And shit, I wasn’t expecting that either.
We both misjudged each other, and though we may have started out on the wrong foot, I’m going to fix it.
* * *
For the firsttime I can remember, I’m impatient to leave the gym. I’ll be seeing Lena tonight at the community center, and it’s all I can think of. I’m excited the same way I was about losing my virginity, with a kind of schoolboy eagerness that’s fucking embarrassing.
Fortunately, none of the guys seem to have noticed. Today is the last hard sparring session before the fight, giving me a week and a half to recover and be in top shape. In accordance with tradition, I have to face off against my brothers for one long, torturous round. Every minute, they swap out, so I’m constantly facing someone fresh while growing wearier, but I keep my hands up, stay light on my feet, and drag them to the ground at the first chance I get.
The ground is my turf. Where I’m most comfortable. And they all know it. None of them are stupid enough to give me the opportunity to take them down easily, except Devon, who’s completely nuts and has a death wish. It doesn’t seem to matter whether he’s winning, losing, or getting his face smashed—whatever the case, he grins like a freaking maniac.
That’s why he’s the brother I’m most wary of. Gabe is technically proficient and cold as hell, but he’s always in control of himself, whereas Devon is a loose cannon. Half the time, none of us have any clue what he’s about to do, which makes his fights the most fun to watch. He’s whacked in the head, in the best possible way.
Finally, Seth calls an end to the torment and my leaden legs carry me from the cage. I lower myself to the floor and catch my breath, then go through my stretching routine. As I remove my gloves, I sit through a classic Seth-style pep talk—which basically involves a grunt and a pat on the back—then I limp to the shower.
“Bro, how come you’re so fired up to get out of here?” Devon asks from the adjacent stall. “Got a hot date?”
“Got class at the center tonight,” I reply, running a wet cloth over my face, neck and shoulders. “Don’t want to be late for the kids.”
“You sure it’s got nothing to do with a certain redhead?”
“Not a thing.”
“Seriously, man?” He makes a sound of disappointment. “Thought you had more game than that.”
“It’s nearly fight week.”
He sighs. “You and your stupid rule.”
Tell me about it.
I finish showering, towel dry, slip on a clean set of MMA shorts and a T-shirt, grab my gloves, and head for the center. Several of the kids are already there when I arrive, and I high-five each of them in turn. There are no outcasts in my class. The kids are a rag-tag collection, aged from four to seventeen, and belong to both genders. They’re white, black, Hispanic, Asian, and everything in between. They listen to me pretty well, as I knew they would, because not many people give these kids opportunities.
After ordering them to skip for five minutes and delegating responsibility to one of the older girls to lead them through a warm-up routine, I sort them into partners and remind them how to throw a jab and a cross, then get them practicing on pads. Their equipment is the best. I bought it when I first started taking lessons here and realized there was no way they could afford their own, and nor could the center. They treat the gear like it’s precious, which is sweet, but also really fucking sad because few of these kids own anything of value themselves. That’s part of why I started contributing to the grant. To help kids with promise but no cash make something of themselves.
I’m correcting little Carlos’s form when I feel eyes on my back and know she’s here. Lena. Even though I haven’t seen her, the weight of her gaze is like a caress. I can sense it on my body, and I want to go to her and shove her against the wall and pick up where we left off yesterday.
Cool it, man.
I’m here for these kids, and she’s here for a job. Hauling in a deep breath, I try to tune her out, knowing we’ll talk later.
* * *
Lena
Watching Jase interact with the twenty or so children in his class shouldn’t get to me, but it does. They clearly adore him, and he’s heart-wrenchingly patient with them, not concerned about repeating instructions a second—or even third—time. The older boys vie for his approval, while the two teenage girls both have hearts in their eyes. I don’t blame them. Seeing him in action is softening my heart in a way I can’t afford. It seems that Jase Rawlins is one of the decent guys. After exchanging a few words with the man who runs the center and assuring him of my good intentions, I snap photographs of Jase with the kids, making sure not to capture their faces because I promised him I’d keep their identities private.
Jase holds pads for a tiny girl who can’t be more than four, and beams at her in encouragement when she hits them.Snap. That’s the money shot. All I can see of the girl is a dark ponytail, but it’s Jase’s expression that really sells it. Zooming in on his face, I take another, and something melts deep inside me. He’s making this so easy. If only he’d told me everything up front, we could have skipped a day or two of being at odds with each other. But I suppose I can understand why he clammed up. What reason did he have to trust me? Especially when I’d made my opinion of him clear from the get-go.
I’m on his side now though, and this story is writing itself in my head. I take my phone into the ladies’ restroom and call one of my contacts at Sports Daily, a magazine-style website.
“Hi, Aiden,” I say when he picks up.
“Hey, Lee. What’s going on?”
“I need a favor, but it’ll be worth your while.”
He laughs, the sound rich and deep. Girls go nuts over Aiden, and I get the attraction, but I’ve never seen him that way myself. “Anything that comes from the golden girl of sports PR is going to be worth my while. What are we talking about here?”
