Fight For Her (MMA Fighter Romance Book 1)

by Vanessa Vale

  He cocked his brow and looked at me skeptically.

  “Really, I’m not. Not scared, but you make me… nervous, too.” My fingers were fidgeting and I held my hand up to show him. “See?”

  His look changed to one of surprise. “Nervous? Of me? Is it my boy-next-door good looks?” He knew he was intimidating and was mocking himself.

  “Nervous enough to accuse you of Rufi-ing my drink.” His broad smile had me smiling, too. How did he put me at ease when I should instead feel ridiculously embarrassed? “Can I have a chance to start over like you did?”

  He nodded and crossed his blunt fingers over his chest. “Seems fair. We both get a redo.”

  I took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye and smiled. “Thank you, Gray, for the water.” I took a cold and refreshing sip. Stalled. He watched my lips, my throat work as I swallowed.

  He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome.”

  “How did you know I wasn’t drinking? Liquor, I mean.”

  “The first time I saw you—I missed the dinner because of a meeting—you were talking with the bartender. Pretty as a picture and making the guy smile. He nodded at something you said and made you a gin and tonic look-alike.”

  That had been ten minutes or more before he came over and rescued me. Gray had been watching me longer than I’d thought. How had I missed seeing him earlier? He was impossible to miss; I responded to him in a way I'd never experienced before. It was almost visceral. Because of this...attraction, I didn’t know how to feel about that. Flattered?

  “I had a glass of wine with dinner and I have to drive home,” I explained. “I’m somewhat of a lightweight, so I didn’t need any more. If I hold a glass of water, that really looks like just water, people ask me if I’m an alcoholic or they look at my stomach and wonder if I’m pregnant.”

  His jaw clenched. “I stopped drinking when I was in training and never took it back up, but I don’t have people questioning me like that. Shitty double standard.”

  I shrugged because there was nothing to add. It was a shitty double standard, but I was pleased to see he wasn’t happy about it. “Besides, if I drink too much at night, it’s hard to work out in the morning.”

  “You run?”

  I rolled my eyes at the idea of running. As if. “Only if being chased.”

  His eyes narrowed at the dark humor, clearly not amused. “The idea of you being followed is not funny.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I said, chagrined. Wow, he was protective too. “No. I row.”

  Interest lit his face. “Crew? Really? In the harbor?”

  “Middle Branch Park.” It was a calmer little finger of water off the Inner Harbor. It was sheltered and the surface, especially at dawn, was like glass. Perfect for rowing.

  “Four or eight person?”

  “Four.” I rowed as part of a four-person boat, each person with their own oar. “Do you row?” I was impressed by his knowledge of the sport, although he’d asked the most basic of questions. Bob/Bill would have assumed I rowed a canoe like Pocahontas.

  “Not coordinated enough. I’d overturn the shell.” He referred to the special boat we used by its correct name. “You’re a morning person then.”

  “I like to see the sun rise when I’m on the water.” The way the sky turned from black to gray to pink and then blue, watching the birds and the city wake up was remarkable.

  “I can understand that. I run at six almost every morning. I like the quiet.” Was that why he drove those guys off, because they were too loud? Could this guy be an introvert like me?

  Something settled inside me. He knew. He liked the quiet.

  “You…you do understand then,” I replied, my voice soft. I was pleased, thrilled even and a little spurt of pleasure coursed through me.

  The corner of his mouth turned up but he didn’t say anything, only kept looking at me. Now, when his eyes held mine, I wasn’t nervous, I was…intrigued.

  “I play rugby on Sundays with a club, just for fun. It’s not overly competitive, especially since there are a bunch of us older guys out there.”

  Older guys? He couldn’t be much older than me. Maybe forty or so. I doubted he had trouble keeping up with the younger guys, especially if he was a trainer. He looked more than fit to hold his own at whatever he wanted to accomplish.

  “The game is at eleven,” he continued. “I’d like it if you came.”

  He was asking me out? My mouth fell open and I didn’t know what to say. He held up a hand. “Don’t panic, it’s not a date.”

