Going the Distance (6 page)

Worst of all, Brett's kisses had paled for her. She'd kissed Rich for all of three minutes—and a champagne-clouded three minutes at that—full of abandon and bad-idea excitement. Surely she was blowing the experience out of proportion. And yet...Brett had stirred nothing in her by the end, as much as she'd willed her body to respond, and indeed to keep a certain troublesome man out of her mind during intimate moments.

She bade Jenna good-night and shut the door, staring blankly at the pattern in the wood.

Rich is coming home.

And I am so royally screwed.

* * *

H
E
FUMBLED
WITH
his crutches and keys and managed to get the heavy glass door open. It was just past five-thirty. The sky was still dark, the city not yet awake.

This wasn't how Rich had envisioned returning to his home turf, post title-fight victory—limping in at dawn before the gym even opened, dropped off by his little sister on her way to an early shift at the teaching hospital. But the alternative sucked.

The alternative was to take the frigging
bus.
Show up during regular hours and get heralded as the hometown hero, clapped on the back like some prodigal son. Bad enough the board in front of his mother's church asked parishioners to pray for his swift recovery.

He was a champion now—and he wasn't supposed to be. He should have been Nick Moreau's warm-up bout, a sure-bet title-retention match to keep Moreau's streak going until the big event in Rio, just after Thanksgiving, where rumor had it a past champ wanted a comeback against him. Now Rich was the light heavyweight champ, such a shock that the promotions outfits were falling all over themselves to get busy making the merchandise no one had expected they'd need. The day after his win they'd taken him to a studio and stripped him to his gloves and belt, propped a crown on his head and photographed him for the cover of his organization's monthly magazine. There'd be a big thing on the website, too. Prince of Thieves,
the headline would read. They'd interviewed him for a couple hours, all about how he'd stolen Moreau's title from under him.

Overnight he'd gone from sidebar mentions to the front cover. One desperate headlock and he was a somebody. A champion, no matter how green.

Yet Rich didn't feel like anyone worth cheering. Undefeated record aside, he felt like a failure. What good was a pit bull once its teeth got knocked out?

Back aching, armpits tender, shoulder joints raw, he swung his way down the hall and hopped one laborious step at a time to the basement, unlocking the gym's double doors.

Smelled just as it always had, he thought, flipping on one set of lights. Same as when he'd first stomped down these stairs at age twelve. You could keep your grandma's muffins—nothing said
nostalgia
to Rich like the smell of sweat and leather.

Home.

The thought had guilt squirming in his gut.

He hadn't been back since March, and a few more improvements had been made. Fresh mats, a few pieces of new equipment in the weights and cardio corner. Maybe he'd helped buy those, earning Wilinski's a much-needed boost in dues. It should have cheered him, but nothing could, not in this mood.

“The members are out of their minds,” Mercer had told him. “You'd think Anderson Silva was coming to train them.”

“Yeah, right. Tell them they're off by about six billion wins and nearly as many dollars.”

“You'll see. Everybody's going frigging bat-shit.”

Sure. Great.

Bully for them, getting shouted at by a bona fide MMA rising star. But Rich knew the truth. He'd been neutered, the best momentum of his life wrecked by a misstep, a moment quicker than an eyeblink, quick as Moreau's elbow colliding with Rich's first metatarsal. Now he was stuck limping around on crutches for the four to six weeks he'd been ordered to stay off his foot, when the last thing he wanted to feel was idle. The last thing he wanted was
time,
time to heal and to think while his muscles turned soft from disuse.

Time to worry that this funk he couldn't seem to shake might be depression. His father's bleak, hateful legacy finally come calling.

He was a trainer again. His job for the past decade, but never his passion. He'd done it for the paycheck and the free membership, for a set of keys that let him seek refuge in this underground sweat-hole in the middle of the night, those times when anger or sadness kept sleep at bay. Now he'd be one of those lazy-ass trainers, shouting orders from the sidelines. And once his bone was healed? Another couple months struggling to get back into the best shape of his life.

Stay off your feet,
he'd been told and told and told.

“Shit.”

Maybe this was comeuppance, karma biting him in the ass for turning his back on Wilinski's, no matter that he'd never meant the exit to be permanent. The gym hadn't changed aside from those few modest improvements, but it felt worlds different. There were the rings where he used to stalk and pounce, the treadmill he wouldn't be running on anytime soon.

He could pound on the bags at least. Those might be the key to his sanity, these next few months. His arms worked, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much angst to vent.

Still,
he thought,
you paid for the surgery. You did more than your old man ever—

“Hey.”

