Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series) (7 page)

I take a deep breath, hoping to relieve regret’s suffocating pressure. I remind myself that there’s one thing I always made sure to protect her from. The one thing that finally sent me running scared.
If only I would have left sooner. I may have saved myself from years of—

“Mom?” Her voice trembles.

She studies my face, searching, when a cool, wet drop slides down my cheek.
Dammit.
“I’m okay.” I wipe it away and force a shaky smile.

“Why are you crying?” There’s a pleading in her voice, but I can’t tell her how bad things really were. I have to keep that a secret.

I dab my cheek with my napkin. “I’m just tired. I haven’t had a real job since I was fifteen.” A weak laugh falls from my lips. “It’s exhausting.”

Elle glares at me then slams her palms on the table. “I’m going to bed.” The metallic scrape of her chair against the linoleum grates in my ears. She stomps off to her room and slams the door.

I’ve lost her. And I want her back. But I don’t have a clue how to do that.

You’re a horrible mother.

For once, the voice in my head makes sense. So I answer, first internally, and then aloud. “I know.”

~*~

It’s the end of my first week working at the UFL Training Center, and I’ve been catching on quickly. I’ve impressed Mr. Gibbs by implementing a new filing system that is easy to use and puts all the paperwork in actual drawers. Something that, from what I can tell, Taylor hasn’t done in the last ten years.

He’s off site all day for various meetings. A list of things to do sits on my desk. I pick it up, ready to end the week strong, and start at number one.

New promotional t-shirts need to be handed out to the fighters. A big box sits next to my desk—that must be them. I rummage through and see that they’re bundled in plastic. Each bundle contains three shirts and has a fighter’s initials scribbled on it in Sharpie.

“Easy enough,” I say and check off number one with a gratifying swipe of my pen.

Dropping my list on the desk, I stare at the box, grateful it’s on a dolly. That’ll make moving the box in heels much easier and a little more graceful. The instructions say that the shirts need to go into their drop-boxes, but I don’t know where those are.

I pick up the phone and make a quick call to Vanessa at the reception desk. She’s warmed up to me in the last few days, in that she no longer scowls at me when I walk past her every morning. She just flat-out ignores me.

With the phone pinched between my ear and my shoulder, I read my to-do list one more time to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Nope. Nothing about the location of the drop-boxes.

“What is it?” Vanessa says, her attitude proving the multi-line phone system gave me away.

“Good morning, Vanessa. How’s your day going?”

The silence on the phone grows thick.
Okaaay.

“I have to put some things into the drop-boxes? Can you tell me where those are?”

She exhales hard, making sure to communicate her irritation. “Locker room.”

No. They can’t be there. That would mean I’d have to go inside where all the guys are showering and changing and… wait a second.

“Yeah, right. Look, I know you’re busy, so am I. If you could just tell me where the boxes are—”

“Locker. Room.”
Click.

Did she hang up on me?
“Hello?” No reply. I hang up the phone. “What a bitch.”

I study the shirt bundles, chewing my nails, contemplating. What’s the worst that can happen? Sticking my head into the guy’s locker room for a quick peek won’t hurt anyone. If she’s lying, I’ll find help elsewhere. If not, I guess I’ll owe Miss Crabby Pants a thank you.

“I have to do my job.” Groaning, I wrestle the dolly around and drag it down the hallway. It’s still early, and I’m hoping I can get in and out of the locker room before the guys break from training to shower.

It’s quiet in the main training room.
Huh, maybe they’re taking the morning off.
I take a chance and scurry to the locker room door. With my back to the two-way door, I start to push through when a thought stops me. I don’t know the proper etiquette for a woman in a men’s locker room. Even if there’s only one guy inside, I should let him know I’m there. Is there a code? Something I can yell as I walk in that announces a woman’s presence? What would that be?
Beaver in the wood shop? Eww, no.
There’s got to be something.
Estrogen intruder?

Oh, whatever.

I shove the rest of the way through the door and shimmy my box in with me. The smell of spice and dirty socks mixes to numb my good sense. “Fire in the hole!” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Stupid.

A short hallway opens up to a huge room lined with lockers. And my worst fear comes to life. Three fighters. Two shirtless, one in nothing but a small, white towel.

