Love On The Ropes (Ringside Romance) (2 page)

“I gotta get to a meeting with
Cosmo in twenty,” Curly said.

“You’ll leave when I’m done with
you.” Sandy placed the ice pack against his neck. “Hold this,” she said, her
voice softening a bit. She couldn’t help it. Whenever she focused on the
healing process, her voice, her whole body, automatically softened.

Too bad she wasn’t soft and
welcoming when it came to men. Where on earth did that come from?

She went to the sinks and rinsed a
washcloth under hot water. Glancing into the mirror she thought,
No wonder
I’m single
. Strands of blond hair escaped from her ponytail and clung to
her cheeks. Worse, her worn makeup made her look like a cover model for antidepressants:
circles shadowed bloodshot eyes; her skin was pale and lifeless. She’d totally
forgotten to apply blush and lip color this morning thanks to oversleeping.
Madame Bovary, her spoiled Calico, had woken her at two a.m. determined to play
feather chase.

Sandy knew men valued a woman’s
looks more than anything, at least most of the men she’d met, and especially her
ex-boyfriend, Cody Monroe. Oh, crud. Why did she have to think about him?

Truth was, men wanted showpieces.
Sandy was a geode: rough on the outside, sparkly on the inside. Too bad she
couldn’t trust a man enough to let him have a crack at finding the gem inside.
Not after the number Cody had done on her.

That’s fine, she thought, wringing
out the washcloth. She’d experienced enough emotional pain, always picking the
wrong guy to let have a crack at her. Sure, a few of them had scratched the
surface—just enough to hurt her—but no one worked hard enough to get inside.

Her strawberry-blond waves tickled
her cheeks. She put down the washcloth and re-wrapped the tight bun. Better.
Professional. She should cut her hair, but the length made her feel feminine.
Besides, Mama would disown her. Which is what her mother would do if she found
out Sandy wasn’t actively looking for another job and a potential husband.

“We’re going to try a new
approach,” she said, walking back to Curly. Two more wrestlers joined him.

For a second she felt intimidated
by their size, but only for a second. She’d grown up hanging around BAM shows
and most of the wrestlers were like big brothers. That’s why she lectured them
about their health. However angry she was at how they abused their bodies, deep
down she cared about the boys.

“Hey, Sandy,” Oscar said.

“Hey.” She removed Curly’s ice
pack and applied a hot compress.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Oscar
asked.

“Probably. What did you do to
him?”

“It’s not my fault.” Oscar
shrugged. Everyone loved Oscar, his warm smile and wicked sense of humor. “He
let me do a pile driver on him.”

Sandy glared at Curly. “If you’re
going to do moves like that against my advice, I’m not wasting my time on you.”
She handed him the ice pack. “Go check in with Johnny.”

She packed up her bag.

“Where are you going?” Curly
asked.

“To find someone I can really
help.”

She marched toward the door,
whipped it open and bit back a groan. She’d never understand why they did this
to themselves. Pro wrestling didn’t have to be so dangerous. It was almost as
if some of the guys enjoyed punishing themselves.

She headed for the trainer’s
office. There were probably a slew of guys lined up for therapy or muscle
massage. There was no shortage of injuries.

If only the wrestlers would listen
to Johnny, the head physician, they’d be in better shape. They certainly
wouldn’t listen to Sandy, a girl they thought of as their little sister thanks
to all those years hanging around watching Pops, Curt and Duke rassle.

Some days she wished she would
have listened to her own common sense and pursued a medical degree instead of
EMT training and massage school. She would have quit wrestling by now. Instead,
she’d opted to make Pops proud and maybe, did she dare hope, earn his love?

“Sandy!”

She turned and spotted Cosmo
Perini, her boss and owner of Brawlers and Maulers, heading in her direction.
Cosmo always reminded her of her Pops: a little scatterbrained but with good
intentions. Pops would have liked working for him if the cancer hadn’t ended
his career.

“What’s up, Cosmo?” she asked.

“Glad I caught you. I... I have a
favor to ask.”

She let her twenty-pound backpack
slip to the floor.

“There’s a new guy, Jack the
Stripper.”

She quirked a brow.

“Jason is his real name. Anyway,
I’m bringing him on from a small promotion in Detroit. The guy’s got real
talent, still raw, and he’s hardheaded. I’m afraid—”

“He won’t admit when he’s hurt?”

