by Meg Maguire
She was a hard worker and she loved her job, but she was tired of struggling financially. She hoped she’d find an equally driven man, someone in a competitive—if civilized—field, who could offer the financial security she’d been missing her entire life.
Her family had been pretty poor, her father losing a good job as a machine mechanic when his factory was bought out in the nineties. After the layoff, Steph’s mom had started working behind the deli counter at their local supermarket to supplement their income “until things picked up.” Two decades later, she was still there.
Once upon a time, they’d been able to pay for Steph’s first karate classes without a care, but those days were short-lived. If she’d pushed herself to excel—at karate, judo, jujitsu, MMA—it was because being an overachiever had garnered her favoritism. The kind that had allowed her to keep coming to classes at a discount or in exchange for doing odd jobs around the dojo. Martial arts had never been a simple extracurricular to Steph. She’d loved it the way other girls loved horses or ballet or boys. And she’d fought to keep it in her life.
Still, she’d been doing this for over twenty years. She was tired. She’d never grow weary of the physicality of the sport, but the financial struggle... She was ready to leave that behind her. Wanting a man who could offer that wasn’t shallow—it was practical.
She eyed Patrick as she stripped out of her warm-ups.
Handsome, to be sure. Sexy even, and probably perfectly sweet despite the alarming frequency with which he caused her bodily harm. But even if her blood quickened at the sight of him, her rational brain knew what a guy like Patrick would bring—more struggling, little stability. Maybe a great sex life, but that wasn’t a fair trade-off, not if it came at the price of all that uncertainty.
She wound medical tape around her injured hand and pulled on her gloves, ready for the evening’s first workout. Down here it was business as usual—physical strain, sweat, satisfaction. Beyond these walls, though, things could be different. Would be different. A sophisticated man waiting for her at a restaurant, maybe kissing her cheeks, if that happened outside the movies. She’d let him teach her which wine went with which dish. Show her how it tingled to kiss a man who tasted of burgundy or merlot.
“Son of a—”
Steph whipped her head around at the sound. It was Patrick, of course. His averted cuss had accompanied an unmistakable zap! and a flickering of the lights. He shook out the hand he’d shocked. “Sorry!” he told everyone who’d turned, flexing his fingers. “My bad.”
At least it wasn’t me that time.
He was over it in a moment, back to joking with his colleague.
God help you, she thought again, watching him.
And God help the poor woman who falls for you.
2
STEPH WAS WORKING early the next day, and during lunch she checked her voicemail, finding a message Jenna had left at nine-thirty. The woman was as good as her word. She sounded chipper, asking Steph to swing by Spark when she had five minutes. Heart thumping with cautious hope, Steph jogged up the steps, smoothing her hair.
Both matchmakers were in the office, eating sandwiches off brown deli paper.
“Oh,” Jenna mumbled through a bite, chewing impatiently. She swallowed and blurted, “It’s you! Yay!”
“Hey, it’s me.”
Lindsey waved, also preoccupied with her lunch.
“Good news,” Jenna said, beaming as she dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Turns out you are allowed to join Spark, if you so wish.”
“Yeah?” Steph couldn’t hide her smile. Even if the service cost an arm and a leg, it wouldn’t burst her bubble. “That’s great.”
Jenna nodded. “I just can’t give you preferential treatment and I have to disclose to any potential dates that you and I are affiliated.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“It’s not. And actually, if I can speed you through the application process, I have a man who’d love to meet you for a drink tomorrow night.”
She blinked. “Tomorrow? Wow, you’re good.”
Jenna laughed. “It was a little flukey. He’s a brand-new client, and I wound up emailing him last night with some follow-up info, and we had a little back-and-forth. Anyway. He’s a doctor.”
Steph nearly gasped. Play it cool, Healy.
“Sports medicine,” Jenna continued. “He works with a lot of the hockey players over by the Garden. He likes active women and I happened to mention I may have a client coming on board who’s a fighter, and he was very intrigued, to say the least. Plus he says he likes redheads.”