I try to avert my eyes, to blink, to do anything, but I fail. Miserably.

“Layla, what’s up, girl?” Owen smiles in my direction.

I concentrate on his face, hoping to direct my thoughts away from his enormous chest. My weak eyes are no match for the glory of his naked torso, and my mouth goes dry as I openly gawk.
So this is what it feels like to be a guy.

“Owen, hi. I’m here… with my box.”

A short laugh from Caleb and I’m stuck on
his
naked torso. Freakin’ hell. What do they feed these guys?
Look away, Layla.
My gaze slides to my feet.

Someone clears his throat. “Your box, huh?”

Annnd, I’m back to Caleb’s chest. I nod, trying to force my eyes to his face. I succeed for the most part.

“Well, come on in.” Owen gives me his back while he fishes around in his locker for something. Probably a shirt. It’s then that I decide to petition Mr. Gibbs to have a strict no-shirt policy in the training center.

“You coming to the show tonight, Layla?” Rex, the one in the towel, has his head down, and I take a moment to appreciate his artwork. Not his body. Nope. Not at all.

His arms are covered in tattoos from his wrist to his neck. His chest and ribs also have ink, but I don’t take time to study them. I’m distracted by the silvery glint coming from each one of his well-formed pecs. Nipple piercings.

A gasp escapes from my throat. His eyes meet mine, and heat rises in my cheeks. I look away and walk to the opposite end of the room with my dolly.

Rex laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

I run my hand along my head, smoothing loose hairs back into my ponytail. “Yes. I’ll be there.”

“Sweet.” I hear the metal clank of a locker door opening.

Is he putting clothes on?
Eyes forward.
Don’t peek.

Staring at a wall of cubby-like boxes, I try hard to ignore the conversations behind me and focus on my task. I will not turn around.

Each box has a gold nameplate with a fighter’s name on it. The t-shirts only have initials. This will take my higher functioning brain.
Focus.

One by one, I read a fighter’s name and match it with the appropriate packaged shirts. Eventually, the three guys filter out of the room, giving their versions of goodbye until I’m finally alone without distraction.

I hear the door behind me open occasionally, but I keep my back turned to avoid any uncomfortable conversation about my being in a man-only zone.

“T.B.” I search the cubbies until I find Trent Barker.

Shirts in. Next.

J.S. for Jonah Slade. Easy. Next.

The shirts get distributed quickly, and I relax knowing I’ll be out of there soon. Halfway through my task, I grab the next bundle.

“B.D.” I suppress a growl.

Thank goodness my interaction with Blake Daniels has been minimal my first week here. I stick to my desk, and he sticks to the training room. The few times I’ve seen him, we both do a great job ignoring each other.

“B.D., B.D., B.D….”
Where is his name?
I squat down, making sure to squeeze my knees together and turn to the side to avoid splitting my pencil skirt. His name isn’t down here either. “B.D.” I stand back up, my thighs quivering with the effort. Monday I’m wearing pants.

“That’s me, Mouse.”

I squeal and jump. The deep voice is so close to my ear, his hot breath tickles my skin.

Whirling around, I scowl. “You scared the shit out of me.”

The side of his mouth lifts. “Oh, now you’re back to street talkin’, huh?”

“Street talk… what?”

He puts his hands on his hips. “When I found you in the lobby you were street talkin’, then in front of Taylor you were all business. Surprised I got you back, Mouse. Thought I’d lost you to uptight corporate ass-kissing.”

I gasp, loud. “I do not ass-kiss.”

“The fuck you don’t.”

“You’re…”

“What?” He steps in close, his deep green eyes locked on mine.

I shake away the foggy feeling his proximity brings. “Crude.”

His lips twitch. “Crude?” Narrowing his eyes, he tilts his head. “You kiss your husband with that mouth?”

Recoiling from his question, I regain my composure as best I can and scowl. “I don’t have a husband. Not that that’s any of your business.”

His expression softens. “No husband?”

I’m not going to repeat myself.

I shove his t-shirt bundle into his chest,
not at all
noticing how incredibly hard it is. “Here. These are yours,
B.D
.”

