by L. G. Kelso
"Yeah," he said without hesitation. Before my face could give my thoughts away, he quickly added, "But not if it's from the sport. I don't like seeing anyone beat up, regardless, but that's part of the territory and I get that. Guys or girls. Did you walk into that expecting what happened?"
What? I forced my jaw to relax. Had I?
"If you didn't, then no, that black eye is not okay."
A tiny bit of relief spread through me. I wondered if things would have been different if Max had been around back then. If someone had said those words to me. If I had realized that someone understood the situation. It doesn't matter, Tori. He wasn't there then and he can't be here for you now. A thought that had only infiltrated by mind briefly earlier came back. "Well," I somehow strangled out a minute later, "I'm pretty sure he looked worse than I do."
The right side of Max's mouth flickered up and his eyes, while still hard, portrayed something else that I couldn't figure out. His lips pressed together in a haunted smile that suggested something else had crossed his mind. "I don't think he expected what he got," he said.
I smiled in an attempt to banish whatever ghost tugged at him. His face finally relaxed, his smile turned genuine, and my will to walk away faltered.
"I'm guessing you came for the book?" he asked.
What book? Oh, right.
I nodded. He disappeared into a back room and came out a minute later. After scanning the book, he handed it to me. I looked at it briefly before returning my attention to Max.
"Are you a business major?" I asked.
"Nope. I took it as an elective. I was a double major. Biology and English."
"Was?"
"I graduated two years ago."
"Oh. Why are you still here, then?" My nose wrinkled. I had zero intention of stepping back on campus after I graduated.
"I'm planning on going to grad school. Neurobiology. Being in this environment is motivating." He leaned against the counter, on his elbows, his hands locked together. "And you?"
"Business major."
"You sound...thrilled?"
"I know. I just can't contain my excitement." I settled my hip against the counter across from him.
"Why business, then?"
"Job security. My parents own a company that I guess I'll take over at some point." I turned toward him, my stomach pressing into the desk instead of my hip. I leaned forward so that we were eyelevel.
"Do you like business?"
I shrugged.
"Why not go for something you enjoy?" he asked.
"I'll enjoy it enough. My mom tried to go after her dreams when I was younger. I slept in booths while she waited for the last customers to finally leave so we could go home to our one bedroom apartment. She wanted to be an actress. Instead, she wiped down gross tables and dealt with vulgar perverts. I would much rather not have to do any of those things, even if it means I'm not crazy happy about my job."
"But now your mom has a business?" Max's jeans rustled against the desk as he shifted his weight.
"She met my stepdad. He already had the business started."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's not. I just don't ever want to be in her position."
My mother had tried to go for her dreams, and a man had to save her. Yeah, forget that.
"Her position as a waitress?"
"Saved by a man because I can't manage on my own."
With my degree and plan, I wouldn't need to trust anyone other than myself.
Because, as I had found out, no form of relationship guaranteed trust.
"Do you mind if I ask you a question?" I rocked forward, my elbows against the desk, and interrupting whatever Max was about to say.
"Sure. I mean, no, I don't mind."
I didn't realize that I had leaned in so much until I felt his sharp exhale of breath against my face and caught the tips of his ears flaring red. He ran his hand through his hair before smashing the resulting mess down. The smashed look contrasted against the black ink peeking out from the top of his shirt, touching the skin at the base of his neck.
"Come here," I said.
He leaned onto his forearms and shifted his weight. I reached across the desk and ran my fingers through his hair. "You look too much like a librarian with the smashed-hair thing."
"I am a librarian," he said, his voice low, a slight rumble at the base of his throat. His breath caught, his chest staying slightly expanded and raised.
"Am I making you...uncomfortable?" I asked, my voice mirroring his in the whisper. There was no teasing edge that had been in my tone a second before, no flirtation, no poking fun. Just genuine curiously and confusion.
"What?" He shifted his weight again. "No."
He shook his head.
God, my hand still touched his hair. I yanked my arm back as Max stared at the desk. His jaw flexed before he finally looked up and met my eyes.
I smiled.
"Your question?" he asked.
"Oh yeah. Question." What the hell was I going to ask again? Oh, right. "It's more like two questions. Why don't you teach at the gym? Jeff would pay you. And second, this is really important right here—since you work in the library, do you get free coffee from the library's coffee shop?"
He grinned, and some of the unease fell from his face. "I feel like I live in the gym as is. I like getting out of it and being around books. It reminds me of school, and that I do want to go back to school. I'm almost afraid I'll forget that if I never come back. And no, I don't get free coffee."
"Oh, that's a monstrosity right there."
"I don't drink coffee, so it's not a big deal."
"You may be Mr. Healthy, but I do drink coffee."
"You were going to use me for free coffee, weren't you? Using me for your library books wasn't enough?" His right eyebrow quirked. His smile moved into a serious line, except for the right corner of his mouth, which twitched upward.
"Damn. You've found my secret motive. You have mad critical-thinking skills." I forced my tone to match his, deadpan.
His shoulders rolled forward and I felt my own sag some in response. "I'm pretty sure my critical-thinking skills have been punched out of me."
