by Teagan Kade
Last year, during the games in Rio de Janeiro, the fights had been broadcast during primetime, and it all had to do with a promising young boxer from the Midwest. He had the whole country glued to their screens. I watched every single one I could with Dad.
A bead of sweat broke out across my forehead. I quickly pulled a tissue from my purse and brushed it away. Watching Shaun in the ring was like watching lightning strike. I abhorred animal analogies, but it was true: he moved like a cobra and pounced like a lion. Every jab, every cross, every time his fist connected with his opponent’s body, I could feel it. He captured the attention of a global audience. He had the world in the palm of his glove.
The last fight, though, something went awry moments before the bell. Shaun had gotten caught the night before getting into it with his opponent in the middle of the Olympic Village. There were many who said he should have been disqualified, but the conduct committee ultimately let him fight.
Shaun emerged the victor and took home the gold, but there were still occasional whispers it had all been rigged. It was a black, sooty mark that tarnished what had otherwise been the meteoric rise of a gifted athlete.
My dad said he deserved the medal, that he earned it. He said emotions ran high around every fight, and the pressure of having it play out on a world stage would have been intensified beyond anyone’s ability to cope. Shaun had an incident that was a little heated. It wasn’t a big deal.
Everything I knew about boxing and the mindset of athletes, I’d learned from my father, so if he said Shaun wasn’t to blame for what happened before the last big fight, then I believed him. But it didn’t take a genius to see the ‘rageaholic’ label that appeared after that day. It was a stigma that followed him ever since.
Realizing I couldn’t stall the meeting any longer, I rang the doorbell. The door opened less than thirty seconds later. My brain short-circuited. He stood there in front of me, in person, and damn it if he was physically even more impressive than he had looked on TV. No photo did him justice, either. He wore a hoodie and gym shorts—articles that would knock a couple of points off most men, but he made them work.
Dark hair, broad shoulders, a physique cut from long hours in the gym, trim hips and those eyes. His nose was a little crooked, the side effect of having been broken half-a-dozen times. His jaw line was hard, square. But nothing could pull me from those eyes. So blue I wondered if they could swallow me whole. His eyebrow rose, and I realized I had been standing there like a mute staring at him for far longer than appropriate. I swallowed hard to regain my composure and stuck out my hand.
“Mr. Nichols, I’m Victoria Ellis, from Kommen and Russell.”
He stared at my hand. For a moment I thought that he wasn’t going to take it. Then his hand engulfed mine for a spilt second, sending shockwaves straight to my pussy. Goddamn, the man was gorgeous, and my body was reacting to it in spectacular fashion, throwing me off kilter.
“So I don’t get Kommen or Russell” he finally said in response, his voice gravely and deep. I felt the vibration of it ripple through me.
I realized he was being a smartass and stood up straighter. “Mr. Kommen and Mr. Russell are both retired. But rest assured, you’re in good hands, Mr. Nichols. May I come in?”
He frowned at me. I thought for a moment he was going to refuse. I straightened my spine even further. With my heels I was almost 5’10”, but he still dwarfed me by a good five or six inches. It had been a long time since someone had looked at me as if they didn’t believe I was qualified to do my job. A flash of annoyance flared. Just who do you think you are?
“My client roster is exclusively pro athletes,” I continued. “At the firm, it’s my area of specialty.” My mouth was moving, words were coming out, but I didn’t know why. I didn’t have to justify my expertise to this man.
It seemed as if a full minute passed before he turned to his side and motioned for me to enter the condo. As I brushed past him, I caught a hint of his cologne. He smelled musky with a spicy undertone I knew wasn’t the cologne but his unique scent. It took everything I had not to turn my face toward him to breathe it in more deeply.
Jesus, Tori. Get a fucking grip, I told myself sternly.
I kept walking straight down the hallway following the bright light. I found myself a moment later in a huge space that held the kitchen, dining room, and living space. It all opened onto a magnificent view of the river, floor-to-ceiling windows opening up the room.