  My heart fluttered at the invitation nonetheless. I arched a brow. “Really? Is this how you ask all the girls out?”

  “Girls? Like the ones inside?”

  I could only nod.

  He leaned forward, eyed me closely. “I want you…to come to my game. Not as a date, because I imagine if I asked you out right now you might bolt. As I said, I don’t want you scared of me.”

  When I opened my mouth once again to speak, he put a finger over my lips. The touch was warm and gentle and I could do nothing more than feel the tingle of it all the way to my toes… and other places.

  “Or nervous. Trust me, Emory, when I ask you out, you’ll know it.”

  He’d said when, not if.

  “I just want to see you again.” He lowered his hand.

  “I thought you weren't trying to pick me up,” I argued.

  “This—” He waggled a finger between us. “—is different. This isn't a pick up. Those girls, those are pick ups. You…” He let the rest of the sentence drop. While I was still processing as to why, he continued. “Think of it as a coincidence, both of us being at Rifkin Park at the same time.”

  I eyed him, doubting his sincerity. “You really—”

  He cut me off with one simple word. “Yes.”

  Those butterflies, bees, no, hornets were back in my stomach. He wanted me to show up, otherwise he wouldn’t have offered. He was leaving the decision to do so completely up to me, clearly aware of how nervous I was. Once again, he was setting me at ease in the hopes I’d show up. I had until Sunday morning to decide what I wanted to do. From the ridiculously brief time he knew me, he’d learned I had to make a weighted, safe choice.

  While we’d been talking, the sun had set completely. Besides little white lights strung along the railing, the only light illuminating us was from the bar. Gray’s face was in harsh contrast, his gaze darker and more intent. He looked like a guy you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, but I felt…safe with him. I hadn’t had to pretend or fake a conversation, it just happened, even sticking my foot in my mouth. He’d set me at ease and it turned out we had a lot in common. I also found him hot as hell.

  “No need to be nervous then,” I replied, poking fun at myself.

  “Nope.” He smiled warmly, easily.

  His gaze dipped to my mouth and I had to wonder if he wanted to kiss me. I kind of wanted to kiss him, too. My heart raced at the idea. I hadn't had the interest in kissing a guy in a long time and I had to admit it was a little scary. Fast and scary. Not Gray himself. He seemed patient and comfortable. I didn't dare tell him that. No guy wanted to be thought of as comfortable.

  “I…I should get going. It was nice meeting you, Gray, but I’m meeting my group to row at five-thirty.”

  I stood, although the legs of my chair didn’t scrape against the concrete. He stood as well and I had to tilt my head back to look at him.

  “I don’t want you walking to your car by yourself, so let me walk you.”

  “Thank you. I would take you up on the offer, truly, but I valeted it.”

  He laughed easily. “Of course, you did.”

  I looked up at him through my lashes and realized he wasn’t poking fun, but he was definitely amused by me.

  “Good night,” I murmured, walking past him.

  His hand on my bare arm had me pausing, my breath catching. The touch was gentle, his skin warm and rough with callouses, yet it was like a shock to the system. “
I hope to see you on Sunday, Emory.” His voice was quiet, almost intimate.

  I gave a little nod, but didn’t look up at him, my skin where he touched tingled all the way down to my car.

  CHAPTER TWO

  GRAY

  I'd fucked up. That’s all I could think about as I pushed hard through a five-mile run and began my usual thirty-minute stint with the jump rope. Click. Click. Click. The sound of the plastic striking the gym mat was almost lulling and I fell into my groove, my muscles warm from the run.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  Click. Click. Click.

  There were a few early-morning guys getting their workout time in, but it was Saturday, so most of us were there to get in and get out and not interested in talking. This suited me fine. My first client was at ten, but right now, I just went through the paces. Besides, the guys knew I was always there for them—it was my gym—but a guy’s workout time was sacrosanct and everyone knew not to fuck with me during mine.

  The cleaning crew had come through overnight and the strong scent of pine cleaner and bleach lingered. The speakers pumped out a techno beat. I hated lyrics blasting while I worked out, the voices distracting me, so I kept a playlist where the steady rhythm helped keep the mood amped. As owner, I ran the gym my way. Since my name in the industry preceded me, no one was going to question me or how I did things.

