Fighter's Heart: A Hot Sports Romance (Crown MMA Romance)

by A. Rivers

  Because she won’t listen. They never listen. Once a person’s mind is made up, there’s little I can do to change it, and she already believes I’m the bad guy. It’s evident in every impatient tap of her foot, and the slight narrowing of her eyes. She doesn’t want to know the truth, she just wants me to feed her a line of bullshit she can sell to the media. An excuse. But excuses are for the guilty.

  I don’t tell her any of this though. What’s the point? Instead, I shrug. “Can’t be bothered.”

  Her hands twitch, fingers curling as though she’s imagining wrapping them around my throat. The image is so ludicrous I have to laugh.

  “You think this is funny?” she asks.

  “Come on, it is a little.” This only seems to make her madder. “You should try it,” I suggest. “Take a shot at me. See how much damage you can do.” I’m goading her, but I know she won’t respond.

  Predictably, she notches up the ice factor. “I’m a professional, Mr. Rawlins, and for me to do my job, I need you to tell me the truth.”

  “Now I’m ‘mister’?”

  Cue eye-roll of epic proportions. I’m growing worried she might actually invert her eyeballs. That would be a shame. They’re pretty. Nick clears his throat, loudly and vigorously.

  I swivel to face him. “You all right, there?”

  He sighs. “Remember why you’re here, Jase.”

  Seth.

  “Fine.” Turning back to Lena, I try to be reasonable, for Seth’s sake. “I know you want to do your job, Lena, but I’m not the kind of guy to gossip or share rumors. To be honest with you, I don’t see the point in any PR stunts because Erin will find someone else to harass eventually. She’s just enjoying her five minutes of fame, and as long as I play it cool, it will die off. If I try to fight back, it will just confirm the rumors. I’d be better off training for my big fight against Karson Hayes next Friday.”

  She cringes when I say Karson Hayes’s name. Or is that my imagination? I study her, looking for a hint of discomfort but she’s cool as a cucumber at a cocktail party.

  “I’ve been trying to tell you, Jase.” Her face scrunches with something like pity. “This isn’t going to go away like you think it is.”

  “You don’t know that.” She doesn’t know Erin the way I do.

  “I’ll be the first to admit, I don’t know everything,” she begins, and when I laugh, she smiles in response. A cascade of tremors stir in my belly. Strange. I poke one of my abs but it feels firm, the same as usual.

  “But,” she continues, “this is my field of expertise. Yours is MMA; mine is public perception. I wouldn’t get in a cage and expect to have any outcome other than getting clobbered. If you try to manage this on your own, you’ll be the one taking a clobbering, if you get my meaning. Shall we each agree to stick to what we know?”

  It’s a good analogy, but unfortunately now I’m picturing elegant Lena in an octagon, wearing nothing but shorts, a sports bra, and a snarl. She’d be fierce. She’s totally underestimating her mean streak.

  “So, what you’re saying is, me ignoring this would be equivalent to you getting in the ring with Killer Karson?”

  This time, she doesn’t cringe when I mention the other fighter’s name, but something flickers behind her eyes. “Essentially, yes.”

  I whistle. “Have you seen him fight? I’ve been in the ring with him. The guy is nasty, but this time, I’m going to make him my bitch.”

  Her palms slam onto the table, side by side. “I can’t work with you if you’re going to be like this.”

  The jab strikes true. “Fine by me.”

  She groans, and fuck, I want to hear her make that noise in another setting. One with a bed and significantly fewer clothes. “You. Are. Impossible.”

  3

  Lena

  I underestimated Jase Rawlins when he came through my door this morning. I knew he was violent, and within a few seconds, I knew his ego could fill a room, but I ranked him lower on the annoyance scale than the dickheads I usually work with. Now I see I was wrong. Not only is he dangerous, he’s also a first class pain in my ass.

  Is he hamming it up in front of his manager because he doesn’t want to admit he’s worried, or is he actually this much of a jerk? If I get him alone, maybe he’ll tone it down. It’s worth a try.

  “Why don’t you and I talk in a private meeting room?” I suggest.

