Against the Ropes (2 page)

When Regan left him, he’d been on the fast track to the professionals—young, cocky, strong, and invincible, or so he’d thought. He hadn’t yet met another fighter who could totally take him down, but the slim and beautiful Regan—who he outweighed by a good sixty pounds—had laid him flat.

The fight world had loved him, promoters wanted him in their ring, and he was deeply in love with Regan. He’d come from nothing and having people wanting to give him everything inflated his ego. It made him feel like a celebrity and, in some circles, he was. His cockiness and misplaced sense of entitlement was what had gotten him in trouble the first time he cheated on Regan. The scene replayed in his mind as fresh as if it had just happened a minute ago.

It was rare that he drank alcohol due to his fitness regime, but that night he’d hit up a couple of bars with some friends and had not said no when drinks had been placed in front of him. Women latched on to him when they found out who he was and what he did. This had become the standard, and he couldn’t say he minded. Yes, he was dating Regan, and yes, he loved her. However, he certainly appreciated the attention he received from other women, which only bloated his ego further. On that fateful night, Dylan found himself particularly attracted to a brunette with large breasts, a slim waist, and never-ending legs. He couldn’t remember her name now to save his life.

The night’s events were fuzzy, but he remembered stumbling into his apartment, the girl on him like a second skin. Regan was away at a weekend class for physical therapy training, so there was no way she would ever find out. In his drunken haze, he reasoned to himself that he was young—too young to be tied down. He needed to live a little, and Regan would be none the wiser. So why not?

There had been nothing romantic about the encounter—there wasn’t any tenderness or slow, gentle lovemaking like he and Regan shared. It had been nothing but plain, raw, fucking. He had the girl naked within seconds, and she straddled him on the couch, grinding her hips into him, sending him deeper and deeper into her hot, slick center. Her breasts swung in his face, and he grabbed them roughly, licking and sucking at her nipples until they were hard peaks. Wrapping his hands around her waist, he picked her up and then slammed her back onto his rigid length. He continued the motion until both of them reached their completion minutes later, the cries of pleasure ripping through the apartment, and she collapsed against him. He remembered it had been one of the most unsatisfying orgasms of his life.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and lifted her off him, only to see Regan standing at the door, tears streaming down her face.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Regan,” he whispered.

“My name’s not Regan,” the brunette said.

Dylan stood up unsteadily, his cock still jutting out from his hips.

Regan looked him over, said nothing, then turned and walked out.

Dylan sat down on the couch, putting his head in his hands and suddenly felt very, very sober.

What had he done?

“What’s wrong, baby?” the brunette had asked.

Turning to her, he saw his future with Regan shatter, and anger ripped through him. He knew it wasn’t the girl’s fault but his own. In his drunken state he’d let bad judgment rule and decided that it would be okay to bring her back to his apartment, yet he took his anger and directed it at her.

“Get out,” he said, standing up and collecting her clothes. He tossed them to her, not caring that she was hurt or confused. “You need to leave. Now.”

She stared at him a moment, and then hissed, “You bastard!”

Dylan went into his room and grabbed a pair of sweats. When he returned to the living room, she was dressed.

“Please leave,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral.

“Fuck you, Dylan!” she screamed and slammed the door.

“Have you heard one word I’ve said?” Max asked, bringing him back to the present.

Dylan focused on the man. At sixty-five years old, he still looked good with his salt and pepper hair, a nose that had been broken a few times, and smart, grey eyes. Yet, Dylan had noticed that Max had slowed down considerably.

When Dylan was thirteen, his mom enrolled him in boxing classes in Max’s gym after school to keep him away from the East L.A. gangs while she worked cleaning houses. Dylan had never known his father. Dylan had loved the classes, and spent a good deal of time at the gym. Max not only acted as a coach, but also as a father figure, one who tolerated nothing. Dylan had watched more than one kid get thrown out of the gym for any number of indiscretions: bullying, street fighting, drugs, and weapons. If the offending kid wanted to come back, he got another tongue lashing from Max, but he usually gave them a second chance. There weren’t any third chances though.

