stomach. I had noticed Shane; sure, he was more built than Max. But he didn't make that burning in my chest happen like Max did.
I couldn't even entertain the thought of Max and I being friends, or being more than friends, because Max was part of a life that I could never return to, a life that I needed to keep buried. I would have to keep any unapproved emotions on lockdown.
Fighting was Max's life, and there would be no way to avoid the sport if Max was a part of my life in any way.
The thing turned to an ache as he retreated into the monster's mouth, an ache for the life that I had let spit me out.
After Shane and Max had returned to the mats, I kept my ass against the stool and looked through files.
My phone vibrated against my hip. I pulled it out. New text from my father.
Jeff asked me for your phone number. Gave it to him. Hope that's okay. Said you were working for him?
I typed out a reply. Only deskwork a few hours a week.
He must have been waiting for my response, because his reply came a second later. So no boxing?
No.
You doing okay? Need any money?
"Of course, I need money," I muttered. I had no food in the fridge, and I already owed Jeff two weeks' worth of work for what he gave me to pay the university. Nevertheless, I typed out: No, but thank you.
If you change your mind, let me know. As long as you're in school, you know we'll help you.
I knew my father didn't mean the implication behind his words. Had my mother sent the text, then, well, that would have been different. Even though he was just reminding me of their promise, the words between the lines—the ones he didn't intend—came out clear.
As long as you're not fighting, we'll help you live.
Chapter Six
I fell into somewhat of a routine over the next month. I paid off my fees with Jeff's advance, although I was positive that I would have felt better being indebted to the university than Jeff. School, work. School, work. And at work, I had mostly managed to keep my ass in the chair at the front desk.
I worked on the spreadsheet laid out on the desk. I unlocked the first drawer to my right, pulled out the file of monthly bills, and started sorting through it. Jeff had never exactly been organized, and last month's accounting only confirmed my long-held suspicions that he had no form of OCD whatsoever. And his math sucked.
More filing and an hour later, the phone rang. I answered, gave my spiel, and then listened as a raspy-voiced woman rambled on about a message she needed to give her son right away. I swiveled in my stool and dared to look around the corner of the wall. The room opened up; sweaty air hung in sticky clouds since no one had yet opened the windows or started the fans. The wish to be drenched in sweat and to feel the burn hit me, but I pushed it away.
Or I tried to. However, it lingered, and wisps of it, like the sticky air, trailed through my mind.
Regardless, I had a job to do, and I wouldn't let stupid emotions keep me from it. I pushed off the s
tool so hard that it slid backward, the wheels screeching as it hit the desk. As I went, I turned on a few fans, distracting myself as much as I could.
A few people were spread throughout the gym. Max was in the equipment area with weights. I reached the beginning of the mats, of the dojo, bowed toward the wall that had the founder's picture on it, and took a deep breath.
The boy with the long brown hair was easy to spot out of the group. He looked young, probably just out of high school. I skirted along the edge to stay out of the way. In my periphery, Manny threw a hook. I couldn't help it. It was as if his chin was a shining beacon of light as his punch made contact with his partner's mitts. His chin, right there, out in the open, just waiting to get punched.
"Don't forget to tuck your chin," I said before I could stop myself.
Fairly certain my voice had barely been a whisper, the reaction of the nearby students stunned me. They all hesitated, and glanced at me with narrow eyes before returning to their training.
I shook my head before marching over to the guy with the hair longer than mine.
"Miguel?"
"Yeah?" he asked, lowering his mitts.
"Your mother wanted me to tell you that you have to pick up the car from the shop in about thirty minutes."
He turned to his partner, a small plea on his face. "How about you get the car today, brother?"
His partner, and apparently his brother, grinned. He looked at me as he started speaking, before turning his attention back to Miguel. "Mother wanted her to get you. You get the car. I'm staying here."
"She only picked me because she can't trust you, Mick."
"Not my problem." The other boy—Mick—shrugged. He looked at me again, gave me a slightly elongated look-over, and turned back to his brother. Unlike Miguel, Mick's hair was short, and matched his dark brown eyes and skin.
"Boys. Stop talking and hit."
I recognized that voice and looked to find Shane near one of the other pairs. He smiled.
"Cross, cross," Miguel said. He raised his mitts so that Mick could hit them. I turned, ready to walk away until I saw it.
Mick sent out two light crosses—straight punches with his right arm—one right after another. Cross cross. Bam bam. Fast fast. There was no pause, no syncopation, no beat between the two hits that allowed the striker to reload the punch.
Not only was the movement wrong, it was also instantly nerve-grating.
Now would be the time to walk away. Screw it, now was the time to run away. I willed my legs to move, but they wouldn't.
"Don't be such a boob, bro. Hit me," Mick said.
Boob? Really? My brain tried to take in all the wrong it had just witnessed.
"First off, did you just call him a boob? As in, a lump of fat, as an insult?" I asked, turning back to the two boys.
"A beautiful chunk of fat," Miguel replied.
"Or a beautiful chunk of silicone," Mick said, shrugging. "I don't discriminate."
"As long as you two are in the gym, keep your insults to the regular, non-gender bashing ones, like asshole. Got it? Second, that's not how to properly throw two crosses. You need to reload that one. There's a beat between the two." My right arm went out, came back to base as my hand went back to my face for a beat, and then my arm went out again. I threw out two jabs, straight punches with my left arm, and with no beat to show the difference.