  It’s instantly obvious I’ve miscalculated. Jase looks me up and down, eyes blazing hot, and I fidget beneath his scrutiny. It’s like the guy has x-ray vision and can see under my clothes. He practically smolders.

  Off limits, I remind myself. He’s a bully and a client. It doesn’t get much more wrong for me than that.

  His lips hitch up. “If you think being alone together will make us productive, then I’m down for that.”

  Regret filters through me, but I can’t back out, so I nod, select a pen and notebook from my desk, and mask my jitters as I take him to the nearest interview room, leaving his manager behind. It’s smaller than my office, and has no windows, only a round table and two chairs. When I sit, my back is to one wall and when Jase slides into the chair opposite, the door can barely close past his shoulder.

  He’s watching me curiously, as though I’m an exhibit at a science museum, and his fingers drum on the table. They’re sturdy, to match his massive palms. Good for punching people—or choking them, I suppose. As I watch him, his lips part and his pupils expand, swallowing the light. This close, I can tell his irises are more gray than green, the color of slate.

  He chuckles, the sound dark and lazy. “Are we going to start, or do you just plan to stare at me?”

  My cheeks flame. This morning may be the least professional I’ve behaved in my life. Something about him provokes me. Perhaps it’s his attitude. Perhaps it’s the similarities to my ex. Whatever the case, I need to tread carefully so I open my notebook to the front page, where I keep my standard list of questions, and dive right in.

  “What do you do with your spare time?”

  “Eat and sleep.”

  I record his unhelpful answer and skip to the next question. “Do you drink or do drugs often?”

  “No.”

  If I didn’t know how disciplined fighters need to be during a training camp, I’d be dubious. Jase Rawlins looks like the type to party hard. “Is there anything in particular I should know that you haven’t told me?”

  He shrugs. We both know the answer to that. He hasn’t told me a goddamn thing.

  I swallow my irritation. “Are there any other women likely to be pissed off with you?”

  “No.” He stifles a yawn, as though I’m boring him. “Are we nearly done?”

  I glance at my notepad. There are another twenty questions to go, and if he continues in the same vein, I’m going to get very little useful information out of him. Still, something is better than nothing.

  “No.” I circle the previous question, deciding to do my own research on the matter. If he’s hit one woman, chances are he’s hit another. “Do you donate to charity?”

  “Yes.”

  Color me surprised. “To which organizations?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  How am I supposed to figure out what makes him tick if he blows off every question I ask? “Humor me.”

  He leans forward, and finally I seem to have captured his attention. “The two main ones are Albright Literacy Foundation and King’s Sports Grants.”

  Interesting choices. Not the cookie cutter variety. Also, literacy? This guy? I don’t see it. King’s Sports Grants makes more sense. They give scholarships to kids from low socioeconomic backgrounds to give them a chance to train with the best.

  “Do you mentor any kids in the program?”

  “Nah.” He holds his hands up, palms facing me. “I’m strictly a hands-off guy.”

  Of course he is. My upper lip curls. I shouldn’t have expected anything different. Still, he must have some redeeming qualities. Everyone does. “Do y
ou volunteer your time anywhere?”

  “No.”

  “Have any pets?”

  “Nope.”

  Snapping the notebook shut, I slam it on the table. “Mr. Rawlins, I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”

  “Call me Jase.”

  “No, thank you.” That suggests a level of familiarity I’m not comfortable with.

  He scans me, and I feel every hair that isn’t in place but resist the urge to smooth them down. “Do you volunteer, Lena?”

  I shift in the chair, uncomfortable with the way he’s looking at me. “This isn’t about me.”

  “There.” He sits back, smiling smugly. “See? You hate being interrogated too. It’s an invasion of privacy.”

  “It’s my job.” And he’s clearly not going to make it any easier. Time to try another tactic. “Do you mind if I shadow you for the rest of the day?”

  Jase

  “Shadow me?” I ask in disbelief. “As in, follow me around? Go everywhere I go?”

