Roxie doesn’t understand. This place, around the huge, powerful men she’s always warning me away from, is the only place I actually feel safe. And it’s precisely because the men are huge and powerful that I feel that way.
Even with being deaf in my left ear, I hear the cursing from across the room. Jackson Wolfe, aka Wolverine, resident pain in the ass and all around diva, is lying on the black rubber flooring, loudly letting everyone know how his sparring partner screwed up.
“Fucking North, kicking too late. Stupid bastard. You fucked up my back!”
Sawyer North is quite possibly the nicest fighter in the gym, yet somehow Jack always finds a way to blame the guy for all of his “injuries,” and I use the word in the loosest of its definitions.
“Hey, Jack.” I walk right on over and kneel next to the large, cursing man.
His angry eyes calm when he sees me. “Britt. Thank god someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing is here,” he grumbles.
I hide a smile. “Good to see you too. What happened?”
“Strain in the lower back,” Brock, one of the trainers, answers.
“Okay, can you make it to my office?” I raise my eyebrows at the intimidating man.
Jack hisses in pain, but manages to stand and hobble all the way to my office at the back of the large, warehouse-sized training room.
“Lie facedown,” I direct as I pull out the ice packs and grab some towels.
By the time I get what I need and stand next to the exam table, Jack is halfway through a story, which, of course, I didn’t hear. I roll my eyes since Jack can’t see me.
“Jack, I didn’t catch any of that. Is it about your injury?” I suspect I know what he’s getting around to, but I ask to be sure I’m not missing something important. As the sports therapist for these men, I need to pay special attention to each fighter. It’s not Jack’s fault I didn’t hear him. I don’t tell anyone about my hearing loss, not wanting to explain what happened to me ten years ago or be treated as a weak, fragile flower. I despise that.
“No, not my injury,” he mumbles into the table, almost sounding embarrassed. “I was asking what you were doing later.”
I sigh and grab the ice packs, laying them across the base of Jack’s spine. Sometimes I wonder how many of his injuries are merely excuses to get me alone and ask me out.
“Jack, I don’t date fighters. You know this,” I repeat for the millionth time since I started working here two years ago, and it’s not only Jack. With the amount of testosterone flying around here, and me being one of only a handful of women who work at the gym, I end up repeating the same line to all of the guys at some point.
Honestly, I should date one of them. It would keep me from having panic attacks every night, alone in my little apartment. If I did, I would have someone big and strong to hold me, protecting me from the evils of the world.
Sometimes, it seems as if everyone here is hooking up except me. Lucky me, I get to listen to my coworkers gush about their weekend flings every Monday morning. I’ve been asked out by almost every single fighter to file through these doors. None as persistent as Jack Wolfe.
Jack attempts to roll on his side to face me. I place a hand on his shoulder, holding him still. “Don’t move. You could make your back worse, especially if it’s a tear.”
I already know it’s not a tear.
If anything, he has a minor strain. Most likely, Jack made it up or has a tiny twinge and is playing up the symptoms to corral me in my office. Despite his irritating behavior and his tendency to be a spoiled brat, I find it kind of sweet this big, intimidating guy would go so far as to fake an injury just to ask me out on a date.
“Yeah, yeah,” he gripes. “I’m not moving.”
I remove the ice and gently press on different muscle groups across his broad back. “Tell me if it hurts, Jack.” After poking and prodding for several minutes with no reaction, I move away from the table. “You’re fine. I’ll put some rub on it and you can train tomorrow, but keep it light.”
Jack leaves after I spread a thick layer of nasty smelling but highly effective ointment on his lower back with instructions to take it easy for the rest of the day.
By the time I clean up after my last patient, wiping down the table and countertops with disinfectant, it’s late. I’m rummaging under the sink for more gauze wraps when someone taps my shoulder.
“Oh my god!” I jerk at the unexpected touch, smashing my head on the underside of the cabinet. Stars burst behind my eyes.
“Britt, I’m so sorry!”
“Max,” I groan, rubbing my head where a knot is already forming.
“Shit, I didn’t mean to scare you, Britt.” Max moves to inspect my injury.
“I’m not bleeding, am I?” I won’t tell him I’m more worried about triggering a seizure or a migraine than a small lump or cut. He’ll feel bad. Then I’ll feel bad for making him feel bad. Plus, I’m not discussing my condition. I refuse to be treated like a broken little bird… like my mom treats me.