He smiled. “You can always read my
mind.”

Just like she’d always read her
dad’s mind.

“Could you keep an eye on Jason for
me? You know…” Cosmo glanced at the cement floor, then into her eyes. “On the
QT.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d
asked her to keep an eye on one of the wrestlers, but Sandy heard something
different in Cosmo’s voice. Jack the Stripper had him spooked.

“You know I don’t like secrets,”
she said. Everyone knew it. She was an upfront, honest woman. Sandy never made
excuses or told lies. She was what she was, and she expected everyone else to
behave the same way, at least with her.

Cosmo rocked back on his heels and
rolled his lower lip over his top lip.

“Cosmo?” she prompted.

“I owe someone a favor. That’s why
I’ve hired The Stripper. Only ...”

She waited. She’d learned from
years of being with Pops that sometimes you had to wait for the important
stuff. In some cases, she was still waiting.

“I’m not sure I can trust him,”
Cosmo said.

“He isn’t ready to get into the
ring? He hasn’t got the moves down?” She tried to keep the panic from her
voice. She knew that a sloppy wrestler could cause major injuries to the other
boys.

Cosmo shook his head. “He knows
enough moves to get by. He’s a jobber after all. He’s set to lose every match.
It’s just, he’s got that shifty-eyed look to him. I think the guys that sent
him here are trying to take over BAM.”

“That’s happened before. You’ve
come out on top.”

“This is different. I feel it in
my liver.”

She was surprised he could feel
anything in his liver considering the amount of beer he consumed on a daily
basis.

“What do you want me to do? ” she
asked.

“Don’t mention we had this
conversation to anyone, not even Johnny. Stick close to The Stripper when you
can. Let me know who he talks to and what he does on his off hours. Befriending
him would help.”

She must have made a face.

“I know the thought of getting
close to one of the boys is offensive to you, but I really need your help.”

There it was again, the assumption
that she found men distasteful, or offensive, or both. Cody must have spun some
colorful rumors before leaving BAM for Hollywood, probably because he never
recovered from the fact he couldn’t give her an orgasm. Men and their egos.

“I’ll do what I can,” she said.

“Good, good. He’s on the ‘B’
schedule. Starts today. I’ll talk to Johnny about changing your schedule to
coincide with The Stripper’s.”

The Stripper. Sandy could hardly
wait. She knew for the most part that the guys took on alter egos closer to
their true selves than they dared admit.

“Eeeeekkkkkkkk! ”

Missy, valet for Flamboyant Floyd,
sprinted toward them teetering on her three-inch heels. She seemed more like a
nutcase than an assistant. “Get a doctor! Call the police! Get me a steak!” she
cried.

“Calm down.” Sandy reached out to
touch Missy’s arm. Missy jerked away, obviously scared off by the
Sandy-is-a-lesbian rumor.

“It’s Floyd!” Missy grabbed Cosmo’s
hand and started running—more like loping. Cosmo motioned for Sandy to follow.

But she had more important things
to do, like tend to injured wrestlers. She knew that Missy could make a
melodrama out of eating toast. Floyd was a big guy, a smart guy, too. Missy was
probably worked up over a bad haircut or torn trunks.

“Good God, woman. What’s
happened?” Cosmo said.

“Jack the Stripper is trying to
kill Floyd!”

What on earth was this about?
Sandy tore off past Missy and Cosmo, her eyes trained on the wrestlers crowding
the hallway up ahead.

“Out of the way!” she yelled,
approaching the group.

She pushed through the circle of
boys and froze. A big guy, she guessed Jack the Stripper, pinned Floyd to the
ground and was threatening him with a bright pink stiletto clutched in his hand.
What was he, a cross-dressing stripper? She hoped he didn’t wear those into the
ring.

This was the guy she was supposed
to keep an eye on? Peachy. He was a lunatic.

Naked from the waist up, The
Stripper looked like he weighed about 230 with barely an ounce of fat on his
hard-muscled body. A thick scar ran across his left shoulder blade, and
straight dark hair hung to his shoulders—shoulders knotted with tension. He
didn’t look juiced, so what made him snap?

“Say it again, you son of a
bitch,” The Stripper threatened in a voice so low she strained to hear him.
“Say it again.”

