by Katy Evans
The lady by the entrance points to the young man. He seems to sense them, and he lifts his head, frowning. And then, he slowly starts walking forward. He stops a few feet away from them and stands there in the cockiest, most challenging way I’ve ever seen. Almost as if he’s waiting to be kicked out.
“We need you to come with us and confirm membership at the front desk,” one of the guys says threateningly.
I stop the treadmill and suddenly step down. “He’s with me.”
The guy and the security guards turn in my direction, and I nod quickly. “He came with me.” I pull out my gym card. The guards come over to look at it. One of them brings back a lady from the front desk.
“Have him sign in next time as a guest,” the lady tells me with a scowl.
I nod.
The guards ease out, and I realize the guy is looking at me. Like, really looking at me. He wears sweatpants and a hoodie and an attitude. He stands motionless, the drawstring sweatpants hanging low on narrow hips, revealing a bit of skin on his abs and the sides of his hips, the start of a muscular V. He’s got a head full of black hair and eyes the color of steel that could melt the same metal they seem to come from. He’s got the most quietly intense gaze I’ve ever seen.
And it’s latched to me.
I’m uncomfortable.
And self-aware.
I’m wearing a fuchsia workout top and tight workout pants, my honeyed hair tied in a ponytail. I’m nothing special, not among the girls in the gym, and not among the girls out in the world. As he looks at me, I feel the hairs at the tip of my ponytail brush my back and I shiver like I’ve never done before.
I find his stare really unnerving, so I shoo him away. “Go back to what you were doing,” I say.
He doesn’t move.
His face is young and tanned, all chiseled planes and angles, with eyebrows that are sleek and low, like two angry slashes, a nose too perfect to belong to a fighter, and a jaw that looks unbreakable.
Bewildered by his attention, I head back to my treadmill.
The guy’s eyebrows lower a little more in obvious puzzlement. I lift my own at him in challenge, my look saying, Are you going to keep staring?
He smiles a little, an unexpectedly gorgeous halfway-there smile.
“Go train,” I say.
He gives me this cocky nod in a way that makes it seem like he’s saying thank you, then heads back to the gym bags, lifting his gloves. He hesitates for a few seconds, frowning thoughtfully as he stares at the bag, as if puzzled about something. He shakes his head to clear it, glares at the bag, and in a flash—pow, pow, boom!—hits the bag three times and sends it rattling on its chain.
I notice people are glancing in my direction speculatively. Some appear concerned, others seem to be wondering if he’s really with me. They remind me of my mother a little bit. Reese, promise me you’ll take care of yourself.
Mother, I’ll be careful. Let me go. Give me wings! I’ve earned them, haven’t I?
I begged for time by myself.
Today is the first day of the new and improved me.
So I put in my remaining half hour, then I go gather my stuff and hurry off to the day care for my little package.
This whole time, never once has the guy looked away from his bags again.
♥ ♥ ♥
“HOW DID YOUR day go?” Brooke asks later that evening.
“Good.”
“Just good?”
I nod, smiling. I’m not very verbose, and I’m naturally shy and uncomfortable around others. I think this is genetic because, though my mother is chatty, my father is a hermit and mostly keeps to himself aside from the occasional fatherly question like “You okay on money?” or “Your mother told you about curfew?”
I like being with my dad most. He doesn’t make me talk, like my mother does.
We’re the kind of people who appreciate silence.
I feel that sort of bond with Brooke’s husband too.
I met him last night—gorgeous, blue-eyed, strong and quiet, he’s a gentle beast—and after our hellos and a brief smile, he’s comfortable enough with my presence that he ignored me this morning while I had my breakfast and he had his.
I spoke before we finished.
“Why don’t you train in the gym with some of the others?” I blurted out, thinking of the guy I met.
“I concentrate better on my own.” He lowered his iPad, where he’d been reading something. “You can come train with Brooke and me if you’d like.”