  The gym had been open a few years and I had my regulars, my solid core of employees, which suited me just fine. I liked things calm. Consistent. The only fights I wanted to be involved in these days were in the ring, and usually it wasn’t me doing the fighting. Not anymore. I was done with that life now. I was just the trainer behind the ropes. Yeah, right. There was no fucking way I could ever be just a trainer behind the ropes. No one would let me. My agent, the sponsors, all of them wanted a piece of me. And me? I just wanted… quiet. Just as Emory had said.

  With my usual early-morning opener at the front desk handling the day-to-day running of the place, I didn’t have any distractions. I gave a little chin nod to a guy heading to the locker room, not breaking my rhythm with the rope, then gave myself over to my thoughts, my mind veering directly to how much of an idiot I'd been the night before. My dinner meeting with my fighter, Reed, and the PR guys had gone long, so when I finally pulled myself free, I floored it across town to the engagement party. The way Paul looked at his fiancée, Christy, had been worth the hustle, but watching a woman charm the bartender had made my night.

  I’d been standing with two guys questioning me about the next big fight when I saw her. It was as if I’d been round-kicked to the head and I couldn’t look away. She had brown hair, wavy and long, pulled back from her face in some magical way women tamed it. But hers didn’t look all that tame. Controlled, perhaps. Barely. As if a strong wind, or a man’s hands running over the silky strands would set it all free. Her eyes had been dark, but sparkling with mischief. Her full lips coated with something clear and shiny. Very kissable. The bartender had laughed at something she'd said. It hadn't been flirting. She hadn't touched him, hadn't leaned in to work her feminine wiles. Hadn't even batted her eyelashes. She just had a way about her I wanted focused squarely on me, not the damn guy behind the bar. So when he handed her a glass of water he'd disguised as a gin and tonic, I was intrigued. I was intrigued with jack shit these days.

  Her dress had been yellow, with no sleeves so her tanned, toned arms were exposed. But that was all she'd exposed because the neckline was high, like a T-shirt. There wasn’t a hint of cleavage, although the trim style showed off her obvious curves and narrow waist. And fuck, she had just the right amount of curves in all the right places. I was a man, what the hell did I know about dresses, but it reminded me of something Audrey Hepburn would have worn in one of those old movies. It looked vintage, with a full skirt that hid her hips and her legs down to her knees. Strappy sandals with a reasonable heel made her look…feminine. Not like the over-the-top, in-your-face, fuck-me-now women in the bar area who had eyed me as if I were a piece of meat, or the MMA champ they knew me to be. They wanted me to take them to the restroom, lock the door and fuck their brains out. No names, no connection. Just a quick lay with the champ.

  I was done with that shit.

  So this woman, this woman, Emory, she was soft and lush. Mysterious. Intriguing.

  I’d been pulled into another conversation about fighting and been forced to look away from her. I was able to get my sights on her again when I finally made my way over to Paul. She’d gotten cornered, talking to some asshole who’d been standing too close with his hand on her arm. From across the room I had no idea what they spoke of, but it was obvious she hadn't been interested, especially when she’d moved out of his grasp. I'd watched the asshole closely; he definitely wasn’t her date. If he was, he sure as hell wasn’t getting lucky. Her gaze had kept darting outside and she took frequent deep breaths as if she was ready to flee, or knee him in the balls. Something he'd said made her frown, a little crease forming in her smooth brow and I’d been pissed. She shouldn’t be doing anything but smiling, but not with that douche.

  If what he'd said offended her, I had no clue why she didn’t just toss her drink in his face and walk off. Paul must have noticed as well, because he told me the guy was his cousin—his very handsy cousin—and asked me to step in and rescue her. Paul couldn’t tear himself away from the group we were with but I didn’t mind, not in the least. He'd said the woman was a friend of Christy’s and was too nice to give an asshole—every family had an asshole cousin—much of a brush-off. Paul had no idea I’d been watching her, but it fucking made my night that he knew her and asked for my help. It was the perfect excuse to get her to turn that brilliant smile on me without coming across as another guy that tried to pick her up. The way she looked, the way she just glowed, the men would be hounding her.