“Great view,” I said.
“Thanks,” he replied. He moved around me and stood on the other side of the butcher block counter eyeing me warily. He didn’t say anything else.
I wasn’t sure what was going on. He had called us, so he wanted me there. At least, he wanted Kommen and Russell there. I cleared my throat, put my briefcase on the counter, and looked expectantly at him.
“You don’t look like what I thought a PR agent would look like,” he said.
“What, because I’m not a man?” I asked with a short laugh as I pulled my tablet out of the briefcase. “May I?” I asked, pointing at the stool.
Shaun shrugged. So far, this was going well. I set up my tablet so I could take notes as we talked. It was a welcome distraction. “Why don’t you tell me what’s been happening, Mr. Nichols? What do you need Kommen and Russell’s assistance with?”
His facial expression darkened. “It’s Shaun, not Mr. Nichols. Last time I checked, my father doesn’t live here, so you don’t need to call me that, and surely you’ve read all the publicity about me lately.”
“I’d prefer to hear it from you,” I said as I settled on to the stool. “That’s why you called us, isn’t it? You said those stories are wrong, so why don’t you tell me what’s been happening from your perspective?”
“I don’t have anger-management issues.” I watched as his fists clenched resting on the counter, but then he splayed his fingers wide and put his palms down flat. “It’s all these little things that get blown up into big things, and most of them are downright lies.”
I was already starting to type. “If these people are saying things that aren’t true about you, why haven’t you come forward and given a statement to that effect?”
He huffed. “Nigel, my business manager, said people wouldn’t believe me. Not after… well, not after Rio. He said if I ignored it, it would go away.”
My fingers paused on the keyboard. I looked up at him. “When the paparazzi smells blood, they never go away. They only get closer and more persistent until they kill their prey. If they can’t find the story, they’ll make one up to suit their purposes. And you, unfortunately, seem to have a target right between your eyes these days.”
I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “I can’t say I’ve ever been referred to as ‘prey’ before.”
“You’re being stalked, Shaun, and they are waiting for you to make a mistake. It appears that you keep making them. That means they’ll keep coming after you. Each story from here is going to get bigger and uglier, so it’s a good thing you called us when you did. I’m assuming you’ve started to hear concerns from your sponsors?”
Now we were talking business. I felt myself relaxing. This is what I knew best.
“Nigel said three of them are threatening to walk after this morning’s latest round of bullshit.” He pushed off the counter and ran a hand through his closely cropped hair. The movement caused his chest muscles to flex beneath his clothing. I lifted my eyes to keep them squarely focused on his face. And his lips. Jesus, I bet he could do glorious things with those lips.
I brought my gaze back down to my computer screen. “Well, we’re going to fix all of that.”
“How?”
I smiled as the game plan continued to formulate in my mind. “By doing what we do best. The person who controls the story, controls your image, Shaun. And starting today, that person is me. Trust me when I say it’s your lucky day.”
Chapter Three
Shaun
Victoria started as
king me more questions, but I wasn’t even sure what I replied. When I put out the SOS for PR help, I didn’t expect a leggy brunette with curves that would make angels sing to show up on my doorstep.
The card for Kommen and Russell came from a buddy of mine I ran into occasionally at the gym. He said the firm had saved his ass from a pretty big scandal, and I trusted him. Given Victoria’s claim that her portfolio of clients was exclusively athletes, I figured she must have been the one working with him. How he managed to keep it in his pants when he was with her was a mystery. The woman was going to be one hell of a distraction.
Speaking of pants, my shorts had grown uncomfortably tight in the crotch. I was forced to lean forward against the counter to hide any obvious bulge despite the loose fit. She didn’t seem to notice. Her fingertips whizzed across the tablet keyboard, seeming to record every word I said.
Shit, what the hell was I saying again? I should be paying more attention.
