Fight For Her (More Than A Cowboy 1)

shorts that hit the top of his knees and a pale blue button-up short-sleeved shirt. His feet were bare. His male scent filled the air, something woodsy and not too strong. Soap, perhaps? Whatever it was I liked. A lot.

“Me and Thor, back in the day.” He nodded toward the picture I’d just put back.

I glanced back at the photo. “One of your competitions?”

“Yeah, you can see what I look like with my hair grown out a bit.”

I assessed him, picturing him with longer hair. It was only about an inch long in the photo, but his hair was dark and covered his brow. I wondered if it were even longer if it would curl over his forehead and be unruly. Not his style, it seemed, and I liked Gray with it closely cropped. It exposed him to the world and with it he was saying This is me. He didn’t hide behind anything and I liked that. So far he’d been direct and forthcoming, and it totally, totally, worked for me.

“I kind of like the clean-cut look,” I admitted.

He ran a hand over his very short hair, all the while assessing me, perhaps testing the weight of my words. He made a sound deep in his throat. “Ready to go?”

“Sure.” My flip-flops were noisy on the wood floor as I followed him back to the elevator.

Grabbing his keys and sliding his feet into a pair of flip-flops of his own, he pushed the button for the elevator, which opened right away.

“You aren’t skipping a Sunday lunch with family, are you?” He leaned back against the handrail, gripping it.

Clearing my throat, I replied, “I got divorced four years ago. The house was sold in the settlement and I moved into my parents’ row house in the city.” I fiddled with the strap on my purse. “Yes, it was pretty pathetic, living with my parents in my thirties—with a child of my own. Fortunately for all of us, they retired and moved to Florida a few months later. I decided to stay and live in the house I grew up in, maybe because it was familiar and I needed that, maybe because it was just easy. I had too much insanity as it was with a fourteen-year-old who was angry at his father, at the world. At the time it didn’t make sense to find somewhere else to live, but now with Chris gone, maybe I should start thinking about it.” I flicked my gaze to his and realized I'd rambled. “To answer your question, no. No family in town.”

The doors opened and he led me back out into the heat, which hit us like a wet blanket as we walked to the car. I glanced back at the gym, curious. This was Gray’s business. His life. When I first saw him on Friday night I’d thought he was fit and lived it instead of just pumping iron. I’d been right.

Through the wall of windows, I could see dark mats on most of the floors, a large reception area, punching and kicking bags hanging from the ceiling and what appeared to be a boxing ring with chain-link fence around it. Several people were working out.

“Want to check it out?” he asked, angling his head toward the gym.

“Sure.” I didn’t want to tell him I was curious, but I was. I followed him to the door, which he held open for me. The space was large with high ceilings, the windows faced the street so whatever was happening in the gym was advertising itself. It was clean, just like Gray’s apartment and didn’t have that sweaty-sock smell I was expecting.

A guy was punching a small bag that hung from the ceiling that swung back and forth, Rocky-style. Two men were in the fenced ring, sparring with headgear, mouth guards and gloves. A woman ran on the treadmill, earbuds in place even though music came from hidden speakers.

The young guy at the front desk was on the phone but gave a quick wave to us.

“You used to fight like those guys?”

Gray turned to face the ring. “No, they’re just boxing. I did MMA.”

I bit my lip, hoping I didn’t sound too much like an idiot. “What’s the difference?”

“Boxing’s like Muhammad Ali, just punches. See, they’re only using their arms.” When I nodded that I followed, he continued. “MMA is combining boxing with kicking, like Muay Thai or karate, then fighting on the ground like wrestling, but some Brazilian Jiu Jitsu in there for submissions.”

An electronic bell rung from a timer on the wall. The men touched gloves and stepped out of the ring, sweat dripping from their faces, their t-shirts wet.

“You do all that? The different martial arts styles?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

I saw Gray here, just right for his surroundings, his job. The knowledge and experience it took to run a place such as this, to have the following, the backing, the fame, was impressive. I was impressed. I was also completely in awe and a little bit in lust, because the testosterone seeping from him in this space was heady.

“Want to give it a try?” he asked.

I frowned. “What, me? In there?” I pointed to the ring, the walls made of black chain link fencing. “That looks like something out of a Mad Max movie.”

He smiled. “Come on. I'll show you what I do, but you have to promise not to hurt me.”

Kicking off his flip flops, I did the same. He let me step in the ring first, and I rolled my eyes at him.

“Okay, so you want to stand like this and put your hands up in fists, here and here.” He stood beside me and I copied his stance. “Good.”