  Lena nods, tilting her head, a cascade of dark red hair spilling over her shoulders. It’s beautiful, like liquid magma. I want to glide my fingers through the silky length, wrap it around my hands and pull it so her throat is bared to me. I admit to being fascinated by necks. They’re the human body’s most vulnerable point, with the jugular vein running just beneath the surface of the skin. Touching someone’s neck is powerful. It can bring pain, or pleasure. I should know. After all, I’m famous for choking people into submission. But when women are in my bed, pain is the last thing they experience.

  “That’s the general idea, yeah,” she says, unaware of the dirty thoughts swirling through my mind. “If you won’t talk to me, it’s the best way for me to get a feel for who you are.”

  I snort. “What do you care who I am?”

  “I care because I’m paid to.”

  Ouch. Kitten has claws.

  I can’t see how her shadowing me is going to help, and having her nearby will distract me from training, but I consider the idea anyway. She probably thinks I live it up, snort coke out of groupies’ navels and have orgies in my backyard. If she sees how boring I am, perhaps she’ll leave me alone and do whatever it is she needs to tick off her bullshit boxes.

  Really, there isn’t much to know about me. I train, eat, sleep, and hang with my brothers. When I need to let loose, I call one of my casual hook-ups for a quick fuck. The girls I spend time with know the drill. Fighting comes first. We can be friends, but we’re not ever going to be more. That suits them nicely, too. Who’d want to be the girlfriend of a professional MMA fighter? We’re never around, have no time for anyone, and women throw themselves at us whenever we go out in public.

  “Fine,” I agree, and her brows hike up. “You can follow me back to the gym.” As soon as she gets a load of the grungy, über-masculine place where I train, she’ll want out. And if she doesn’t, at least she’ll provide some entertainment for the guys.

  She stands. “Thanks.”

  I stand too, and the top of her head only reaches my chin. “You won’t be thanking me soon. You’re gonna be bored out of your mind.”

  For the first time today, she gives me a genuine smile. “Don’t talk like you know me, fighter boy. I might surprise you.”

  “I hope you do.” But I doubt it. “I’m parked out front. Is your ride nearby?”

  She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t be surprised you managed to get a prime park. Someone probably cleared it especially for you. Perks of the job, huh?”

  Palms on the table, I lean forward. “I’m just that scary. All it takes is one look and everyone gets out of my way.”

  Her lips twitch. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I amused her.

  “I’m in a building nearby,” she says. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “You have the address?”

  “Google. Duh.”

  Here I was thinking she’d looked me up. As if. She can’t make her disdain any clearer. I gesture for her to precede me into the hall, then glance at her ass as she walks two steps ahead of me. It’s heart-shaped and perky. Exactly the kind of ass I like. If only it didn’t come attached to such a smart-mouthed package.

  The parking lot at the gym is nearly empty this time of day, and though I hear music and thuds inside, no one else is around out here. Nick has left, having better things to do than babysit me, and I lean on the hood of my Camaro, ankles crossed, arms folded over my chest to combat the chill in the air.

  Finally, a tiny electric Nissan pulls onto the asphalt and crawls to a halt beside me. Pushing off from the Camaro, I pace a circle around the Nissan while Lena messes with something in the glove compartment. Her car is shiny, as if it’s just been washed, and it’s well-kept. A sticker on the front windshield shows it was serviced this month, and when I peer through the window, the interior is immaculate too.

  Is this girl human? My Camaro smells like used gym gear and has protein bar wrappers stuffed under the seats. That’s how it should be. Lena’s Nissan has no personality.

  “Took you long enough,” I say when she thrusts the door open and slides out, her heeled shoes clacking on the asphalt.

  She swings a bag over her shoulder, nearly taking me out, and starts toward the gym entrance. “Not everyone gets special treatment. It took me fifteen minutes to get to my car.”

  “Hold up.” I jog to catch her—she moves surprisingly fast in those shoes. When I touch her arm, she flinches and I drop my hand instantly. What’s with that? I didn’t take her for the jumpy type. Sassy and feisty, yes. Nervy, no. “Before you go in, we need to lay some ground rules.”