“Hey, two for two.”
“Is thirty-six okay?”
“Yeah, fine by me.” An older man. Sounded heavenly after all these years surrounded by twenty-something dudes. “Is he cute?”
“No,” Lindsey interjected. “But he is ha-a-nd-some.” Her eyes rolled back in dramatic rapture. The girl ought to know handsome—she was dating Rich Estrada. “I saw his photo. He’s hot.”
“I haven’t even signed up and you found me a hot doctor who’s okay with my gig?” Steph asked Jenna. “Are you a sorceress?”
“I can’t legally let you see his picture until you’re a client. And technically I don’t think I’m allowed to bait you with as many details as I have. But would you like to sign up? He has to work late tomorrow, on site for a game, but he’d love to meet you before he goes out of town for the weekend. The game’s over around ten. Would drinks after that be too late?”
She considered it. “I could probably swap for the closing shift and meet him someplace in between.” She wasn’t an early bird, anyhow. And for a chance with a hot, sporty doctor? “Does my nose look presentable?” It was still tender, but she’d lain with an ice pack on it for an hour before bed and the swelling was way down.
“Much better,” Lindsey said, nodding.
“Okay then. Sign me up.”
Jenna assembled a stack of forms and Steph scanned them. The membership was pricey, but the decision felt right as she handed over her credit card.
“And, submit,” Jenna said, clicking something on her computer. “Welcome to Spark!”
With that scary first splash into the deep end accomplished, it was time to start paddling. “What should I wear on this date?”
“Depends on the bar, I suppose.” Jenna’s eyes narrowed. “But it’s supposed to snow tomorrow, so I don’t think anyone can fault you for dressing sensibly. Maybe some fancy jeans and a nice sweater?”
Damn, Steph had some shopping to do. Her closet was seriously bipolar—sweats and sneakers on one side, a couple of short, glitzy cocktail dresses on the other, procured for the wild after-fight parties that had become her only excuse to wear heels these past few years. She owned exactly one pair of jeans, and they weren’t fancy by any stretch of the imagination—not unless a hole at the corner of the butt pocket was this season’s hottest trend.
Downstairs, she fairly floated through the afternoon sessions. Her final match had been three weeks ago, and she could feel the effects of her lighter workouts. She’d put on a couple pounds and lost some definition, but she didn’t mind. She liked having a strong, trim figure, but it was nice to feel a little softness coming back, the perennial aches and pains fading. She was a fighter, but she was a woman, too, and could handle forfeiting her jiggle-free backside if the pay-off was an extra cup size.
“So,” she said to Mercer, as they wiped down the heavy bags after a cardio session. “Guess who’s got a date tomorrow night.”
“That was fast.”
“I know. But it’s not until late. I’m happy to take the closing shift, if that’s helpful to anybody.”
“I’ll be on a plane to California tomorrow night,” Mercer said.
“Oh right, you mentioned that.”
“My former protégé’s got a match in L.A., then we’re visiting Jenna’s folks. So I guess it’s up to Rich. When are you on ’til?”
“Seven.”
“Friday’s sparring—Rich won’t volunteer to miss that... Just come in at two and I’ll give you both the closing shift. I can cover the morning by myself.”
“If you’re sure.”
He grinned. “Heaven forbid I get in the way of anybody’s romantic plans. Especially if they’ve got Jenna’s fingerprints all over them.”
Excellent. Now all she needed was a decent outfit.
Mercer eyed her. “I bet some guys can be real dicks about the fact that you can beat them up.”
She smiled grimly. “Some are. But they’re not always nasty to my face. The worst date I ever had was with this guy I was practically half in love with, after knowing him only a few hours. He seemed perfect. But then...” She had to laugh, looking back on it. “This man tried to mug us, and I wound up choke-holding him.”