Rich turned to find Mercer crossing the threshold. “Well, well. You're in early.”

Mercer flipped on the rest of the lights. “Same to you. Didn't expect to see your ugly face this soon.”

“You're one to talk.”

Unwilling to let Mercer come to him, Rich met him halfway, arms aching. Mercer's hug felt as it should have—nothing about it softened by sympathy. It was a relief Rich hadn't expected to register, not this deeply. He'd never been great at feeling close to guys, but this man was surely the nearest thing Rich had to a brother.

“Look at you,” Mercer said, grinning with obvious pride. “Frigging undefeated pro. How about that?”

“Anybody wants to steal this crown off my head, they gotta do worse than break my foot.” He cast his gaze around the space. “Looking good down here.”

“It's getting there. Give it a few months and the Rich Estrada Memorial Women's Locker Room'll be up and running.”

He had to smile at that. “Memorial? I'm crippled, not dead.”

“You're not crippled, either. By the time we start welcoming women, you'll be back to your old self.”

“Yeah. We'll see.” Four months to get back into fighting shape...sounded like a life sentence with this depression dogging him, making it so hard to see the bright side of anything.

“I got plans for you,” Mercer announced. He was doing his best to act as though Rich's homecoming was no walk of shame, but there was strain behind the blasé attitude.

“What plans are those?”

“Keep you off your feet.”

He shook his head. “If I hear that one more frigging time—”

“Keep you off your feet and work on that broken-down game of Twister you call grappling,” Mercer interjected.

Rich mustered a grudging smile. “Not the worst idea.” If he was careful with his foot, maybe that wasn't such a bad use of his time off.

“Got a new jujitsu trainer lined up,” Mercer said. “Nearly a done deal.”

“'Bout time. He's guaranteed to be better than either of us.”

“She,” Mercer corrected.

Rich raised a brow. “Oh-ho. You tell her she's stuck changing in the lounge until the spring?”

“I'm sure she's dealt with worse on the road.”

“Who?”

“Penny Healy.”

Rich laughed. “No.
Way
.” He'd met Penny—or Steph, as she preferred to be called outside the ring. She was a kick-ass fighter, and a Massachusetts native. They'd hit it off when they'd both had matches in Vancouver. She'd told him she was looking to retire and get into training full-time. He'd given her Mercer's number, never imagining anything would come of it.

“That girl can do better. How'd you talk her into joining the Basement of Misfit Toys?”

“She wanted to move back to Mass. And I think she likes the challenge of coming on board during the whole coed transition.”

“Lucky us. I'll be delighted to roll around with her.”

Mercer gave him a look.

“Training-wise. Though I'll remind you some of us still have a pulse, even if Jenna's made a decent man of you. You gonna take her last name, by the way?” he teased. “Monty'd be dancing in his grave to know you wound up a Wilinski in the end.”

Mercer checked his phone's clock. “Lemme show you the new computer system before the early birds show up.”

Rich trailed him to the office. It looked less dreary than it had when he'd last been here, and their ancient software for tracking dues and schedules had been upgraded to something vastly better.

“You've been busy.”

“Thanks to a boost in membership. Thanks to you.”

“And Delante. Watched his fight in Reno. That kid's a frigging force.”

“I think we've lost him forever to L.A.”

“He was too big for this place.”

“So were you.”

A fresh stab of shame caught Rich in the gut. “Then what am I doing back here?”

“Gracing us with your majesty's presence,” Mercer offered, then smiled. “Hope you can cope without a nutritionist and masseuse and whatever space-age equipment they got out west.”

Rich cast the gym a long look through the office door. “Nah. This'll do.”

“Bread and water,” Mercer said, echoing their late mentor. “Anything more and you'll start mistaking the prison for a spa.”

“And then what incentive is there to escape?” Rich finished. He sighed, some darkness lifting, making room for grim resignation. “Fine. Let's get my goddamn sentence started.”

* * *

T
HE
DAY
DIDN
'
T
start off too badly. Routines hadn't changed much, and Rich had never been a morning person. In the old days when he had to open, he'd shouted a lot and sipped his coffee until his muscles woke up around ten or eleven. This felt much the same, only on crutches, plus with every goddamn member who came through the door clapping his arm and wanting to rehash the title match.

He slapped a grin on his face and took it like a man.

By lunchtime, he was restless. He hid in the office under the pretense of finding his feet with the new system, but really he was fed up with everybody. At one-thirty he sneaked out in search of food, hopping up the steps to the ground floor. Twenty-two steps. Funny how he'd never counted before. And funny how he'd never appreciated how many that was.

