TKO (A Bad Boy MMA Romance) (18 page)

              Kenny smiled and nodded. “Use that passion, Marc. Let it drive you. You might have some trouble with everything swimming around in your mind, but right now, you need to channel that energy into the fight that’s coming up. If you can’t do that, then you’re trying to chase two rabbits and losing them both. Bring it all together, and you’ll knock ‘em dead.”

              “And I’ll tell you one more thing,” Danny said, stepping forward and setting a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know what’s happened between you and our brightest young physiotherapist, but if there’s one thing I know about fighters, it’s that they don’t leave these kinds of things unsettled,” he said meaningfully, his eyes piercing into mine. “If you aren’t willing to face some of life’s toughest dilemmas, then you stand against everything this gym was built to uphold. So,” he said, crossing his arms and smiling at me.

              “What’s it gonna be?”

              The big day had finally arrived, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to confront it.

              It was the date that Marc had been training for, the fight he’d spent six hard weeks with me preparing for, whipping his body back into tip-top fighting condition. I had tried over and over again to tell myself to let it go, to stop counting down the days. It was never my fight-- it was his and his alone. But somehow, it felt like a big event for me, too.

              And in some ways, it was. If he were to win this fight, it would boost his career through the roof, and as the woman who helped him achieve it, I would receive a hefty helping of credit for it, as well. I had a stake in the outcome of the match, certainly, on a strictly professional level. I needed him to do well so that people would know that I could do my job properly. Six weeks wasn’t even that long a time to heal such a potentially career-ending injury. But with my patience and guidance Marc had worked his way back into the ring.

              I was proud of myself, sure, but I was also proud of him. Even though I wanted so badly to just pretend it was out of my hands, that I’d done my job already and everything else was up to Marc-- it wasn’t that simple. I still wanted to see the fruits of my labor.

              And, more to the point, I still wanted to see Marc.

              It was foolish, maybe even a little reckless, to barge back into his world after I so unceremoniously disappeared from it. I was sure he had forgotten all about me by now, especially if anything Selena Marquez said about him was true. I was just ‘the help’ and I would never, ever be able to compete with the glitz and glamor of his world. And besides, I didn’t even really want to
be
a part of that world-- I just wanted to be a part of Marc’s life.

              It had been about a week since I last saw him on our final, awkward day. I hated the way things had ended, with so much tension strung up between us, the words we refused to let ourselves say hovering like twittering birds above us. I still had those words ricocheting around in my head, urging me to give them breath and set them free.

              Words like
I miss you
. And
do you feel the way I feel-- did you ever?

              And if so,
what do we do now?

              I tried to keep myself preoccupied with workouts and paperwork and hanging out with Alice, who was fortunately so talkative that she often proved an excellent distraction. But as soon as I was alone and unengaged for a single second, those words flew right back to the front of my mind, threatening to drive me truly insane if I ignored them any longer.

              Deep down, I knew that Trina was probably right. I couldn’t let this-- whatever it was-- go without saying what needed to be said first. And it wasn’t like we were total strangers, anyway. During our more painful sessions I tried to take his mind off the discomfort by asking him about his personal life.

Marc told me all about his beloved grandmother who raised him and doted on him, even though money was terribly tight. He described his rough childhood, trying to overcome the dangers and temptations of street crime. He was from a small town, where there was little for the youth to do besides get into trouble. It was a dead-end kind of town, and he wanted a one-way ticket out of there before he, too, got sucked into a life he couldn’t handle. I admired him for staying strong through all of his hardships and overcoming a totally underprivileged life. He had worked so hard to get where he was now, and I found myself moved by the fact that I was able to help him along in some small way. It was a bit of an exhilaration to be a part of his rise and success, and I hoped that my assistance would be enough to bring him another victory today.

I had planned on forcing myself to spend the day in the gym, working out, keeping my body totally engaged so that I wouldn’t have a chance to dwell on whatever was happening at the fight. It was a Saturday, and the gym was surprisingly empty when I arrived there just before dawn. I hadn’t been able to sleep much the night before, and I realized grimly that my sleepless nights had definitely become a problem ever since I first met Marc. He was the one keeping me awake at night, and even when I did manage to fall asleep, he occupied every moving image of my dreams. I couldn’t escape him.

Not even here at the gym, as I first jumped on a treadmill and flipped on a television overhead to watch the news or some mildly interesting nature documentary. But as soon as I switched the set on, I was startled by the image of Marc Montoya’s face on the screen. In fact, I was so taken aback that I nearly fell off the treadmill. I was grateful that the gym was virtually empty at that moment. The last thing I needed was some gawky onlooker laughing at me. That would really throw off my game.

The TV program was showing an ad for the fight later in the day, complete with a raspy-voiced announcer and metal music playing in the background. The aesthetics of MMA fights had never really been my thing, but I couldn’t help but feel a little invigorated by the idea of watching two highly-trained, extremely athletic guys show off their skills in a battle of strength, stamina, and technique. I had a deep admiration for the sport, even before meeting Marc and getting personally involved. My dad had taken me to a few fights when I was a teenager, after I found out that one of my favourite running coaches from the gym I attended used to be an MMA fighter. For a while, I had been interested in pursuing the sport myself, but with my tiny, wiry frame I was definitely more suited to cardio competitions than shows of brute strength and power.

I had always been strong and athletic, but not in the way Marc was. Sure, I could definitely outrun him, but I would never even approach the kind of bristling, buzzing power he possessed. I daydreamed on the treadmill, my mind wandering forever back to that blissful, mindless time we spent tangled up in each other. My body tingled at the thought of his hands on my skin, moving and bending and lifting me like I was a rag doll, like I weighed nothing at all. There was something so wild and animalistic to the way he made love. He fucked like he fought-- ruthlessly and without restraint. But there was still a technique, an underlying, instinctual care for what he was doing.