Victoria looked up at me with her inquisitive dark chocolate eyes and cocked an eyebrow at me. “Do you need me to repeat the question?”
I shook my head. Somehow her question had managed to penetrate the haziness of my thoughts. “Eleven. I meet my coach Hammer at eleven most days.”
She frowned as she recorded that note. “Seems late.”
What the hell? She was a PR expert, not a coach. The insinuation that I might be slacking off in my training was annoying as shit. It was bad enough that Nigel had been riding my ass for the last nine months about getting back in the ring. I figured winning a gold medal and pushing myself to the extent of my body’s boundaries would have earned me a few months of R&R.
I was wrong.
“During downtime and off-season, Hammer says I don’t need to hit it as hard. As long as I’m not filling my body up with fat and booze, and I’m getting enough sleep, the training I’m doing now is more than enough. It’s ramping up now because I’ve got a fight on the books in a few weeks.”
Victoria put up her hands. “It was just a question. I’m not judging. As I organize different events, I want to be conscious of your training schedule, and don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with your coach. Nobody should mess with a guy named Hammer.” She gave me a sly smile, and I realized I was overreacting.
Of course. That made sense why she’d need to know details like that. Why had I gotten so defensive? It was an innocent question, but I immediately put my hackles up.
“Okay.” It seemed when I strung more than a few words together I got myself in trouble. Best to keep it simple.
She smiled at me again. I felt the muscles in my shoulders relax. She pulled a couple sheets of paper out of her briefcase and handed them over, standing up and putting her tablet away. “The top sheet is a list of clothing and apparel you’ll need. I know you’re a grown man and can dress yourself, but I’d recommend you at least give my suggestions a consideration. If you don’t have all of them, buy them today. The second sheet is the address and time for your first appearance.”
I stared at her. “You’ve already got my first appearance scheduled? This is it? You just got here. We haven’t even gone into the details of those other run-ins. I want to make sure we’re setting the story straight.”
She slung her briefcase over her shoulder and looked at her phone. A moment later, she was tapping something on the screen. “The past is the past. I’m focused on the go-forward story. We’re going on the offensive here. You are the blank canvas, Shaun, and I am the artist. Show up where I tell you when I tell you, do what I tell you, and I guarantee you’ll be fine.”
I felt another rise of annoyance. “So I’m some kind of puppet now and you’re pulling the strings? I’m just supposed to put up and shut up?”
She glanced up at me with a look of chagrin. “You called us, remember? Let me do my job. Be at that address Monday morning at 9am. Wear outfit number three on the list of attire. It really is that simple for you because I’m doing all the heavy lifting on the back end. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
She started back toward the front door with a casual toss of her long hair over her shoulder. I was caught thinking about her back end. I followed in her wake dumbfounded. I shuffled the papers to look at the address for the appearance. My forward momentum stopped.
“This is my old gym,” I mumbled, recognizing the address.
She opened the door and turned back toward me. “There’s a kid’s boxing class every Monday morning at 9am during the summer. You’re going to make a surprise appearance and do a short meet and greet with the kids. It’ll show you have a soft spot for where you came from. It’s a start to the new story we’re going to be telling about you.”
I stared at her. Was letting this whirlwind into my life the right call? She must have sensed my hesitation, because I saw the expression on her face soften.
“Shaun, people are afraid of you. If we feed a story to a few carefully chosen press outlets about you hanging out with a bunch of kids who obviously aren’t scared of you, it’s a step in the right direction. You have to trust me.”
I nodded but didn’t say anything else. I felt off-balance. I didn’t always do well with new situations and new people.
“See you on Monday,” she said with another smile. Then she was gone, leaving me to wonder what in the hell I had gotten myself into by dialing the number for Kommen and Russell to begin with.