In the foyer, his angst shifted. From frustration to uncertainty in a ragged heartbeat as he swung himself toward the exit. He slowed as he reached the glass windows that fronted the Spark offices—Jenna's territory. Lindsey's, too. He'd known he'd be seeing her, but... He was feeling too much already, without piling that old tangle of emotions on top of it.

The blinds were open and he glanced in.

Oh, shit. There she was. In profile, facing away, talking to Jenna.

She was just as he'd remembered. And what a kick in the nuts it was, the way simply seeing her affected him. A glimpse of her smooth blond hair, her pink cheeks. That smirk, even directed at Jenna as it was now, did crap to his brain. What he'd give to see her gazing up at him in bed, wearing that smile.

Rich was used to women looking at him. Tall and built as he was, he had a polarizing effect on the fairer sex, and their stares nearly always said one of two things. It was either,
Sweet Jesus, take me now
or
You are ridiculous.
The funny thing was, Lindsey's eyes said both those things at once. Skepticism and lust all jumbled together, as if she wanted him, but wished she didn't.

And he understood why she wouldn't want to. That reason's name was Brett, he'd heard in passing.

Maybe a few drinks had had her ready to ignore such a technicality that night in the cab, but Rich wasn't nineteen anymore. He'd found some semblance of honor, somehow, from someplace. All was fair in love and war, but only between single parties. It burned him to think he'd come close to being nothing more than a slip of her better judgment.

Part of him wanted to march in there and sit right down on the edge of her desk.

You owe me a drink.

That's what he wanted to say, but that couldn't come before
So, you still with somebody?
And indelicate though Rich was, he couldn't bring himself to ask. Couldn't even bring himself to wait for the eye contact, not from those blue ones that drilled inside his skull and sucked all his vulnerabilities out through his mouth. And he had way too many vulnerabilities just now.

He locked his gaze at the exit and headed for the street, as fast as his crutches could carry him.

4

D
EAR
G
OD
,
WHAT
a week. And it was only
Wednesday.

Lindsey glanced at her laptop's clock. Okay, technically it'd be Thursday in an hour. Which made it even worse that she was still hiding at work this late.

The preceding weekend hadn't been much better. Rich's televised injury had kicked it off on Friday, then she'd spent Saturday and Sunday avoiding Brett, searching fruitlessly for affordable places for August and fielding a lot of frantic calls from her parents.

Her little sister had gone missing, and no question it was a teenage rebellion disappearance, not an abduction. Wouldn't be the first time. At seventeen, Maya was shaping up to be the wild child Lindsey's parents had dodged with their first eight kids. She'd tried to reach Maya herself, but none of her calls had been returned. That worried her—usually if anybody could calm the girl down, it was Lindsey. Boring, dependable, middle child Lindsey. But she wouldn't be much good if she couldn't even reach her sister.

Then yesterday...

For days she'd been queasy, knowing she'd likely see Rich this week, for the first time in months. Only, when she did see him, she got nothing more than a glance at his back as he swung past the windows on his crutches, not taking the time to so much as wave. And today she hadn't spotted him at all.

Not that she cared.

Except she so completely
did.
She sighed at her own ridiculousness and went back to trolling the apartment listings.

“Knock knock.”

Lindsey started, jerking upright so fast her chair rolled backward. But her panic morphed to shock in an instant to find the man she'd seen only on TV and YouTube since the spring suddenly framed in her office door. She grabbed the edge of the desk and wheeled herself back into place, managing a flustered smile.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to sneak up on you.”

She rubbed at her heart. “Rich. Hi.”

He returned her smile with a deeper one. One that turned all that shock into something different, something all warm and gooey and foolish. His hair was wet from a shower, flashing the memory of everything that had happened between them after that match.

“Hey, you remember me,” he said.

“Of course I do.” Jeez, had he forgotten they'd even made out? Or had he been drunker than she'd realized?
She
certainly hadn't forgotten about it, not the forceful sweep of his tongue or the heat of his hand on her neck. Her body blushed equally from arousal and embarrassment.

“Long time no see,” he said, looking around the office. Goddamn, those dark eyes. “Late night?”

“Yeah. Um, have a seat, if you want.”

Rich wheeled over the guest chair and straddled it backward. He set his crutches aside and crossed his forearms along the seat back, just as he'd done fifty times before, back when he'd stopped by to annoy her and Jenna the previous fall.

“I heard you'd be returning to us. Welcome home.”

He shrugged.

“How's your foot?” She offered a sympathy frown.