  She cocks her head and tries to smirk, but I can tell my touch has shaken her. “Go ahead. Lay down the law.”

  She’s fishing for a reaction and I want to bite, but I resist. The less she gets from me, the sooner she’ll be gone. Besides, I’m intrigued by her strange reaction. “Don’t ask any questions. Don’t distract the other guys. Their training time is precious. Keep off the mats, I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “So I should sit in the corner and not talk to anyone?” She wishes she could hit me. I can read the blood lust in her eyes and pray none of my brothers see fit to hand her a pair of gloves.

  “Now you’re getting it.”

  “I’ll do my best not to mess up your training.” She speaks through gritted teeth. “But I reserve the right to talk to people before they begin and after they’re done.”

  “Fair.” Probably as much as I can ask for. “Just so you know, it’s nothing fancy.”

  “Jase.” She meets my eyes. Holds the contact. Her earlier hesitation is gone. “I have been in a martial arts gym before. This isn’t new to me.”

  “Oh, right. Go on, then.”

  When we enter, our eyes take a moment to adjust because the gym only has a few windows, located high enough on the walls that no one can break in. At least, not without some serious forethought. With the exception of a strip of concrete immediately inside the door, the entire floor is covered by alternating gray and black mats nearly an inch thick. At the far end is the octagon we practice in, and heavy black bags line the wall opposite the entry—some reaching the ground, some only for boxing, and a couple of speed bags for stamina and endurance.

  I breathe in the scent of leather, liniment and sweat. It’s so familiar to me. So welcoming. This place is home. Much more so than the fancy house I sleep in every night.

  How does my favorite place look through Lena’s eyes? Does she understand the pain and hard work that happens here? Does she appreciate the motivational quotes and words of wisdom scrawled on the walls by the fighters who train here, and the ones who came before us?

  “All of these places smell the same,” she remarks, dropping her bag and bending to remove those sexy shoes.

  I kick off my sneakers and pad onto the mats. “Been in a few, have you?” I struggle to picture it.

  “Enough.”

  It’s a non-answer. I don’t like that, but given how
forthcoming I’ve been, I can’t blame her. “Sit on one of those chairs over there.” I wave my hand at them. “Hope you brought something to do.”

  “I’ll keep myself occupied.”

  Grabbing my wraps from where they’re airing out, I watch my brothers Gabe Mendoza and Devon Green sparring in the octagon as Seth stands below and shouts instructions. As usual, Devon is going a million miles an hour with a seemingly endless tank of gas, and Gabe is quietly countering and letting him wear himself out. A timer beeps and they slap each other on the back and leap out for a drink break.

  I see the exact moment Devon looks up and spots Lena. A grin spreads over his face and he changes direction, his water bottle forgotten. He slings a towel around his neck, wipes the sweat off his face, then heads right for us.

  “Hey, Jase,” he calls. “Who’s your friend?”

  “I’m Lena,” she says, before I have a chance to tell him to butt out. “Jase’s new public relations rep.”

  Devon gives me a shit-eating grin. “Oh, really?” He offers her a hand. “I’m—”

  “Devon Green,” she interrupts, shaking his hand but looking unimpressed.

  “Are you an MMA fan?” he asks, not deterred by the arctic chill she’s sending his way.

  “No.”

  “Then how—?”

  “It’s my job to know who’s who in sports, Mr. Green.”

  Devon hoots with laughter. “Mr. Green!” He looks like she’s made his day. “Can you believe that? I’ve never been called mister in my life.” He yells to Gabe, “Get over here, asshole. Meet Jase’s new PR woman.” He turns his most charming smile on her, all flashing white teeth against mahogany skin. “Are you here to watch?”

  She shifts in a way that makes me think she’s uncomfortable and glances over his shoulder at Gabe, who’s approaching with his usual expression. That is to say, stoic and difficult to read. “Yeah, that’s the plan. I didn’t mean to interrupt your session.”

  “Don’t worry,” I tell her, wrapping my hands with deft movements. “This isn’t on you, it’s on these nosy fuckers.”