Max had recognized the core talent that Dylan had and encouraged it. He’d been Dylan’s trainer since those days so many years ago.

“Yeah, I hear you.”

“Then tell me what I just said.”

Dylan tried to recall anything, but nothing came to him. He shrugged his shoulders and gave Max a little smile. “Sorry, man. I guess I’m in my own head.”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “Tonight is important for you, boy. You better get focused.”

Dylan nodded. “I know.”

“How’s the shoulder?”

His shoulder had been giving him trouble for a few months now, the same shoulder that Regan had been able to fix five years ago. He’d been to another physical therapist, but the guy couldn’t seem to work the magic that Regan had, and the shoulder was sore.

“It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

Max stood and, in a fatherly gesture, put his hand on Dylan’s head and tousled his hair. The guy had been there for Dylan through thick and thin, and Dylan loved, respected, and appreciated Max. “Get yourself warmed up, Dylan. Someone from the commission will be in soon to inspect your hands and gloves, and it’ll be go-time.”

Dylan nodded, trying to push thoughts of Regan out of his mind. He couldn’t let her be a distraction. Tonight, it needed to be about him because no matter what he felt about her, five years ago she had disappeared and made it clear to him that she wouldn’t be a part of his future.

CHAPTER THREE

Regan sat ringside, her gaze on the action of the first fight. The overhead fluorescent light gleamed, and the crowd buzzed with excitement. Her thoughts wandered back to five years ago, the pain as fresh as it had been then.

The physical therapy training class had been held in San Diego and was supposed to run Friday through Sunday, but the instructor had gotten sick on Saturday and canceled the rest of the seminar. She’d tried to call Dylan numerous times on her way home to Los Angeles, but it always went straight to voicemail. This didn’t concern her because he had told her he’d be going out. She’d gone directly to his apartment in hopes of surprising him when he got in for the night, but instead, she’d been the one stunned.

They hadn’t even known she was in the apartment as she watched him lift the brunette up and slam her back down on his lap. Agony ripped through her chest as she watched the betrayal, but she couldn’t take her eyes off them. Bile rose in her throat, and she wanted to scream, but she could barely breathe. Her eyes blurred with tears, and she knew she should leave, but the pain kept her in place.

The cries of pleasure as they both orgasmed made her cringe, as if she were listening to nails on a chalkboard. When he saw her and stood up, she looked him over. He had been training hard for months, and was in top form. His wide chest tapered into a hard, ridged stomach, and his large arms, that had always made her feel safe and protected when she was in them, strained from their exertion. She stared at his glistening arousal, then over to the girl who was still unaware Regan was there, and she grabbed the door jamb, certain her knees were going to give out under the monumental weight of the hurt she was experiencing.

“Regan,” he whispered.

When her gaze met his, she saw surprise and remorse in those bloodshot eyes. Anger flared, and she was finally able to turn and leave.

“Oh, man! Did you see that, Regan?” Brett asked, bringing her back to the moment.

She had. Her two years in the boxing community had given her the ability to know who might make it in the difficult sport, and who wouldn’t. She could tell the kid in the red trunks had a shot at success.

Kids. The boys in the ring were kids. Neither of the guys in the ring were any older than twenty-two, which was the same age Dylan had been when she met him.

Dylan had walked into the upper-end physical therapy office when she was twenty-four and he was twenty-two. Regan had been working at the office for about six months. She was fresh out of school and felt confident and secure in a job she loved. Every day brought someone or something new, and she loved watching the progress her patients made.

The office specialized in treating professional athletes, so she had the opportunity to work on people from all sports. Dylan had been her first boxer.

She pulled the file and called his name. She watched as he stood to his six-foot, three-inch height and came toward her, his thick legs encased in jeans and wearing a red T-shirt, the way he walked reminding her of a slow-moving locomotive.