“Fractured.”

“I know. Oh, crap—I didn't even say congratulations. Well done, Mr. Champion. How long till you can accept that rematch Moreau's gunning for?”

“Realistically? Six months or more. A couple while my bone heals, then a bunch more to undo all the atrophying the injury's going to saddle me with.”

“Must be nice to have some downtime, though.”

“Yeah,” Rich said, nodding. His agreement was transparently hollow.
Nice
clearly wasn't the word.
See also
aggravating.
Maybe
stressful.
Or, knowing Rich, a string of cusswords, most of them starting with an
F.
“I guess. I'm not great at sitting still.”

Lindsey's phone pinged. She checked the screen and declined Brett's call. They could resume their argument in person. He'd hit below the belt that morning, low enough to keep her out this late, praying he'd be asleep by the time she got home. He'd pretty much implied it was her fault things were so uncomfortable now, since she'd done the official dumping. Easy for him to judge—he could afford to pick up and move, but Lindsey couldn't swing their rent by herself. She'd been tempted to ask Jenna if she could crash upstairs in her and Mercer's guest room. But the line between best friend and boss was wide and fuzzy, plus Jenna had hired her as a so-called expert in the field of healthy relationships.... Jesus, she felt like a fraud some days.

Another ping, and Lindsey set her phone to vibrate and shoved it into her bag.

“Don't let me keep you from your work.”

She shook her head. “Not work. If my clients start thinking they can call me at eleven at night, I've got some serious boundary-setting issues. And even if it was business hours, they can wait a few minutes while I hail the conquering hero.”

“What
are
you doing here so late?”

“Just catching up on some admin.”
You know, avoiding my life.
“You?”

“I swapped for a closing shift so I could meet with a physical therapist this morning.”

“Will you have to do that a lot?”

“No, thank God. Clean break. All my ligaments and tendons and shit are fine.”

“I really am sorry. I was like, screaming, all excited you'd won. I had no idea anything was wrong until the announcer explained.”

“You enjoy that? My little Kerri Strug moment?”

She smiled at the parallel, comparing this huge man to that tiny gymnast from however-many Olympics ago. Though as infamous broken feet went, there was a handier reference to make.

“More like Jens Pulver. And he only won by decision.”

He blinked at her. “You become some kind of MMA expert since I last saw you?”

“I guess you could say I've gotten educated.”
Gotten quite good at cyberstalking you, that is.
“Not enough that I followed what happened when your foot broke, but I'm literate. And it's more interesting now that I've watched enough and heard some of the guys talk about their fights and where they're from.... More
personal.”
The grudges between fighters were as intense as infatuations, the way some interviews made it sound. Both had that consumptive, physical desire like a growling hunger, only with fighters that desire was to hurt another person, not bed them.

“Your big fight was great, broken foot aside. I watched with Jenna and my...my sort of ex-boyfriend. No,” she corrected, needing to draw the line herself once and for all. “My
actually
ex-boyfriend.”

One of his shapely eyebrows rose. “You don't sound too sure about it.”

“Our relationship's been like a cockroach. We kept stomping on it but it just kept twitching back to life.”

“That's very poetic. Remind me never to hire you to oversee my love life.”

She had to smile at that. “It's over now, for sure. But we live together, so...”

“I can guess why you're ‘working late,' then. Bummer. That's why I don't do relationships. Not worth the trouble.”

She touched the mug on her desk, spinning it idly to distract herself from how disappointed his words made her. “That's an awfully lonely philosophy.”

“Nah, I got family. Family comes first. And there is no second.”

“How very simplistic.” She sighed, suddenly feeling rather depressed by this heart-to-heart. “I guess that's why I'm the matchmaker, and you're the prizefighter.”

“Plus, no offense—I'd rather be single than sharing a cockroach with somebody.”

She laughed. “I don't know why I had you pegged for some Don Juan romantic type.”

“Wishful thinking.”

Indeed. She threw a pad of Post-it notes, hitting his shoulder. And just like that, they were back to how they'd been the previous fall. Dammit. Why'd it have to feel so good?

“Sorry. Guess you're not in the mood for my particular brand of charm.”

She shrugged. “Everything's just such a mess right now. I'm not in the mood for anything except finding an affordable place, ASAP, so I can get the heck off Planet Awkward.”

“Ah.”

“I was going to stick it out, since there's practically nothing until September first, but I can't take it. I've spent the past three hours scouring the web.”

“Any luck?”

“A few nice places, but too expensive. And a few I can afford but that either look like shitholes or are practically in New Hampshire. I may have to bite the bullet and shell out for a real estate agent.”