*
Monday morning, my nerves were still frazzled as I walked through the door of Halston’s Gym. I told myself it was because I wasn’t wearing typical gym attire. I always felt far more comfortable in a pair of gym shorts than anything else. The slacks and white polo shirt seemed out of place. I was going to call and ask Victoria about it, but even in our brief encounter I had a feeling she’d just tell me she knew what she was doing. I was supposed to trust her judgement. Yeah, the judgement of a fucking stranger.
I entered the main room of the gym, two small rings on either side of the regulation-sized ring, and spotted her before anything else. She was over in the weights area, talking with the short, balding owner, Pete Halston. Pete stared up at Victoria as if he was looking at a fine painting. I understood and appreciated the sentiment.
Victoria wore a simple navy blue wraparound dress and a pair of kitten heels, but they did nothing to disguise her height. She should have looked out of place in the middle of a sweaty, dirty gym, but she didn’t. She seemed perfectly at home.
She caught sight of me and her eyes widened for a split second. It made me wonder if she liked what she saw as much as I did. She waved at me to join them, and I made my way over to where they stood.
“Pete,” I said, as I stuck out my hand. “It’s been awhile.”
“Glad to see you haven’t forgotten about us, Shaun,” Pete said, gruff. “I’ve been wondering when you’d come around again.”
When was the last time I’d been at Halston’s? Two years ago? Three? Suddenly I felt a twinge of guilt. Pete was my first coach back when I was just a punk kid whose mother sent him to the gym to keep him out of trouble.
“How could I forget? I got my first black eye and broken rib here,” I joked. Once upon a time, I sucked royally at dodging punches. It only took so many blows to the head before I figured it out, though still not fast enough for my mother’s liking. There were times I was sure she’s have a heart attack in the gym. Once I caught the boxing bug, though, it hadn’t let go. Not once in fifteen years.
“You left yourself open a lot,” Pete said with a shrug. Pete had always been a tough-love kind of coach. That was probably the reason I worked so well with Hammer.
Victoria looked back and forth between us with a satisfied smirk. “Well, I know Shaun hasn’t stopped talking about everything he learned here at your gym all those years ago, so we had to come over and take a look. You don’t mind if Shaun gives me a tour of the place, do you, Pete?”
Considering my one and only conversation with Victoria had lasted less than half an hour and was pr
imarily focused on my shitty public image, I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at her. But it was clear she’d done her homework. That was impressive.
“Not at all,” Pete said. I shook my head at his quick acceptance of her suggestion. The grizzled old coach seemed to be eating right out of her hand. He hated having any kind of fuss around his gym, and I realized that Victoria had neatly found a way to insert us without it appearing as if we were trying to interrupt anything.
“Thanks, Pete,” Victoria said. She pointed at a wall behind me. I turned and saw a guy standing there with a camera.
My face immediately turned into a scowl. I’d had enough of cameras over the years.
“I hope you don’t mind if we take a few shots of Shaun around the gym,” Victoria continued. “They’ll be great for using in his upcoming memoir.”
Memoir? I was pretty sure anyone who knew me was aware I had a hard enough time stringing a couple of sentences together verbally much less writing any of them down.
Pete nodded and moved toward his office. Victoria shifted to my side with a shit-eating grin on her face. “So, take me around.”
I was a boxer, not a tour guide, but I found over the next few minutes I enjoyed showing Victoria the modest gym. There were a couple of guys I’d practiced with when I was a kid working out. We stopped to have a few words. All of them told me how proud they were, how hard they knew I worked to win the gold. These were guys I admired when I was a kid. Honestly, it was humbling to hear their praise. It felt… good.
I hadn’t realized how disconnected I felt from all of this. The swarms of fans too often felt disingenuous, but I saw the open admiration and respect on these men’s faces. The best part of all of it was that the feeling was entirely mutual.
It was after the third introduction Victoria tapped me lightly on the shoulder and leaned in close. I could smell the scent of her hair. It reminded me of the ocean, endless and open… fresh. “Tori,” she said to me quietly.