He holds my hand to his chest, the folded tees being the only thing keeping me from flattening my palm against the heat of his body. My stomach flutters, the vibrations stirring my blood. What is it with me? It’s like I’m bait for cocky assholes.

“You want to know what B.D. stands for?” His eyes travel from my lips to my cheeks and back. My skin warms. “Do I make you nervous, Mouse?” His eyes look deep into mine, and I’m helpless to pull them away.

I want to scream that he makes me furious, but he holds even my speech captive.

“No husband.” He takes a step back, releasing his hold.

I blink, the connection severed by the distance between our bodies and the cold indifference in his eyes.

He tilts his head, and that panty-dropping crooked smile that radiates bad-boy like nothing I’ve ever seen lights his face. “Big Dick.”

“Excuse me?” My voice screeches and echoes throughout the room. I throw back an arm to steady my weight against the wall. Why am I so wobbly?

“B.D.” He chuckles to himself, turns, and walks to the back of the locker room and out of sight.

I stand and stare. What in the fuck just happened here? My mouth is dry, and my arms are tingling, my belly still tumbling.

He caught me off guard. I didn’t have a chance to put up my barrier, to put on the full armor of my confidence and my snark. Then he got close. Those eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones.
No, I’m not attracted to that jerk.

I haul what’s left in my box onto the dolly and decide that finishing the job later sounds better than throwing myself at a guy I can’t stand.

This is wrong. I’m sick. I’ve been in a horrible relationship for so long I don’t even know what healthy attraction is.

I need to make new friends, meet new people. Tonight, I’m going to the bar for Rex’s show. Anything to get my mind off Big Dick.

Five

Blake

Fast and hard, exactly how I like it. The driving beat forces back my nagging thoughts. The pressures of life dissolve with a simple power chord or double bass hit. I break down each sound, mentally assigning it into its own category. I memorize without even trying. That’s the way it’s always been. Effortless.

“Hey, B. What’s up, man?” Caleb squeezes in next to me at the bar. “Fuck, I’m late. How long have they been playing?” He tilts his head toward the stage, where Ataxia is shredding.

“’Bout thirty minutes.” I take a swig of my beer, grateful for his interruption.

“Shit. I thought I’d get here in time for the first set.” He waves over the bartender and orders himself a drink.

I’m tired. After talking to my brother the other night, I’ve gotten shit for sleep. “I’ll take a double Jack. Neat.” A few of these should help knock me out.

The bartender nods and busies himself with our order.

Sorting through all the things I’m thinking and feeling, I’ve determined the mind-fucking culprit is anger. I’m mad that my dad’s a dick. Pissed that I had to give up things that were important to me. Resentful that I spent the first fifteen years of my life protecting a woman who couldn’t keep a fucking secret. Furious that my brother’s still stuck under my dad’s thumb.

The rest of my beer goes down in one chug. Ataxia drops a key, and Rex’s voice fills the room to explain they’ll be taking a break, but will be back for a final set.

“I thought you were training.” Caleb motions to the fresh drink the bartender placed in front of me.

“I am.” What’s he, my fuckin’ keeper? “What’s it to you?”

“Seems you should probably lay off the hard stuff before your fight. Wade’s been training like a maniac, man.”

Slamming the glass on the bar, I turn to face him. First Jonah, now Caleb? “You think I don’t know that? Shit, everyone in our camp’s been reminding me.”

He’s right. But between the shit in my head and the pain in my back, I need a little liquid painkiller. The new doc has me drinking protein shakes with some super-powered, medical-grade glucosamine and popping pills with ingredients that I can’t pronounce, but it ain’t helping.

I hold my head in my hands. It’s time to go see the doc about getting some real treatment. I hate admitting to my weakness. Any guy with a pair does. But Jonah had a point. I can’t pass up a shot at the title because I’m too prideful to get help. I hate it when he’s right.

I take another hit off my drink, but it tastes bitter. I ball up my napkin and toss it into the glass, where it soaks up the remaining Jack.

Fighting is my life. I need to pull my shit together. Nothing is more important. Including the pussy-ass pity party I’ve been throwing myself. No time to dwell on the shit I can’t change.