Submission Moves: An MMA Romance (9 page)

Holy shit.

Her brain picked that moment to dredge up flashbacks of how eager she’d been in his arms, of Nick looking down at her with half-lidded eyes and parted lips while she knelt in front of him and…Rose felt a tingle shoot down her legs, making her toes curl. She needed to get away from him before she lost it completely and flung herself across the table into his arms.

Those arms! Those were not the same arms she’d once shamelessly clung to. Nick had changed a lot in four years. His body was bigger and more solid-looking. Rose knew he also hid a second tattoo underneath his shirt. She’d seen it on TV. He was more rugged now, more manly, with about a week’s growth of beard darkening his jaw. He wore his hair a little longer. Unruly locks curled around his ears and on his forehead, not quite long enough to hide his eyes. His smile was the same as it had been before, heart-stopping.

This was so wrong. She couldn’t get hung up about him all over again, not when it took such a long time to get over him the first time around. If she really was over him, that is. Her therapist told her it was completely normal to fixate on the man responsible for her first taste of sexual pleasure. Completely normal, she’d said, that one look at his face and body, even through a TV screen, could make all those feelings come rushing back. She’d been conditioned. She was like Pavlov’s dog. But her therapist could never give her an adequate answer as to why she had never been able to duplicate those feelings for anyone else. God help her, she didn’t want to be like any of those women who wasted away longing for and lusting after men who were bad for them. Rose was smarter than that. She was better than that! Nick Rossi was like crack. He would bring her nothing but trouble.

“Good night, Nick.” She got up and turned, not bothering to wait for a reply, not bothering to say goodbye to her dad or brother either. She made her way to the front door with slightly trembling legs, half-hoping he wasn’t watching, the other half hoping he was and that he’d call out to her and stop her from leaving.     

CHAPTER 9

This had to be the most hopeless bunch of attendees Rose had ever come across in the three years that they’d been facilitating these sexual harassment prevention workshops. She was used to mild-mannered middle managers and even the occasional sexist ones, relics from a previous, less enlightened generation. Most came in skeptical but willing to keep an open mind. Some didn’t particularly care about fostering a women-friendly work environment and just wanted to cover their behinds from potential lawsuits.

These fighters and their entourage were a different breed altogether. Rose was practically choking from the testosterone in the air. The conference room was packed with the members of the Grayson-Rossi Training Camp, and the various coaches, trainers, and sparring partners that worked in the Rossi Combat Sports Gym, all dressed in their sporty best or in T-shirts and caps printed with skulls or weird tribal designs and illegible writing.
 

Rose had seen all the Grayson-Rossi fighters on TV. She’d watched most of their fights and was familiar with their stats. They were an intimidating group with their muscles and collective black belts in various disciplines. But only one person in the room unnerved her.  

Nick was alone in the front row, dressed pretty much the same way he had been when they met at Bar None. Worn jeans, black tee that fit snugly on his biceps and across his shoulders. He sat on a chair that was much too small for his frame, long legs outstretched. He never took his eyes off her. She tried not to look but when she did, there he was watching her lazily with a small half-smile playing on his lips. Sometimes he’d lick his lips, as was his habit, and throw Rose off her script.
 

On the row behind him sat Angelo and Paolo, a third Rossi brother and the manager of the gym. Paolo had called Rose a few days ago to arrange the seminar, and they’d spoken quite a lot since then. Nick was the oldest, followed by Paolo, then Angelo. She was surprised to find that she liked Nick’s brothers, even Angelo with his occasionally glib tongue.

Aided by her trusty PowerPoint presentation, Rose went through the motions of the session, occasionally being interrupted by laughter and silly comments from the guys.

“I got a question,” one of the fighters, a cocky but good-natured bantamweight said.
Vince Fajardo, 7 wins 1 loss.
He gave Rose a boyish smile, one she knew so well, having grown up with five brothers. A smile that said he was up to no good. “I know you’re, like, a feminist and everything, but are you a lesbian?”
 

That wasn’t the first inappropriate question she’d fielded that day, and it was unlikely that it was going to be the last. She took a deep, calming breath. “Vince, feminist doesn’t mean lesbian.”

“So you’re saying I got a chance with you?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“So you
are
a lesbian.”

Having been subjected to this line of questioning more times than she could recall, Rose came equipped with a canned lecture. But before she could begin, Angelo’s voice cut above the laughter.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole. Like
you’re
her type.”

Vince had a retort ready, but Joe Grayson cut him off with a warning look. Rose remembered him from Nick’s story four years ago. He’d retired from professional fighting, and he and Nick founded the training camp together with Joe as the head coach. Rose had him to thank for quieting the guys down when they got too rowdy.

“I don’t see why we gotta go through all this bull. There aren’t even any bitches in the team or in the gym,” another fighter said, rolling up the thick booklet that Rose had provided and slapping it against his meaty thigh.
Jake Swanson, lightweight 4-2.

“Jake, you can’t call women ‘bitches’. That’s on your booklet. No slurs and no sexually explicit profanity in a workplace setting. And maybe that’s something you ought to look into as well,” Rose said, addressing Paolo, “a more equal-opportunity hiring process for the gym.”

“Yeah, P, we should have girls we can work on our grappling with at the gym,” offered one of the sparring partners.

Joe kicked the guy’s chair, and he mumbled a quick apology.

“We can hire cute women, right?” Paolo asked. “I mean, we’re running a gym here. We can’t have fat-assed receptionists greeting our clients.”