The two boys stared at me as though I spoke a foreign language. Mick muttered something to Miguel, and I heard the language change.
"Hay una pausa alli," I said.
"We understood you the first time," Mick replied.
I shrugged. "It didn't look like it from the look on your face. And now you know, don't bother calling me names in Spanish."
The look on his face hardened.
Fine.
I turned away, and Mick called out, "Nice Spanish, gringa. All right, cross cross."
My desk was the opposite direction, but I had to stop this cross cross, no beat crap. Shane was turned away, so I tapped him on the shoulder.
"You have to fix that," I said, as he looked over his shoulder and I pointed. "They don't believe me, and it's going to drive me freaking nuts if I have to sit at my desk all day knowing they are doing it wrong."
Shane's lips parted, closed, parted again. Then he grinned and said, "All right. I'll fix it. Any other Tori pet-peeves we should know about?"
"I'm going to do my best to stay out of the dojo, so that shouldn't be an issue."
Shane's smile fell as he looked over my shoulder. "Those two should know better. They've been here a few months. Excuse me. Hey, wait, Tori. We're going to go out tonight to watch the fights at one of the bars. Do you want to come with?"
He smiled again, and his beautiful white teeth stood out against his black skin. A crack ran through one of his bottom teeth, but I was kind of surprised that was the only fault, especially since he had a cauliflower left ear and a scar over his right eyebrow.
For whatever reason, my usual 'no, but thank you' stalled in my throat. Maybe it was the friendliness on his face or the fact that even after I had turned him and Max down a few times when it came to gym gatherings, he still offered.
"I'll think about it," I said.
"Right on," he said. "I'll see you later." He went over to Mick and Miguel and explained exactly what I had said. This time, the boys listened immediately.
Having a pair of balls did wonders when it came to being in the gym. Boobs, on the other hand, not so much.
I turned on my heel and hurried back to my desk. I pulled up the Internet again and browsed the homepage Jeff had set. It was one of the top, up-to-date MMA websites open, and I couldn't help but scan through the headlines.
One headline snagged my attention. Interview with Middleweight Champ and King of Ground and Pound Will Bennet
My finger clicked on the link, because apparently I liked to torture myself. I scanned through the article—nothing interesting really, just a recap of Will's fight history—and some pictures.
A block quote stood out in the middle of the page. "I don't train with women. I used to, but I accidently hurt one of my good female friends. It wasn't anyone's fault, but there is just too much difference between the genders. We're built differently. We have to hold back to work with them. It's a lose-lose situation. Women should train with women and men with men."
Hot tingles erupted in the thick scar at my temple and my knee ached as I twisted it, swiveling the stool.
Accident my ass.
Never again.
I would have to politely decline to Shane. There was no way I could get sucked back into the fighting world, and no way I could be around any of the fighters if I planned on staying out of it.
I didn't bother to read the rest of the interview. I'm sure Will said something that would okay his comment and not make him lose female fans, but I didn't want to read more bullshit.
A picture, from probably five years ago, stood out at the bottom of the article. I had never thought of Will as handsome. I just didn't think about him in that way, but the caption read something about him being a heartthrob in his teen years. He looked so familiar in the image, and I knew it had to be from one of the many years we trained together.
My anger morphed into an empty desperation of simply missing. Missing my friends, missing my life from before.
And Will. The Will from the old picture, not the jerk spewing out crap about training with women. Will had been my best friend. He had been my training partner, my sparring partner. I put my face in front of his fist on a regular basis, even though he stood half a foot taller than I was and close to double my weight. I had trusted him to stop when I told him to, to break apart before breaking any joints. We would stay late, after everyone else left, and work. He brought me coffee in the mornings, when we got there before everyone. He looked at me as if I were another guy, but one day, something changed. I wasn't just one of the boys anymore.
Somehow, I had become a threat.
Chapter Seven
I swear I could feel eyes lingering on my ass.
It didn't help that the door had chimed open a few seconds ago, and no steps had followed. I would have looked up right away, but my head was shoved under a chair as I reached for the schedule that had drifted off the bulletin board the last time someone opened the door and the wind ripped through the room.
I guess having my ass sticking out probably didn't help either.
"Can I help you?"
I jumped, and my head hit the bottom of the metal chair as Max spoke. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of his bare feet not far away.
"Yeah, man. I'm here to try the gym. I'm Tom."
I didn't recognize his voice. I finally snagged the piece of paper, wiggled my torso out from beneath the chair, and stood. A guy, almost as tall as me, with a lot of facial scruff, stood in the doorway. He met my eyes and smiled.
"Sure," Max said. "Come on back and I'll show you around."
I thumbtacked the paper back to the corkboard and headed toward my desk. Max leaned against the wall, glaring at this Tom guy, his eyes dark and his gaze shifting up and down. Glancing over my shoulder, I caught Tom staring at my butt.
Max cleared his throat and repeated, "I'll show you around. Class is about to start."
Tom looked at Max, and then looked away as I stepped behind the desk. Max pushed himself off the wall and disappeared into the gym.
"This gym already scores a point," Tom said, stopping at the entrance to the dojo area.
"Why is that?" I asked.
"It has a cute secretary." He winked at me.
And, apparently, it also had a new idiot.
"I need you to sign a release," I said. I pulled out a paper from the drawer and slid it across the desk.
He frowned, probably at my lack of enthusiasm.
"I'm not going to get hurt, but I'll sign your form," he said, walking over to me.