Physical therapy was an intimate job. She touched people on all parts of their body; moving, massaging, and manipulating their arms, legs and back, and sometimes ending up in very close positions. However, she had been trained to keep the intimacy out of it, which usually involved a lot of mindless chatter about her life and what she was up to.

As he smiled down at her, she wondered if she was going to be able to chat about anything, and she both feared and thanked the gods above for the opportunity to work on such a magnificent body.

“Come on back, Mr. Gomez,” she said as she turned down the hall.

“Dylan,” he said.

She led him into the intake room and shut the door.

Regan smiled. “Okay, Dylan. Tell me why you’re here today.”

He said he was a boxer and was having trouble with his shoulder. She remembered thinking it probably had something to do with an injury due to repetition of hitting the bag. They talked for a few minutes about how long he’d had the injury, when he’d first noticed it, and what time during the day the pain was the worst.

“Well, let’s take a look,” she said, pointing to the table.

He sat down, and she started her exam, making notes on her computer about limitations in his range of motion.

“What happens when I push here?” she asked, her fingers pushing on the front of his shoulder. Good God, the guy was a wall of muscle.

“That hurts a little.”

“And over here?”

She tried so hard not to think about his scent, the hard cords of muscles moving beneath her hands, how close she was to that five o’clock shadow and his full lips . . .

The room suddenly became very warm and she felt her cheeks flush. She stepped away, grabbed her laptop from the examination table and sat down at her desk. As she typed her notes, she noticed a little tremor in her hand.

After regaining her control, she stood up and approached him again, determined to finish the exam in a professional manner.

Fifteen minutes later, she was done.

“Have you had an MRI on this yet?”

He shook his head. “Can’t afford one. Those things are expensive.”

She nodded while typing and sat back in her chair and met his eyes. “I think I have a pretty good idea of what’s going on, Dylan, and I believe I can help you.”

“So you don’t think anything is torn?”

Regan shook her head. “I don’t. I think there are some issues with the LHC and the a sack.”

He looked at her and smiled. “And in English?”

She grinned and stood. “Sorry.”

As her hands moved over his shoulder, pointing out where the inflamed areas were, she was once again struck by how muscular he was. It had been her experience that often times the more brawny a man was, the less flexible he was and the more prone to injuries of the tendons.

He hissed as she pressed on the top of his shoulder.

“See? Bursitis. Why don’t you lay down, and I’ll do a little work on it before our time’s up.”

She massaged his shoulder and questioned him about his career.

“I’m getting there,” he said. “I’m making some money and I should be able to jump into the pros within a couple more fights.”

After a moment of silence, he asked, “Do you ever watch boxing?”

She shook her head. “My dad was into it when I was a kid, and I watched with him, but nothing recently.”

“Ouch!”

“And that is the LHC tendon,” she said, smiling down at him.

After a few minutes, she said, “I’m going to get someone to put some ice on that, and maybe do a little electric stim, if that’s okay with you.”

“And that is?”

“We put electrodes on you. It doesn’t hurt, but you’ll feel a little stinging or burning. It will help with the pain.”

“Sounds good.”

Regan startled as the crowd jumped to its feet as the kid in the red trunks knocked down his opponent with a cross.

Brett sat down and smiled at her. “I’m going to get a beer. Would you like one?”

She nodded. “Sure.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

Watching the people file in, Regan realized it was going to be a full house tonight.

“I hope Dylan Gomez gives this guy hell tonight,” she heard a man behind her say, and her stomach clenched.

“Me, too. That dude used to be so good. He was on his way to the pros. Don’t know what happened to him.”

“He ended up in jail, man!”

“No shit? What’d he do?”

“Don’t know. But whatever it was, the dude fucked up bad!”

Regan closed her eyes. Dylan? In jail? They had to be wrong, didn’t they?

Although Dylan came from the gang-infested streets of L.A., his mother had made sure he grew up on the straight and narrow. He was a straight-A student for most of his high school years, and he stayed away from drugs. As Max began to seriously train him, he worked to stay in top shape and eat well. He had never been in any trouble when she knew him. What had he done that put him in jail?