“No!” I quickly protested, for a reason I still can’t fathom, and when he looked at me in a rather fatherly, curious way, I added, “I love the gym. Thank you.”
Tuesday, I’m so sore I need to crawl into bed. Wednesday is no better. But I feel energized, am sleeping divine.
By Thursday, I’m perfectly comfortable living with the Tates, and super comfortable with my daily routine. Racer has breakfast early with Mom and Dad, while I shower and get ready for the morning. The Tates drop us off at day care, and I head to the gym a few blocks away. Later, I pick up Racer, play with him in the afternoon, swim, call my mom and a few friends, or spend the evening with Pete or Riley.
I’ve learned that Pete, the guy who drove us from the airport, is Remy’s personal assistant.
Then there’s lazy, friendly Riley, his coach’s second.
Remy’s coach is named Lupe; he’s bald and he’s got a thing for the last member of the Tates’ team, the motherly Diane, Remington’s nutritionist and chef.
All in all, I’m feeling a lot more settled in than I expected to be at this point. There’s this great family vibe with the Tates and their team. I feel like I fit in, they treat me like one of their own.
It’s cool this morning, so I cover myself with an extra layer and wonder if I’ll see Mr. Mysterious from the gym. It rains sometimes, even during the summer. Soft, quiet rain that I’m able to sleep through all night. Some nights, Brooke steals away from Remy when he’s busy talking to the guys and we spend a girls’ night talking about things. I’m very interested in learning how to take care of my body now. It’s something that had never interested me until now.
Brooke told me what to eat after a workout, depending on what I want to accomplish. Fat and proteins for weight loss or muscle building. Carbs for energy. I’ve also been getting frequent calls from Mom and Dad. My parents are loving, and I’m their only child. I never lacked for love or anything I wanted. I never wanted to leave home; I was too comfortable there. Felt safe. But then I realized: I counted so much on my mom and dad, I started letting them make decisions for me. What college? What career? I know my mom and dad have a valid reason to worry about me and a valid reason for wanting to make these choices for me, but I wanted control of my life, so I finally asked them to let me choose on my own. They said fine. And I was shocked to discover, I didn’t know. And as the last decision I let my mother make for me, she called Brooke and asked if I could come.
My mom has a plant nursery. She once told me that whenever a plant is moved to a new home, it can’t be watered immediately or it dies. For two weeks it needs to be stressed, its survival tested, and only after those two weeks pass will it be ready for the water it needs to grow.
I didn’t expect coming here to be easy. But I am ready to grow. I needed a change. I’m almost twenty.
“Sure you’re okay?” Mom asked.
“Yes,” I said last night, when she called. And for the first time in a long time, I meant it.
I’ve also learned about the Underground. Last year, the final fight was between Remington “Riptide” Tate and Parker the Terror, who was a real nightmare all around. It was a close match, but the Terror lost and later was hospitalized and kept from fighting due to being in intensive care. An older nemesis and opponent, Benny the Black Scorpion, apparently disappeared this year and no one knows where he is or if he’s coming back. Some people think Twister is a contender. And apparently Spidermann—who left Oz Molino, his former trainer, and wen
t with a new one—is rumored to be in good shape too.
Parker and Scorpion used to give Remy a run for his money, but they wore themselves down. It takes discipline for longevity, Pete tells me. Not just the fight itself but the lifestyle you build to support yourself in a positive way.
I’m embracing the lifestyle with gusto.
The guy—Steel Eyes—has been in the gym every day. He speaks to no one. You’d think it was too much effort to do so, effort he seems to prefer laying on the punching bag. Straight from those eight-pack abs and to the punching bag with a dull thud. He’s new in town, I think. Nobody knows. He keeps earbuds in to shut out the rest of the world. I recently snuck a peek at the log page where we sign in; he signs his name as Cage.
Caged is the way I felt when he looked straight at me on our second day.