“I know of a place. My mom's got a neighbor who's been trying to sublet her unit. She moved in with her fiancé and can't keep paying rent on an apartment she doesn't live in.”

“Oh. Where?”

“Lynn. Two-bedroom place, top floor of a three-family house, not far from the train. Okay neighborhood. I dunno what the rent is, but more reasonable than Boston proper, I guarantee you that. Good landlord. Save you the finder's fee.”

“Lynn, huh?”

He smiled drily. “It's not as bad as people make out. We just let that rumor perpetuate to keep wusses from moving in.”

“Well, I'm intrigued.”

“Didn't even get to the best part of all,” he said with a smile.

“And what's that?”

“You'd be right on top of me.”

“You're staying with your mom?”

He nodded.

Dear God, sleeping one floor up from Rich Estrada... She already spent her workdays hyperaware of the fact that he was prowling just a few feet beneath her. That might be too close for comfort. “Lynn's kind of a haul.”

“Half hour on public transportation? Beats the frigging Green Line on a Sox game day.”

“I dunno.”

He shrugged, dropping his sales pitch. “I'll get my neighbor's number for you, just in case you decide you want the details.”

“Sure. Can't hurt.” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to squish some of her headache away.

“You look beat.”

“I am beat. And now I have to go home and tiptoe around so I don't wake up my ex, who's sleeping on the couch....” She gave her head a sharp shake.

“You know what you need? An outlet.”

“Like what? Yoga?”

“No. You need to hit something.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“No, really. Best therapy there is.”

She smiled, skeptical. “Yeah, right.”

“You want to try for real? Right now?”

“Try what?”

He nodded at the floor. “Come downstairs, take your anger out on something. A bag, that is. Not me. Don't need my pretty face busted up on top of the foot.”

“There goes all the appeal of the invitation.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I have to catch the subway.”

Rich glanced at the clock between the windows. “That gives us nearly an hour. Plenty of time.”

She pursed her lips. “I don't have any workout clothes.”

“No need. We'll find you some gloves and I'll teach you how to throw a punch.”

Why was she resisting, really? Another hour away from Brett, and it might work off some of this stress. Plus, Rich seemed to have lost all sexual interest in her since October, so that complication was moot.

“Fine.”

She locked the office behind them and followed Rich down to the gym. He dug for his keys, then flipped on the far row of lights. Lindsey had poked her head down here only a handful of times, usually trying to find Jenna. It felt far bigger at night, stark and quiet. Smelled the same, though. Like sweat and rubber and...men.

Rich led her to a wall with a row of body-size leather punching bags. He turned and took her wrists, stopping her heart.

“Jesus, you got tiny hands. I'll find you some kids' gloves.”

He let her go, but her jitters lingered. Rich headed for an equipment closet and came back with a small pair and a roll of cotton hand-wrapping tape. He leaned his crutches against the wall and hopped to stand in front of her, balancing on one leg.

“You right-handed?”

“Left.”

“O-oh, southpaw.” He took the hand in question in his large one, shooting hot, curious electricity up her arm.

“Could skip the tape, but let's make you feel authentic.” He slipped the loop at the end of the roll over her thumb. “Pay attention—you're doing the other hand yourself.”

She watched, fascinated. He wrapped the tape around her wrist, her palm, between two fingers, back around the palm. She stole glances at his face and downcast eyes as he worked, feeling scared and awed, as if she were in the presence of a different species. Maybe a jaguar, all sleek and dangerous and beautiful.

If only he'd maul me.

He reached the end of the wrap and secured its Velcro end at her wrist. “That's it.”

She flexed her hand. “Wow. I feel badass.”

“You look badass. Now do your other hand.”

She fumbled her way through the task, Rich wrapping both his hands before she finished the one. She pulled on the fingerless gloves, feeling better already. Tough and capable.

“You ever hit anything before?”

“I took cardio kickboxing classes a few times, but all we did was punch the air.”

“Here.” He whacked a leather bag. “That's you.” He hopped to the side and Lindsey took his place. “You're a leftie, so right foot in front and we'll work on your cross. Keep your legs bent, left fist protecting your ear, right fist near your chin...good. Extend your left arm....” She did, and Rich urged her closer to the bag. “Okay, guard back up. Lemme see what you got. Hit it with your left.”

Nervous, she took a breath and gave the bag a lame punch.

“Don't straighten that arm too much.”

She tried again, and Rich gave her a gentle tap on her ear with his padded knuckles. “Keep that guard up.”