"I doubt that. I mean, what did you say earlier? Neurobiology? That sounds intense. Probably requires a shit ton of that critical-thinking crap. Oh, another question. How is the future neurobiologist okay with getting occasional brain swelling?" I reached out, though we were so close my elbow stayed bent, and tapped my finger against the side of his head.
"The future neurobiologist avoids occasional brain swelling," Max said. His weight had settled again on his forearms and he inched toward me.
"Oh, really? He never gets punched hard in the face?"
"He tries to punch people hard in the face first."
"I see."
"Sometimes, admittedly, that plan does fail," Max added, his voice quiet. "And sometimes you've got to take a few hits to get yours in, but I try not to. I like my brain too much."
"So, you're a strategist? More so than risk-taker?" I rested my chin in the palm of my hand and leaned on my elbow as I studied him. His plain, dark green shirt, snug across his shoulders, lightened his eyes.
"Why are you whispering?" Max asked.
Was I? I leaned in closer to him. "Well, we are in a library." He was right. I was whispering. He was so close, just mere inches away. "So, tell me. Am I right? You're a strategist?"
"I guess so. I take risks when I need to but I try to avoid going over-board and avoid getting hit too much. I try to bring what I need to finish the fight so it doesn't have to go to decision by the judges. Nothing more, nothing less. " His face turned serious, strengthening the professional aspect his tone indicated. Max wasn't just a guy who screwed around with fighting.
"I've heard you have a serious right-hand."
"Serious, huh? Does that mean my left hand is the humorous one?" The corner of his mouth quirked up, causing a dimple to appear on his left cheek.
&n
bsp; "You're a dork."
"A funny dork."
I couldn't contain my laugh. His cheeks flared pink and I may have laughed louder. But then he smiled and I caught my lip between my teeth.
He sucked in a sharp breath; I could almost feel the air draw away from my skin as he did so, his mouth so close to mine.
"Max?" A voice, light and feminine, came from nearby.
I startled. My knee banged into the platform of the desk and Max's eyes jerked to the side. The pink drained from his cheeks, and I forced myself to follow his gaze instead of stare at his profile.
A girl, much shorter than myself, walked toward us. A skirt, even though it was January, flowed out at her hips, ending just over her knees. Heels tapped against the wood floors, and her ringlet brown curls bounced with each step.
"Nicole?"
Something about Max's surprise bothered me.
"Hi, Max," she replied, and then her steps sped up. She walked right behind the counter and threw her arms around him. He hesitated at first, his arms straight for a moment before returning her hug.
"What are you doing here, Nicole?"
"I'm on vacation. I thought we could talk. You weren't answering my phone calls."
She still clung to him, and his arms had eased. She disappeared into him, her tiny frame cradled against his broad chest, and her head nestled below his chin.
I would never fit like that in a guy's arms. At least I could now acknowledge the jealousy that it gave me. I didn't even know the girl, but her petite cuteness made me want to smack the bitch. I wanted to disappear into a hug like that.
I wanted to disappear into Max like that.
Wait, what?
Max pulled his face away and looked at Nicole. His eyes sought hers, as though he desperately needed the eye contact.
Pain pinched underneath my ribs.
"So, you're done? You're...?"
She nodded and smiled.
"Good. You look good, Nicole." He studied her, and his hand touched the side of her face.
The pain pinched harder.
"I came to see you," she said. "Would you please humor me with dinner tonight?"
"Nicole—"
"They said I needed to do it, Max. Part of the process. I need to talk and apologize."
There was a damn good chance the hesitation I thought I saw from Max was hopeful wishing.
"Okay," he said.
I had retreated during their conversation, and was already at the edge of the great hall when Max agreed. I turned, and somehow managed not to burst into a run until I was out of sight.
I should have known.
Chapter Ten
The dreams started that night.
Fists broke through my arms, into my face.
"You want to be one of the boys? Think you're tough because you got a few hits in sparring?"
My nose was bleeding. The swelling around my eye had already started. I managed to post around him. A few steps from the locked door of the cage. Everyone had left. I'd have to slip my hand through, as usual, to pull the key.
"You don't deserve that contract or the sponsor."
I turned my back on him. I thought I could turn my back on him.
Heavy forearm around my throat. He gabble-gripped his hands and the pressure started. My back thudded to the ground. I didn't breath out as I hit; the air was forced out of my lungs worse than if a soccer ball hit my stomach. My temple collided with the frame of the door. My skin broke; blood gushed down the side of my face.
His fists came, heavy weight across me. Elbow. Eyebrow cut.
"What? Can't see with blood in your eyes?"
I rolled, tried to get away, tried to protect my face. Stupid, stupid, but I curled in on myself to block his foot.
A foot to the side, pain, and my arm moved, no longer tightly protecting my neck. His weight crushed against my back, and he moved around my back, keeping his weight down. His hand slipped into place, near my neck, and one hooking under my arm. But he kept going, moving all the way around me. I tried to move, but his hooks were in deep.
Suddenly, he yanked me forward and pain erupted through my body. I didn't turn my head in time. His arm tightened around my neck, crushing my trachea. The pain increased; I couldn't breathe. Uncontrollable coughing started. His chest pushed against the back of my head, forcing my neck against his tight arm.