Recognition flared in his eyes when he saw me in my exercise clothes, and something like excitement kindled in his eyes too. In that stupid moment I felt as if it was excitement to see me. He’s got eyes the oddest color I’ve ever seen—metallic, really, a shimmering steel—and he was standing outside the gym door as if waiting for someone. I saw him, felt an odd little prick of nervousness, then pulled out my card to get in. He started after me, pulled his hood up a little higher to cover his face, and eased into the gym when I did.
I stopped before we got farther than the desk. “He’s with me,” I told the ladies, and he grabbed the pen by the log and signed his name.
“Thanks,” he said under his breath as we headed into the gym area.
I nodded, and suddenly it felt as if I’d had butterflies for breakfast for some reason.
It’s been like that every day now. And every day, I’ve caught him looking at me as he trains. Every day a little longer.
The guy punches hard. He doesn’t stop. Other gym members, especially some of the ones training near the bags, seem threatened and keep talking about him.
He’s got a chip on his shoulder, that one.
Who the hell does he think the bag is?
Who pissed off the kid?
He’s not a kid. He’s a 195-pound-plus, six-foot-plus man. At least a few years older than my twenty. Maybe . . . twenty-three?
He plays around a lot with the bags. He teases and bounces around them, and hits like he lives for that punch. But when someone speaks to him, the playfulness is gone and he puts up a wall that has pretty much kept everyone away for the past few days. The air he exudes is implacable. Determined. And way too intimidating for anyone to miss. Way too intimidating for anyone to call him out on using me to enter the gym. Nobody questions him. They let him be and keep on training, all while shooting covert glances his way.
I’m getting ready to leave for the day when he stops the bag and approaches.
“Hey.”
My eyes widen when I hear his voice clearly. A deep, male, dark-thunder voice.
Oh no, buddy, you’re not breaking our unspoken code of silence, I think in alarm.
“What’s your name?” he asks me, eyebrows low as he studies me.
“Reese.”
He nods, and thankfully walks away. I’m left feeling a little funny, uncomfortable. I’ve never felt so discomforted by a guy. I exhale, turn around, and head outside, briefly noticing that Cage is taking off his gloves as if he’s getting ready to leave too.
♥ ♥ ♥
RACER CALLS ME Ree. Just Ree. Though he can’t really pronounce the Rs well yet, so it sounds like Wee. Which is adorable. And embarrassing.
He can speak better than that, but I think it’s his pet name for me. The little bugger loves me. The one lone dimple on his cheek pops out whenever I appear. I straddle him on my hip when I pick him up after the gym. “Did you have a good time today, Racer?”
He just nods and looks at me, with the dimple.
“What?” I pretend I don’t know what he’s waiting for, then I go, “Ooooh! This?” I pull out the Popsicle.
He reaches out one chubby hand.
“Give me a kiss or you don’t get it.” His kiss is wet and sloppy, but it delights me to no end. Almost like my dog Fluff’s kisses.
Brooke wants to get pregnant again. I know that with the lifestyle of the fights, she’ll find it hard to watch over two babies. But Racer is older now, and smart. And very, very mischievous.
We stop by the park, where I always sit down to give him some lunch. Riley, one of the team, meets me with the stroller.
“Hey, stranger,” he says.
“Hey.”
“Borrowing babies to pick up guys?”
“That’s right. But there’s none to pick up around here. No good ones.”
Like Miles, I think.
“Here you go, little man.” Riley sits Racer in the stroller and they bump fists.
“I can’t believe he does that.”
“Yeah, you can. His dad would bust a vessel if he didn’t know how to bump fists by now.”
“What does he have in store for him next? Shadowboxing at the age of four?”
He laughs and heads off.
“Thanks, Riley.”
I feel a prickle in the back of my neck and turn to see Steel Eyes looking at me. He’s doing push-ups on the ground, army-style, quick and sleek, his head raised to look straight at me. Straight at me with such intensity and confusion, I catch my breath. He stops the push-ups and eases to his feet.
He looks at Racer, then at me.
He looks confused.
“Wee, my fut!”
