A long pause. And then, I don’t understand, Noah. Why not?
He gritted his teeth, and that too-hot/too-tight feeling crawled over him again. Because I’m asking.
Tell me WHY you don’t want me to go and I’ll consider it.
Problem was, he couldn’t tell her why. What would he say? That he was jealous? That the thought that another man might touch her was like shrapnel to the gut? That the thought that she might fall for that guy broke what was left of his fucking heart?
All those things were true, but he couldn’t say a goddamned one of them to her. Because they would tell her too much. And they would give her hope that he wanted her for himself.
And he did. He really fucking did. With every-fucked-up-thing he was. But that didn’t mean he could have her. Because of every fucked-up thing he was.
“Fuck,” he bit out, dropping his head back against the headrest.
His phone dinged again, and he read her newest message.
Tell me why Noah.
But there wasn’t a damn thing he could say. And that left him only two options—go silent and say nothing, or give her his blessing. Not that she needed it.
He stared at the screen until her words went blurry, and then he started typing.
Never mind. Have a good time.
The minute he hit Send, Noah turned his phone off. He didn’t want to know how she might respond. Or whether she’d respond at all.
By the time he got to the Full Contact MMA Training Center in the U Street/Shaw neighborhood of downtown DC, Noah was more than ready to pound the shit out of something.
Taking his time—a necessity given the blind spot caused by his partial vision loss—he parallel parked in a street space in front of a block of red-brick row-houses, then made his way back up the block to the Center, which appeared to take up the first couple of floors in a newer-looking yellow-brick building.
Noah found Mo standing in the bright, modern reception area of the club. The big man had changed into a pair of black and blue athletic shorts and a form-fitting black tank with the club’s name on it. Cases of trophies and ribbons filled one wall by the front desk, and a display of work-out gear for sale ran along the other.
“Glad you came,” Mo said. “Sign in on that clipboard over there and I’ll take you to meet the coach.”
Noah walked up to the shiny steel counter and added his name to a list of thirteen other people. And then he was following Mo down one level, to a large rectangular gym space. Blue mats covered much of the open floor, and two eight-sided practice cages filled the far end of the room. People were spread out across the mats doing stretches and shooting the shit, but Mo led Noah past them to where three men stood near a set of benches at the side of the space.
Mo greeted the men and then gestured to Noah. “This is Noah Cortez, a prospective new member. Noah, this is Coach Mack, Hawk, and Colby.”
“John McPherson,” a fortyish man with dark hair and eyes said. He had full tattoo sleeves down both arms. “Everyone calls me Mack. Glad to have you here.”
“Glad to be here,” Noah said, returning the man’s shake. Next, he exchanged introductions with the other two men, Leo Hawkins and Colby Richmond, long-time members who apparently assisted Mack with the coaching. Despite the black tattoos around his biceps that gave him a harder edge, Leo’s blond hair, blue eyes, and tanned skin gave him a surfer-dude look. Colby had light brown skin and eyes and close-trimmed black hair.
Everyone was friendly and welcoming, helping ease some of the tension flowing through Noah’s muscles.
“Take over warm-ups,” Mack said to Hawk and Colby, “while I get Noah oriented.” The two men nodded and took off for the mats. “Have a seat,” Mack said. They cleared a spot among everyone’s belongings. “Tell me a little about yourself. What brings you here?” the older man asked, expression open and relaxed.
Heaving a deep breath, Noah wished he could be as laidback. “Served five years in the Marine Corps with the 2nd Combat Engineer Battalion. Discharged last fall after an IED gave me a TBI that stole the hearing in my left ear and some of the vision in my left eye. I met Mo today at another class and he, uh, told me about the club.”
Mack nodded. “Are you still receiving treatment?”
“I have monthly check-ups with a neurologist and primary care doc for the TBI, but otherwise, no.” He understood that Mack probably needed to make sure he was healthy enough to participate, but that didn’t mean he loved sharing these details. He squeezed the bench with his hands.
“Are you working with a mental health professional?” Mack asked.
Noah dropped his gaze to the floor between his feet. “Not regularly. Talking…” He shook his head as discomfort slinked into his gut.
“Doesn’t help?” Mack offered.
Cutting his gaze to Mack, Noah nodded. “Yeah. Makes it worse, actually.”