Tapping, tapping. I kept tapping. He didn't stop. I smacked his arm, clawed at it. Tapped more. Choking.
Something dinged me in the forehead.
I tried to scream but couldn't get any noise out.
Something scratched my forehead again.
I swatted it. My nail grazed my forehead. My bed came back to me then, along with the down comforter and bulky pillow. It was just a dream.
Light glimpsed off something flying at my head. It bounced down my face, and I sleepily reached for the small object. I studied it, taking in the aluminum wrapping and scratchy tip.
A Hershey's kiss?
"You awake?"
"Leah?" I pushed myself up onto my hands and looked at my doorway. "Why are you throwing chocolate at me?"
"You were dreaming. You were screaming again."
"Oh." It must have been bad. Leah knew better than to acknowledge my dreams.
"And I sure wasn't going to try to wake you up myself. Never again."
I cringed. Leah and I had moved in together right after high school graduation. The dreams were worse back then. She tried to wake me up once. She ended up with a black eye.
"Sorry for waking you up," I said.
"Maybe you should stop working at the gym. If it's bringing all that back."
She was right; I hadn't had the dreams in quite a few months. But, really, I knew that they had never really left. None of it had. It had always been there, looking for a chance to remind me.
From my bed, I stared at my closed closet, and wondered what would happen if my boogeyman, in the form of two beautiful, handmade gloves, took me.
#
The sun had just started to light the sky behind the mountains as I walked to the gym. At six thirty, I had given up trying to sleep. The memories wouldn't leave me alone. As I lay in bed, my hands itched to feel the cradle of a glove again. I had tried to keep myself in bed; I knew that staying in bed would be the best choice for my future.
I wasn't so sure if it was the best choice for the now.
I slipped through the door, the glass chilling my bare shoulders as I attempted to let it close quietly, resting the door on my back.
I stepped out of my tennis shoes and left them on the skirt of the mats. I bowed, and then slipped to the ground, and placed the bag in front of me.
What had happened to my brain the past month?
Wind tunneled over the roof of the building, wreaking havoc on the small fans that ventilated to the outside. Early spring had only worsened the wind. The metal banged, rhythmically, as though one of the fan leaves was off balance. I stood, in hopes that Jeff had given in and bought a phone adapter. I found one a few minutes later, plugged in my phone, and turned it to my playlist.
Underground hip-hop drowned out the frantic fan and the dinging. I stretched my arms and back as I went back to the mats.
Stop thinking about it, Tori.
I unzipped the side pouch on my bag and took out my red wrist wraps. Just for old times sake, I went all out and wrapped as though I was going into a fight, following the X between my fingers and locking my thumb.
What was I doing?
I was asking for trouble, setting myself up for failure once again.
I stood, closed my eyes, and listened to the music. I found the beat. I sang along with the song for a minute, bouncing a little on the toes of my feet, which had placed themselves in position, without my permission, right foot back, toes almost lined up with heel of the left, but a little over shoulder-width apart. Sixty-forty weight distribution: front, rear. My back curved, pelvis rolled forward, elbows together.
Either
my sports bra didn't shove things down like my old one did, or my boobs grew (wouldn't that be nice). My elbows squished against them, and it took me a few minutes to get comfortable once my elbows were where they needed to be.
Hands up.
The shadow boxing loosened me up, but I kept myself from delving too deep into my focus zone. I heard the music, felt it, and enjoyed it, but once I started on the bag, my focus sharpened, the music faded.
Metal clinked, the chain rubbed as the bag moved from impact. My brain shut off. Jab jab cross, jab cross, jab cross, jab cross left hook. Fast hard fast hard. Hard hard hard. Fast fast hard. Right hook. Rear knee. Rear Thai kick.
Over and over. Combinations I hadn't done in years. My favorite combinations, but also combinations that made no logical sense and would be useless in a fight, but I did them anyway.
It was a million freaking degrees in the gym. I ripped the Velcro off with my teeth, and pulled my hand out of my glove. After yanking my tank top over my head, I dropped it and replaced the glove.
Material and air compressed on impact, and energy transferred. My breathing regulated, coming out in noise that corresponded to my throws.
At some point, I started to get shaky. I moved back a space for my reach, gave the bag one last cross, followed by a kick aimed at floating rib level. After removing my right glove, I wiped at the sweat dripping into my eyes with the back of my arm, and rubbed at my sports bra to dry up the sweat between my boobs.
I listened, settling my respirations, wondering what had changed. At some point, my playlist must have reached the end, and in the silence, I heard someone else breathing. I spun around.
Max leaned against the wall, a white tank top spread across his chest. Black lines blurred from underneath the material and stretched out from beneath it. More tattoos. I wondered what they meant. I also wondered why he looked so good.
No. No. No.
I debated trying to punch myself in the face.
"How long did you box for?" he asked.
"Seven years." I pulled my other glove off.
"How long have you not boxed for?"
"A little under three years," I answered. The glove was off and I couldn't keep staring at it without looking like an idiot, so I finally turned my attention to Max. He pushed away from the wall, walked over to me, and stopped a few feet away.