Mercer laughed. “Nice.”
“Like, in a dress and heels. I had him on the ground for twenty minutes, and my date had to call the cops.”
“And did he ever ask you out again, after that?”
She shook her head. “He said he would, but nope. Not a peep.”
“Do you wish you’d just let the guy mug you?”
“Nah. I’m proud I’m not defenseless.”
“You ever try dating another fighter?”
“I have.” On the road, any given gym was practically man-meat banquet in the run-up to a big event. “But at the end of the day, the last thing I want to talk about after a training session is UFC gossip, or the carb content of a baked potato.”
“I could see that. So what’s this guy do, the one Jenna found you? Do you know?”
She tried and failed to bite back a grin. “He’s a sports medicine doctor.”
“Ooh la la, look at you go. That’s the kind of friend we could use around here. Do me a favor and marry him.”
And since Steph was practically drunk on possibility, she imagined exactly that.
* * *
THE HOT DOCTOR was hot. His digital profile photos proved it, and he was funny to boot, and polite, and he’d typed his Thursday-night introductory email in full sentences, with capital letters and punctuation. His name in the signature—Dylan Benedetti—was followed by an exciting parade of authoritative initials, none of which Steph could translate beyond the M.D. Barring a Bruins medical crisis, they’d be meeting at eleven-fifteen the following night, at a trendy bar only a few blocks from the gym, near Boston Common.
News of Steph’s date spread instantly. Rich ribbed her non-stop through their Friday shift, proving himself a bottomless well of medical innuendo.
Patrick, the least qualified electrician ever licensed in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, was busy testing the new security system all day. Steph found the frequency with which he peered at exposed wires and muttered, “That’s weird,” highly disconcerting. More disconcerting still was that he’d apparently arrived at seven, yet was still working by the time the evening sparring session was winding down. If he wasn’t sandbagging to scam his boss for extra pay, he had to be plain old incompetent.
Steph and Rich were sitting on the mats, facing one another, cooling down after the evening’s sparring. Their soles were pressed together, and they held hands, taking turns leaning backward to stretch the other’s hamstrings and arms and back. The thirty or so members who’d braved the snow and ice for a chance to scrap were doing the same, more than a few looking skeptical about the exercise, or perhaps the hand-holding. Wilinski’s boxer types might have power on their side, but they could stand to adopt Steph’s regimen of flexibility drills. She was only too happy to torture them into better shape.
“Be careful with this fancy doctor guy,” Rich warned. “One flash of that stethoscope and he’ll have you disrobing before your starters even show up.”
She rolled her eyes at him.
“He’ll probably want to dress you in one of those paper robes and get freaky with the tongue depressors.”
Steph leaned way back, reveling as Rich winced. His turn came to pull, and she let him tug her all the way forward until her arms and chest met the floor.
Rich laughed and eased her up. “That ain’t natural.”
They got to their feet and Steph could feel the past couple hours’ exertion in her muscles. She should be exhausted to boot, but with every minute that ticked by, bringing her date closer and closer, her heart beat quicker. She’d hoped the workout would burn off the nervous energy, but nope.
Still, she was prepared. She’d taken Jenna’s advice, finding herself an overpriced pair of stylish jeans and a pretty cashmere sweater. The promised snow had arrived, so heels were a non-option, but Steph had brought a pair of dressy black boots that looked good under the jeans.
“Okay!” Rich shouted to the group. “Everybody hit the showers, stat. Steph’s got a hot date and needs to make herself pretty.”
A bunch of the guys taunted her with seedy whistles.
“Make it quick,” Rich added. “He’s a doctor.”
They chided her with extra oooohs before dutifully heading for the exit and locker room.
Steph looked to where The Worst Electrician Ever was messing around with the security panel. “Why is he still here?” she murmured to Rich.
“The locks aren’t engaging or something. He said it’d be fixed in ten minutes.”
