TKO (A Bad Boy MMA Romance) (4 page)

              From the very second I reached over to turn off the alarm clock that morning, I’d been soaking in a deep, foreboding sense of dread. I got out of bed slowly, my eyes adjusting to the darkness as I dragged myself down the hall to the bathroom. Standing in the shower, I watched the hot beads of water roll down my pale skin and pool at my feet before sliding down the drain, my head feeling foggy, my thoughts a scattered mess. Today was the day.

              I was going to meet Marc Montoya.

              Part of me wanted so badly to be excited. After all, Montoya was a huge name, and surely having him on my roster would gain me more experience and prestige as a physiotherapist. I wanted to be a part of a winning team, and Montoya was definitely a winner. By all rights, this should’ve been a highlight, a lucky break to kick start my career, to make connections with the who’s who of athletics. But instead, Danny’s warnings just kept bouncing around ominously in the back of my mind.

              Difficult to work with. A chip on his shoulder.

              I wondered whether Danny had been over-exaggerating just to help me prepare for any potential tension I might encounter, or if he was under-exaggerating, not wanting to scare me off the assignment. Either way, I didn’t really have much of a choice. Like he said, I was the newest staff member at The Fighting Chance, and I was not about to turn down any patient or workload just because of some personality quirks.

              If he wanted to be difficult, then I would just have to be extra easygoing. I would find a way to balance the guy out, no matter how stubborn or rude he turned out to be. And who knew? Maybe he wouldn’t be so bad, anyway!

              There was a knock at the bathroom door, jolting me from my thoughts.

              “Gem! I gotta get ready for school!” Alice called out plaintively. I could just imagine her slumped against the bathroom door with her arms crossed over her chest, wearing her typical oversized t-shirt and leggings. After dad died she kind of took over his wardrobe and started using his old, baggy t-shirts to sleep in. She always just shrugged it off, simply explaining, “What? They’re comfortable!” But I think it was just her way of feeling close to him.

              “Okay, just give me another minute,” I replied, switching off the water and wrapping myself in a towel. I quickly towel-dried my hair and put on a robe, then walked out of the bathroom so Alice could start her own morning routine.

She was fiercely independent, refusing to let me drive her to school in the mornings. She always insisted on taking the bus, even though it meant she had to deal with the kids who teased her for it. Saint Seraphina didn’t have its own school bus, since the vast majority of its students were rich enough to have chauffeurs or stay-at-home moms with luxury cars to drop their kids off. So Alice had to take the city bus to the stop closest to the school, then walk the rest of the way-- no matter the weather. On rainy days I always offered to drive her, pleaded with her to let me drop her off myself, but she always refused. “You’ve got enough to worry about. Besides, if they make fun of me for riding the bus, they’re definitely going to make fun of your clanky old Jetta, Gem!” she laughed, waving off my concerns with a flick of her wrist. It wasn’t a bad car; in fact, I adored it since I bought it with my own money. But it was at least ten years old and the paint was a little rough in certain places. It would certainly look pathetic in the school pick-up line, nestled between the Benzes and the Royces.

I always tried to give Alice the best of everything, doing all I could to make her adjust more easily to life with me as her guardian. But she was just so strong-willed and self-assured, sometimes I felt like I was hindering her more than I was helping.

I dressed in my most no-nonsense clothing today, trying to make myself look as professional and prepared as possible. Although I loved my bright pink workout tank tops and floral print leggings, somehow I doubted Montoya would appreciate my fashion sense as much as I did. Besides, today wasn’t about
my
athleticism, it was about rehabilitating his. Still, I couldn’t bear the thought of wearing scrubs, like some of the other therapists did on occasion. They made me feel like I was wearing pyjamas. So I slipped into a pair of form-fitting gray slacks, a jade-green blouse, and comfortable black flats. Then I blow-dried my hair and pinned it half-up, half-down with a braid down the back. Checking out my reflection, I hoped this ensemble would make me look older and more experienced than I really was.

I had a tendency to be pigeonholed as the sweet, clueless ingénue type.

But I had been through a lot more than people gave me credit for, and I was a harder worker than anyone expected. I constantly had to prove my worth and talent to others, and Montoya would be no different. Taking a deep breath, I straightened my shoulders and collected all my things, then headed out of the apartment to go to work.

“I got this,” I mumbled to myself as I got into my car. Just as I started the engine, I got a text from Alice.

Kick ass and take names today.

I smiled down at the words on the screen. I had told Alice about meeting Montoya and how nervous I was about how he would handle being bossed around by someone like me. Alice, in her usual style, reminded me that he was at my mercy, not the other way around. Sure, he was a tough-as-nails fighter, but in the physiotherapy rooms, he was just another patient. I possessed the skills which could make or break his career, so he’d better be nice to me.

I typed out a reply:
Watch your language… but thanks. I will.

Feeling a little inspired by my little sister’s simple advice, I jammed out to some Rolling Stones on the commute to work, even rolling down the windows to let the fresh air lift my spirits. By the time I pulled into the parking lot behind The Fighting Chance, I was already feeling that veil of dread starting to draw back to let in the sunshine.