Rose gritted her teeth. How was she to endure two more sessions of this without losing her temper? “I understand how some professions and industries might have specific physical requirements, but ‘fit’ is not the same as ‘cute’. I hope you’re all aware how damaging it is to evaluate a woman based solely on physical appearance.”

A hand in the back shot up. It was from a fighter with an impressive mohawk and sleeve tattoos.
Darnell Rashad, heavyweight, 19-4.
So far he’d been quiet and very attentive. Rose smiled, appreciating his politeness and happy to be engaging the group. “Yes, Darnell? Do you have anything to add?”

“It’s true, you shouldn’t judge girls by how hot they are or whatever,” he said with a solemn nod, “I once hooked up with a butterface, but her nastiness in bed was through the roof.”

The room erupted in howls and despite Rose’s best efforts, the men got drawn into a lively debate on whether it was better to have a “plain” girl that was good in bed or a “super hot” girl that was bad in bed.

“It’s nice to have an arm piece but if she can’t keep shit interesting, I’m kicking her ass to the curb,” Angelo said. “I’d rather go with a Plain Jane.”

“What?” Paolo demanded, aghast. “That could be the mother of your children. Do you want ugly little Rossi kids running around?”

“Hey, nobody said anything about being ugly! There’s a huge difference between plain and plain ugly.”

She listened to more sexist comments in silent outrage and debated between putting her foot down and taking control or waiting for this digression to die a natural death. When she caught Nick’s eye, her mask of stern reserve slipped just for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for her mounting distress and frustration to show.
 

He sat up straight and turned around to cast the other guys a look that Rose didn’t see. The conversation dwindled in an instant.

“Shall we continue?” she asked when all eyes were turned to her. She turned to the projector screen behind her, under the heading ‘Workplace Harassment’, she read, “Persistent request for dates and other unwanted sexual advances.”  

Someone, she wasn’t sure who, made a side comment about how with enough tequila, there was no such thing as an unwanted sexual advance, which had everyone laughing. That was pretty benign as far as rape jokes went, but she felt the fragile hold she had on her temper break. She had zero tolerance for that kind of talk.

“One in four women will experience some form of sexual violence in their lifetime,” Rose said. “So when you make jokes like that, there’s a huge chance you’re saying it in front of a survivor.”
 

The men quieted down, looking chastened.

“You all have sisters, mothers, wives, girlfriends, or daughters, right? One in four women, guys. That’s
a lot.
Be more aware of the words that come out of your mouths. I’m sure you all have an idea of what kind of work we do here and the women we work with. I’d hate to imagine how they’d feel if they heard things like that, even if it was meant as a joke. Reminding someone of their trauma seems like a steep price to pay just to get a few laughs.”

She scanned the room. Everyone was looking down at their hands or laps or out the window, except Nick, who was still staring at her. For once, he didn’t look like he was actively trying to seduce her. His gaze was hot and as intense as ever, but it was a different sort that Rose couldn’t place.

The rest of the session proceeded with relative normalcy. The guys were more attentive and respectful, but they didn’t lose their good humor. When time came to dismiss them, she bade them goodbye and leaned her hips against the table as she watched them file out of the room. The fact that Nick remained seated and had made no move to leave wasn’t lost on her.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked in a clipped voice when the last man had left the room. She fussed with her laptop so she didn’t have to look at him. It didn’t matter. His presence was so potent, she saw him clearly in her mind’s eye.

Nick stood up and took a few steps toward her. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and waited.

Finally, because she knew he wasn’t going to say anything until he had her undivided attention, Rose stood up straight and met his gaze. “What is it, Nick?”

“I’ve called you several times now and it always goes to voicemail. I’ve left you messages and you never get back to me.” He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, not pushy, but his stare was hot and sharp. “I thought maybe you were just playing hard to get. I figured a girl’s entitled to some token resistance.”

Rose shook her head. “That is just wrong on so many levels.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that.” He licked his lips, more out of unease than anything else. Rose’s reaction to that gesture, that same tiny gesture that had her distracted throughout the session, was visceral, violent, and completely unwelcome. She felt her face and neck go warm.
 

“Last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable with me. I don’t want to be that guy. So if you tell me straight to my face you don’t want to go out with me, I’ll stop asking.”

He did it again, that little lip lick. There was no one else in the room. Rose’s breasts suddenly felt heavy and tender. She wanted to be touched. She wanted to rub up against his hard chest. She wanted—

Stop it.

These were the last thoughts she should be having, given where they were and the current topic of conversation. My God, what was he doing to her? She looked him dead in the eyes. “I don’t want to go out with you, Nick.”

His face fell. “Okay, I wasn’t expecting that answer.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that bald-faced admission. He probably didn’t get told ‘no’ very often, especially not by women. But, well, he asked, didn’t he? She wasn’t interested in going out on a date with Niccolo Rossi. This was a man she once had hot, dirty sex with when she was young, stupid, and tipsy. He was a one-night stand, something to tick off the sexual bucket list she didn’t even know she had. She didn’t want to get to know him better or share her hopes and dreams with him or talk to him about a book she’d been reading. She did not want to introduce him to her friends or to her family. Although, from what she had heard from Chris, Nick had hit it off with him and her other brothers famously, and their dad was all but ready to adopt Nick and the two other Rossi boys.

He let out a long sigh. “What is it about me you find so bad? Not to brag, but I’ve done plenty well for myself. I’m in a totally different tax bracket from when you first met me.”