They walked to the edge of the mats, and Steph turned on her heel and gave the workout area a quick bow, the respectful reflex ingrained by years of jujitsu. “When exactly did he say that?”
Rich made a face. “’Bout four hours ago?”
Misgiving squirmed in her middle.
Fifteen minutes later, the members had all cleared out and she and Rich exchanged an uneasy look.
“My sister’s car’s in the shop,” Rich said. “I’m supposed to pick her up from her shift at ten-thirty.”
She eyed the clock. She absolutely had to be out of here by eleven sharp, but that gave Patrick forty minutes to fix whatever he’d messed up. “You go ahead.”
“You sure?”
She nodded.
“Right then. Good luck tonight.” He gave her a clap on the shoulder and headed for the exit.
She crossed the gym to where Patrick was tinkering. “How’s it coming?”
“It’s coming,” he said brightly, turning to beam that stupid-making handsome smile at her.
“I have to be out of here at eleven, at the very latest.”
“No worries. I’m so close, I can taste it.”
“Have you been tasting it since this afternoon?”
“Trust me.”
She didn’t trust him, though. Didn’t trust his skills any more than she might’ve trusted her body in the same room as his, back in her mid-twenties.
“I have to get cleaned up,” she said. “So if you have any business in the men’s locker room, please refrain for the next twenty minutes.”
“Nope. I’m good.”
I just bet you are, she thought, eyeing his arm as he turned back to his puzzle. Good man to have on your July Fourth softball team, good to his mother and his friends, always good for a lusty tumble on a Sunday morning.
Far too good at that last one, surely.
But the instincts that had her imagining such a thing were bad, bad, bad.
Mind over body, she reminded herself. It was what let her fight through the pain and work past her limits, and if she could harness it in a ring, she could do the same in her romantic life.
“All clear?” she shouted into the men’s locker room, finding it empty. She grabbed her gym bag and headed inside. She’d enter as sweaty Steph, and emerge a new woman. She’d stripped and faced dozens of opponents hell-bent on knocking her down. There was no reason she couldn’t dress up and face this latest challenge...even if it had her more nervous than she’d felt in years.
Still, she liked the nerves. Loved the nerves.
She twisted the shower tap, and waited for the hot water that would rinse away the old Steph for the rest of the night.
<
br /> * * *
PATRICK STARED AT the diagram in his hand, then the panel on the wall.
Diagram, panel. Panel, diagram.
Man, he should sue whatever jerk had marketed this product. Easy five-step installation his ass.
He’d guessed this job would take him two hours—cut the holes, fit the boxes, marry the wiring, home in time for the Bruins’ opening faceoff. Now it was past ten. And he couldn’t just call it a day and deal with it in the morning—that’d mean leaving the gym unlocked all night.
Maybe it wasn’t the security system. Maybe it was the building’s wiring. But he’d checked those connections a thousand times...maybe a thousand and one was the magic number? He opened the metal door in the corner.
Ridiculous. This former factory probably predated electricity, and the basement’s wiring looked like spaghetti, each generation of improvements layered on top of the previous. Patrick was a pretty awful electrician, to be sure—he was a carpenter by trade, bumbling through this contract out of economic necessity—but this was just unfair. Getting this system to work was like grafting bat wings onto an elephant then commanding it to fly.
“C’mon,” he goaded, tinkering with one of the connections.
The lights flickered and he quickly turned the screw the other way, making a mental note to not touch that one again.
A moment later Steph came marching out of the locker room. There was a towel fisted between her breasts, though she still had her bra on and her hair was dry.
“What was that?”
Pretty ballsy of her, considering she was alone in this basement with a strange man. Or maybe not. Patrick pictured the flurry of bad-ass kung fu moves she might lay on him if he pretended to rush her. Better not try it.
“Just a little flicker. Nothing to worry about.” Worrying never helped anything, anyhow.
Her gaze went to the clock mounted above the boxing ring. “You’re nearly done, right?”