Fuck it! I was a strong, talented, ambitious woman and I was not about to let some hot shot MMA fighter with an attitude problem drag me down. I would approach him the way I did all my patients-- with honesty, professionalism, and genuine care. If that didn’t work, then I’d call in the big guns… whatever those were. I’d cross that bridge once I got to it!

Some of my nervousness resurfaced when I walked through the back door, humming to myself, and almost collided with Danny. “Oh, sorry!” I gasped, nearly dropping my bag.

“Oh, thank god you’re here,” he muttered, shaking his head. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the physiotherapy rooms and added in a hushed tone, “Montoya is already here and he’s been asking about you.”

My eyes went wide and my stomach plummeted about fifty floors.

“Wh-what?” I stammered, feeling exasperated. “I’m early! We have an appointment time and it’s not for another twenty minutes!”

Danny groaned, swiping a hand back through his hair as he looked down at me with an apologetic expression. “I guess he’s just eager to get started. He’s used to doing things on his own schedule, Gemma.”

“Well, um, I better get in there and introduce myself,” I mumbled, more to myself.

“Yeah, and remember, he’s your patient. I know he looks like a big, mean bull in a China shop but he’s hurting and his career is on the line. So, just try and be sympathetic?” he advised.

“Of course, of course,” I answered quickly, pushing past him and hurrying down the hall.

My heart was pounding in my chest when I opened the door to the big, airy therapy room filled with therapeutic equipment. The far wall was lined from floor-to-ceiling with a giant mirror, and I could see my own pale, worried face gawking back at me when I walked in.

There he was.

Marc Montoya stood in the center of the room with his arms folded over his broad, impossibly muscular chest. He wore an expression of ultimate impatience and annoyance on his surprisingly handsome face. I gulped hard. He was even taller and bigger than I expected.

He really did look like a bull in a china shop, and I was the tiny, intimidated matador who had to tame him and nurse him back to fighting condition. And at the moment his dark eyes landed on me, I felt like I was wearing red.

              Montoya was ready to charge.

              “I don’t have time to wait for you to show up,” he said by way of a greeting. My first instinct was to cower and grovel, beg for his forgiveness and promise not to let it happen again. But then, I remembered, I hadn’t actually done anything wrong! He was the one showing up way too early. I wasn’t late by any means!

              “Well, you see, that’s why we set appointment times, in the hopes that we both show up at a previously agreed-upon hour,” I snapped. “Nice to meet you, too, by the way. My name is Gemma Knight and I will be your physiotherapist until whatever’s wrong with you isn’t wrong with you anymore.”

              I could tell he was not used to receiving the same kind of snark he dished out. Montoya’s face went ruddy-dark and he frowned at me, his arms falling to his sides. For a moment I honestly expected him to rush at me and tackle me to the ground like he might do to an opponent in the ring. But instead, he merely shrugged.

              “I’m Marc Montoya, but you already know that. Now, I’ve been friends with Danny Gilchrist for a while now and he usually seems to know what he’s doing. But I have to ask: are you even old enough to have a license to practice physical therapy?” he asked.

I had to fight the urge to scream at him.

              There were few things which angered me to the point of losing patience: people mistreating Alice, people talking shit about my dad, and people questioning my abilities.

              “Yes, sir. I’m twenty-five, I am perfectly qualified, and I am ready to get started, if you don’t mind,” I replied sharply. He spread his arms in a gesture of faux-welcome.

              “Oh, by all means. I don’t have all day,” he said, rolling his eyes.

              “Well, then. First of all, I’d like to discuss what you hope to gain from our work together. You can begin by describing the kind of pain and difficulty you’re experiencing. Tell me how the pain started,” I said, trying to keep my tone professional. I pulled a clipboard and notebook from my bag and sat down on a bench against the wall. Usually, patients would sit down next to me while I wrote down their history, symptoms, and concerns.

              But Marc Montoya just stood there in the middle of the room, looking down at me like I was some nuisance, like a flea or something.
I’m here to help you! Cut the attitude!
I wanted to yell at him. However, I refused to let his rudeness make me sink to his level. I thought about Alice and how much her tuition was, how desperately we both needed this job to work out.

              “I’m a fighter,” Montoya began sarcastically, “so you can imagine the kinds of occupational hazards I encounter in my field.”

              “Mhmm, yes. More specifically?”

              Reluctantly, he gestured to his left hip and shoulder. I felt just a pinch of sympathy for him as he winced in the process. I could tell that it was not only physically painful, but emotionally difficult for him to admit any kind of weakness. He definitely wanted people to think he was invincible, and that made sense considering his line of work. As an MMA fighter, your whole identity was wrapped up in how much pain you could take and how much suffering you could endure versus how much of each you could deal out against your opponents. So it was understandable that he’d be defensive in his current position.

              I wanted to tell him not to worry about keeping up that tough-guy image. I was not a fighter, and I didn’t give a shit about his machismo. I just wanted to help.

              “I see in your chart that you’ve never really had any kind of injury like this before,” I commented, softening my voice a little.

              He regarded me with suspicion for a moment, as though he didn’t trust my compassionate tone. I wondered if maybe he just wasn’t used to people being nice to him.
Well, duh
, I thought to myself,
he’s used to people punching him in the face
.