“Food. Right. You want to get to the fruit bears, don’t you?” I turn to open the container of food as well as a bag of healthy dried fruit nibbles, and when I look at the spot Cage occupied, he’s gone.
I search the park and see him hit the running path. People pass by on rollerblades. Others throw balls. There are people walking and running, and couples on blankets making out or having lunch.
And Cage trotting and punching the air like his life depends on it.
I narrow my eyes and look at his profile a little more closely.
He gives me this rebel vibe. Like he’d rather say I’m sorry than may I, and maybe not even the “sorry” at all. There’s a fierce passion in his features and a kindled fire in his eyes. I admire passionate people. People who burn out everyone around them, they’re so passionate, they want so much, they crave so much.
Drops of moisture cling to his forehead, and not for the first time, I find myself wondering about him, things I shouldn’t admit to wondering about. Even to myself.
I stare until he disappears into the trees around the trail, and then I notice Racer has handily climbed out of his stroller. The little bag of dried fruits is right there, where he used to be eating. My heart turns to lead in my chest at the sight of the Racerless stroller. And then the dread slams into my midsection.
Leaping to my feet, I scan the park. Racer is already running a thousand miles an hour after a Labrador that’s chasing its own tail and then chasing some phantom shadow, running from one end of the field to the other like it’s never run in its whole life.
“Racer!”
I can’t put the blanket and everything back into my bag fast enough. In fact, I don’t. I just leave everything there and run after him the moment the dog spots Racer and charges after him. The dog is off a leash and three times the size of Racer.
I see a familiar figure leap up to a nearby tree branch and grab what looks to be a tennis ball stuck between the leaves. He tosses it to the ground.
The dog grabs it and scampers off, fast as a bullet.
Racer starts after him with a giggle of delight.
He doesn’t get very far. Cage scoops him up under his arm and brings him over. “You lose something?” he asks as he sets Racer on his feet before me.
Did I lose something? I think dazedly.
My breath.
My head.
Part of my soul just now, to be honest.
My heart is a kettledrum, still.
I could’ve lost Racer in the park!
The dog could’ve mauled him!
Brooke told me he was restless and irreverent toward dangers, but I never thought looking after an adorable little kid like him could actually be hard.
But it wouldn’t have been hard if I’d been paying attention to Racer rather than the guy standing two feet away from me, and far too close for comfort, now.
Cage watches me struggle to compose myself. “Thank you,” I tell him, then I drop to my haunches in front of my charge. “Racer.” I look at his happy blue eyes and feel my body tremble. “Don’t do that again. If you want to pet the dog, I’ll go with you.”
“Why?” he challenges, eyes bright and twinkling.
“I couldn’t see you, and I was scared you’d get hurt.”
He tilts his little head upward and eyes the guy, squinting beneath the sunlight.
Cage is looking at him too, and then at me. He looks fascinated all of a sudden. And that face of his is so distracting that I have to force myself to look at something else, so I stare at a spot past his shoulder.
“Wee’s my fwend!” Racer says proudly, extending out his arm to Cage. I quickly realize Racer is giving him his fist.
“He wants to fist-bump,” I hastily explain to Cage.
Cage takes in Racer in his Superman tee and his perfect little jeans. “You’re a cool little dude.”
He makes a fist—his huge and tan, Racer’s white and plump—and their knuckles bump.
Cage lifts his eyes and then looks at me. And I make the mistake of being caught blatantly staring at him when he meets my gaze. His dark, intent stare is a little hot and confusing.
Obviously he and I are not going to fist-bump, and for the life of me, I can’t draw anything but a blank from my brain. I seem to have forgotten how to speak.
The pheromones are in the air and my body is acting funny. Why is my body acting funny?
I’m not talkative, but this guy is worse.
“Did you grow tired of the gym today?” I ask him.
Geez. Could you come up with a duller question, Reese?
He still looks a little fascinated, but there’s a subtle difference in his expression when I mention the gym. Grows a little darker for some reason. “No sparring partners. Too full.”