Floyd glared at The Stripper, but
didn’t utter a word. Great, a game of my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours, or in The
Stripper’s case, my-thong-is-smaller-than-yours.

Whatever. These boys shared a code
and The Stripper had broken it.

“Knock it off!” She got in his
face. “Drop the stiletto. Now.”

He turned his head in slow motion,
pinning her with phantom blue eyes. Not baby blue like Pops, or turquoise like
Duke. No, these eyes were a dark, almost midnight shade of blue. And they were
radiating disbelief at Sandy.

“Give me the shoe and say you’re
sorry,” she said.

“You’re kidding, right?”

The slight rumble of his voice made
her breath catch. It was the sound of man struggling to hold on to
self-control. Great. She’d jumped into a pit of utter chaos. She wanted to ask
the boys for backup, but couldn’t risk breaking eye contact with The Stripper
and losing her dominant position.

Now what, Pops? Now what do I
do?

“Get out of my face, woman,” The
Stripper said.

His tone irked her. “Not until you
stop threatening my wrestler,
man
.”

“He’s your wrestler?”

Was that humor in his voice?

“They’re all my wrestlers,” she
said. “My job is to keep them healthy and in the ring.”

“Not this one.” He ripped his gaze
from her and glanced at Floyd.

That’s when she noticed it: a knot
on The Stripper’s head that oozed blood. Floyd must have gotten his licks in.

“Oh man,” she whispered. “What happened
to you?” She reached out.

He jerked back. “Get away from
me!” His eyes flared with pain he tried covering with anger.

She gently assessed his injury and
this time he didn’t move. His eyes narrowed as if warning her that he was
coming after her next with the spike heel.

“You’re bleeding.” She showed him
her bloodied hand.

“I’ve bled before.”

Great, another macho man.

She glanced over her shoulder.
“Dick, toss me my backpack.”

The beefy wrestler hesitated and
slid it towards her with the toe of his boot. It was obvious none of these
teddy bears were going to defend her against the crazy stripper.

She dug into her bag, ripped open an
antiseptic wipe with her teeth and cracked a cool pack. She reached out and
swabbed at his injury with the antiseptic.

“What are you doing?” he asked,
jerking away.

“My job.” She placed the cool pack
against his neck and thought he winced, but couldn’t be sure. He looked like
the kind of guy who wore a permanent strained expression to keep people away.

“Your job,” he repeated.

“Yeah, and if I lose it because of
you, you’re going to be sorrier than an impotent drunk in a whorehouse.”

That seemed to get his attention.
He sat back on his haunches and lowered the stiletto shoe, staring at her like
she was a three-headed alien.

“Tip your head forward,” she said.

“No.” He glanced at a few of the
wrestlers, then back at her.

Ah, so he wanted to be healed but
didn’t want an audience. She stood, put her supplies in her bag and slung it
over her shoulder. “Let’s go. You need ice, maybe a few stitches and X-rays to
determine internal damage.”

He sat there, stiletto in hand,
watching her—more like undressing her with his eyes. Her nipples hardened and
she suddenly wanted to knock him around herself.

“What is it with you guys?” She
glanced at the group. “Didn’t any of you graduate from high school? You don’t
understand English, or what?”

The Stripper stood swiftly
reminding her of Theodore, the family cat who, with silent stealthy leaps,
would ambush you while you were engrossed in your favorite TV show.

But this guy wasn’t cuddly, clever
Theodore. He was a complete unknown, a lot bigger than Sandy and he’d nearly
poked Floyd’s eye out with a stiletto—a weapon still clenched in his right
hand.

“Whatever,” she said.

Trying to act nonchalant, she
headed for the first-aid room. Either he’d follow her so she could tend his
ugly head wound or ... She decided not to consider the “or” option. At least
Johnny would be in first aid. Nothing scared Johnny.

Honestly, not much scared Sandy.
She’d seen worse than this, especially during Pops’ recent days battling
cancer. She’d watched the fight being sucked from his body and the color drain
from his sky blue eyes.

A former pro wrestling champ, her
father ended up in the ring with an opponent he couldn’t possibly beat. But he
wasn’t going down without a fight, and Sandy was staying right there with him,
brightening his day in any way she could. When she spun tales about the
superstar wrestlers his eyes sparkled a little brighter, his cheeks reddened
with excitement. He loved this business. And Sandy loved him.