  As I'd made my way closer, I'd been able to see she wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the room. There were ladies in their twenties I passed who put their best assets to full advantage, trying to score. It wasn’t just the men trolling. It was an equal-opportunity meat market. Cleavage, exposed thigh, stiletto heels, pouty red lips were on full display. Youth was also on their side, but youth lacked experience. Life. This mystery woman was definitely in her thirties, probably closer to forty. She wore her age well, as if she knew who she was, what she wanted from life and told everyone else to fuck off. Except for Mr. Asshole. He’d made her frown. As I made my way across the room, the guy’s hand had moved to her waist and I saw red. I'd wanted to storm over there and rip the man’s arm off for touching her. She'd stepped back and I knew she wasn’t interested. That’s right, baby. He’s not for you. She wasn’t a quick lay. She was so much more.

  The restaurant wasn't the fucking ring and I couldn’t have just beat the shit out of him. I'd had to be civilized so I didn’t get arrested, but more importantly, scare the crap out of the woman. I'd taken a few deep breaths and chilled the hell out and got the girl. At least for a little while.

  Click. Click. Click.

  I glanced up at the digital clock placed high above the wall mats. Fifteen minutes to go. Sweat dripped down my back and my legs were starting to tire. My breath came out in an even pant, but I pushed on and thought about the conversation with Emory to get me through to the end of my workout.

  She’d actually considered that I would drug her with the water. Someone like Emory shouldn’t have those thoughts, shouldn’t have to watch out for predators. Men who were willing to treat her poorly, or worse. Had some guy—perhaps her ex—been a dick and hurt her? Done shit like drugging her drink? Was that why she was wary?

  When she’d looked at me, she’d been cautious. Yeah, I had cauliflower ear from fighting. My nose had been broken multiple times. I had scars on top of scars. Tattoos. I looked dangerous, and to some people, was dangerous, but not with Emory. It just proved that my life was fucked up enough that a good girl like her would be afraid to be with the likes of me.

  She was div
orced. The guy must have done something to fuck with her. She was skittish and nervous as a sixteen-year-old girl on a first date. She'd blushed so endearingly and that proved it. So I’d given her space, kept my tone gentle, tried to keep her at ease, because hell, I was pretty fucking scary looking. She’d said she wasn’t scared of me. Just nervous. Well, the feeling had been mutual. I’d been nervous as fuck around her because I hadn't wanted to mess up. But I had anyway. I’d stuck my foot in my mouth over and over. I’d told her I wasn’t picking her up and I saw her smile slip.

  I’d made her think I wasn’t interested, that she wasn’t enough, when in fact she was too much. Too perfect. I hadn’t wanted to be like the other dicks in the bar, because while I probably had the same dirty thoughts as the oyster guy, I was gentleman enough to know she didn’t do pickups. She would have run away screaming if she'd known how much I wondered what she wore beneath her prim dress. Something sexy and lacy, perhaps. And that had made me debate what color her nipples were, if her skin was as silky soft as it looked.

  Emory hadn't been some woman at the bar looking for a good time. She’d admitted outright she wasn’t looking. Period. The kicker was, she'd had no clue who I was. No idea I was famous in the industry. She didn’t know about my career, didn’t know my wins, my championship belts, my notoriety. Didn’t know I’d been stopped at least five times within as many minutes when I showed up at the bar. There'd been no sign of recognition at all when I told her my name. She wasn’t a groupie, and that made her one of the only women who’d said to my face she wanted nothing from me. I had been the one to pursue her. To give her the option to see me again, and she’d been the first in a long, long time I’d done so.

  Unfortunately, my notoriety and fame had its price. Men wanted to be my friend, to be buddies with the champion MMA fighter. Women wanted in my bed, to fuck the Grayson Green. Everyone wanted a piece of me. For themselves. For their own notoriety. Only a select few were on my true friends list, those I trusted, who knew the real fucked-up person behind the façade.