Before I knew it, I was flat-out sprinting on the treadmill, absentmindedly upping the speed until the machine whirred loudly with strain. I snapped out of my thoughts when I realized that a man a few treadmills down from me was staring openly over at me, his jaw dropped and his eyes bugging out a little. I must have looked absolutely crazy. Especially because to the unsuspecting bystander, I didn’t have the typical appearance of a hardcore athlete.

When people think of athletes, they think of huge, muscular bodies lifting weights and pushing their strength to the limits. But I was a different kind of strong-- lean, quiet, and long-lasting. I sighed as I stepped off the treadmill and took a swig of my water.

It was such a pity. Between Marc Montoya’s incredible strength and my overwhelming stamina and flexibility, there was virtually no limit to the kinds of wild sex we could have together. He could move me in ways neither of us probably ever dreamed about. And I could please him for hours on end, never losing steam.

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and bit my lip. I had come to the gym to forget about Marc, not to spend the whole workout session fantasizing about him. For the next hour I went through the motions, putting my body through the wringer as I tried to focus on sweating and pushing myself rather than worrying over how Marc was going to do today.

But what if he was injured again? What if the damage to his hip and shoulder hadn’t healed up as well as we expected? What if he lost? My stomach churned at the thought of him losing the fight, and even worse, being seriously hurt in the process. I knew it was a distinct possibility. His career came with a whole array of potential concerns, and he was lucky to have evaded serious injury thus far. In fact, he had told me that his work with me had been his first real stint in rehabilitation, ever. A lot of that came from the fact that he worked his ass off to keep himself in good condition. He ate right, he worked out daily, and he studied the techniques closely. He wasn’t a dirty fighter by any means, and despite his tough-guy exterior he was actually somewhat of a stickler for the rules of the sport.

Outside of the ring, he was known to break the rules, of course. But when that bell rang and the match began, he was a modern-day noble jouster, fighting for the prestige and the pride of knowing he had done everything right.

In that way, we were very similar. I, too, liked to play things pretty much by the book. We were both firm believers in the idea that plain old hard work and dedication were the most direct and fulfilling paths to success. Back when I was training alongside other runners, I was often the first to show up to the gym and the last to leave every day. I always tried to apply the same diligence and discipline to every aspect of my life. I had to be the best runner, the best employee, the best guardian to Alice.

And god, I wanted to be the best partner to Marc.

Something deep within my heart told me that I could easily be so good for him, and that he would be wonderful for me, too. Despite the roughness of our first encounter together, we were actually a pretty balanced pair. I kept flashing back to the way we so effortlessly melded our bodies together, moving in sync with every thrust and sigh.

Like we were made for each other.

Panting, I sat down on a bench and stared down at the shiny linoleum tiles. I grabbed a little white towel from my bag and swiped it across my face, then took a long draught of water. I had to keep reminding myself that whatever I’d had with Marc, whatever little spark had appeared between us, was over now. I had to let him go somehow. Besides, I had no way of knowing whether he even cared about me at all. He probably hadn’t thought about me once since our last session.

I could definitely see how he could be distracted-- especially with Selena Marquez around. She was everything I would never, ever be: tall, voluptuous, glamorous, and cutthroat. In a way, I had to admire her. After all, we were both dogged in our determination to be successful in our respective fields. I wanted to be the best physical therapist and athlete I could be, and she was dead-set on becoming a famous, coveted model. I understood how her drive had pushed her to be such a conniving femme fatale. There wasn’t much room at the top for more than one girl, and I knew she’d be damned before she let anyone else take up too much space.

I wondered if she let Marc take up space in her world. The way she’d described him, it wasn’t like she genuinely cared about
him
. She only wanted to stake a claim in the power and prestige that went along with his name and reputation. Being on his arm was a surefire way to get noticed, especially since he was still on the rise. Hitching herself to his shooting star was a quick ride to the top. I understood that, and I almost couldn’t hold it against her, except for the fact that I
did
genuinely care about Marc.

God, I cared about him. I wanted him to be happy, whether it was with me or with Selena or whatever. But it wasn’t up to me anymore, was it?

With a heavy sigh I headed off to the showers. Once I was all clean, I toweled off my body and tried to wring most of the water from my hair. I wondered if anyone was back in the physiotherapy offices right now. I knew some weekends Trina or Danny would come in just to get a head start on paperwork for the upcoming week. They were workaholics, for sure. I unlocked the door to the back offices and walked in, pleased to see that the lights were on.

“Hey, who’s back here working overtime?” I called out brightly. I hoped one of them were here so I could distract myself even longer with a little conversation. The fight was scheduled for seven o’clock this evening, so I still had many, many hours to fill with other things. To my relief, Trina emerged from her office, beaming.

“Oh, hey girl!” she greeted me, rushing up to hug me. “Been workin’ out?”

“Yeah, just trying to keep myself busy, you know,” I told her, shrugging.

“Right, right. Of course. Well, why don’t you come in and sit down so we can chat?” she suggested, taking my arm. I nodded, wondering why she was being so weirdly formal all of a sudden. As soon as I walked into her office, I understood why.

Alice hopped up and waved excitedly. “Ohh! Hi, sis! Fancy seeing you here!” she giggled. She and Trina exchanged conspiratorial looks and I was instantly concerned.

“A-Alice, what are you doing here? I thought you had homework,” I said, putting my hands on my hips.