Harlequin Superromance March 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: The Secrets of Her Past\A Real Live Hero\In Her Corner (65 page)

She laughed at herself bitterly. She felt about as flighty as she had in her senior year of high school, with prom and graduation on the horizon and a complete inability to focus on one or the other. The fight was six weeks away, and Bella had only dropped three pounds. Kyle drove her hard, and the rest of the trainers made sure she went home exhausted every day. But she still had seven more pounds to go.

Wayne was especially attentive whenever he was around—which she really appreciated. But she'd noticed the boxing coach had been sick a lot. The others joked that he was a big baby, but watching him move stiffly around, she wondered how no one else saw that Wayne was in a lot of pain.

“It's nothing you need to worry about,” he said with a shake of his head. “I'm just getting old.”

“Have you seen a doctor about the migraines?” It was his most frequent complaint.

“Dozens of them. I have prescriptions for everything—painkillers, acupuncture, massage, chiropractic and naturopathic medicine. Anything they can think of to manage the pain short of doping me up. I don't want to take anything I don't have to.” He rubbed his temple. “I've had all kinds of tests, too—CAT scans, MRIs. Everyone's worried I'm going to have a stroke or something. All those years fighting, I got beat around the noggin a lot. They haven't found anything injury related, though.” He chuckled. “Even if I'd known this would happen, I wouldn't have given any of it up. That's the price of glory.
This
—” he indicated his worn-out body “—is just a thing that happens. Not much I can do about it.”

“There has to be something.”

He gave her a compassionate look. “Kid, some hurts you gotta live with. Most people don't understand that kind of pain. They don't understand till it happens to them.”

* * *

K
YLE
BRACED
HIMSELF
behind the large rectangular striking pad, absorbing Bella's blows, but her strikes barely connected.

“C'mon, Bella, you can hit harder,” Wayne said. “Kyle's not that big a guy. Look at him. A stiff breeze could knock him over.”

She repeated the striking pattern. Kyle shrank further behind the pad, expecting the jabs to shake his bones. They barely made him shudder.

“Hit him like he's done you wrong,” the boxing coach shouted. “Hit him like he deserves it. C'mon, do you think Kamikaze Kamino's gonna go easy on you?”

The halfhearted one-two had Kyle slackening his grip.

“Stop, stop, stop.” Wayne frowned sharply. “Kyle, was she hitting hard enough?”

“Barely.” Somehow, it felt like it was his fault.

Wayne took the pad from him. “Okay, I don't like doing this, but you leave me no choice.” He faced her with the pad. “You hit like a girl.” He quickly ducked behind the pad.

Bella scoffed, grinning lopsidedly. “Really? That's your plan? Insult me till I get mad enough to hit you?”

He peeked up. “Your hair looks stupid and your clothes aren't fashionable!” He ducked again, and Bella laughed. “C'mon! Hit me!”

“Try insulting my mother,” Bella suggested casually.

“Oh, hell, no. I'm not insulting the mother of five Fiores.”

Kyle grimaced. Her future was on the line. He needed her to quit goofing off and focus. “You wanna lose, Bella? Are you trying to sabotage yourself?”

“I'm not trying anything.” Her teeth ground together as she jabbed, right, left, right.

“Yeah, you're not trying at all. The fight's in six weeks, you amateur. Pick up your pace. Is this a joke to you?”

Wayne grunted, bracing himself as Bella scowled at the pads. “No, but your insults are,” she muttered, throwing a hard jab.

He was starting to get to her. Good. “You want to show your grandfather what kind of fighter you are? Then give this your all. I want to see 110 percent.”

She stood down abruptly. “I have to pee.” She went to the change room, leaving Kyle and Wayne alone.

The boxer tossed the pad aside. “Maybe she's having an off day.”

Kyle wished he could agree with Wayne, but he didn't think it was just an off day. Bella had been restrained lately. He'd seen it when she'd grappled with him, too. Her fire had been banked. She was nothing like the warrior woman who'd charged him on her bike the first time they'd met.

“Kyle.” Liz hurried over, her brow pleated. “Where's Bella?”

“Bathroom. Why?”

She grabbed him by the arm and led him to his office, then opened his internet browser on his laptop and entered in a web address for a popular sports magazine. “Read.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
HE
WEBPAGE
L
IZ
brought up displayed a feature titled Girl Fight: Will Women's MMA Be the Death of Feminism? by Quinn Bourdain. He scanned the first few paragraphs. It was a diatribe about whether women's MMA was sustainable, and mentioned Bella and Ayumi's match repeatedly.

His stomach pitched when he spotted Ryan Holbrooke's name.

Fiore's former agent
and manager, Ryan Holbrooke, broke ties with Bella in November. He claimed she was “belligerent...a hotheaded diva who's done nothing to earn her chance to fight for the UFF.”

“If anything, she'll be the end of WMMA. She thinks she knows everything,” the manager who has worked with former UFF contenders such as Bruno DiMartino and Jackson De Sena said. He went on to describe her coaching efforts as “amateur at best, dangerous at worst.”

“She doesn't know what she's doing. She was training a bunch of street kids how to fight and nearly got one of them killed.”

Fiore has been teaching a self-defense class in New Orleans alongside her principal coach, former Olympic medal-winning wrestler Kyle Peters. The students were from the Touchstone youth center, a community outreach program for at-risk youth. Members of the class confirmed that one of the students was hospitalized in November after failing to defend herself from a knife attack.

Kyle's gorge rose. The article went on to suggest that Hadrian Blackwell was putting on an appeasement fight—a sideshow to distract people from a host of issues, including frequent harassment of female UFF employees to unequal pay and the fostering of misogynistic attitudes in fighters and fans. He pushed away from his desk with disgust as he finished reading.

“The article ends with that bit about Touchstone in the online unpaid version,” Liz pointed out. “We can read the whole thing because we have a paid subscription to the magazine. But everyone else will read this excerpt and only see—”

“That Bella is incapable of teaching.” Kyle hissed out a breath and sat back. “Thanks for bringing this to my attention. Don't show it to Bella.”

“Are you sure? I mean, won't Joel...”

“She doesn't need the distraction.” He glimpsed the top five comments on the article and his blood pressure spiked. He shut the laptop firmly. “We need to keep her focused. No internet, no magazines. Hide our subscription. In fact, cancel it.” He was mad. Quinn had seemed like an intelligent and responsible journalist. He was surprised she'd written such an inflammatory piece.

“Guys.”

Kyle looked up. Bella stood in his office doorway. Her face was pale and strained. She held her cell phone out, her mobile web browser showing the article they'd tried to hide from her.

He shot out of his seat. “How did you—”

“Someone sent it to me anonymously.” She glanced at the screen and gave a crooked smile. “Maybe it's the Kamino camp trying to psyche me out.”

More likely it was Ryan, Kyle thought—at the Starlight gala he had promised to get back at her.

“Don't think about it, Bella,” Liz said encouragingly. “No one will remember any of this after you win that fight. Ryan's a dick and everyone who matters in this business knows it.”

Bella gave a slight shrug, but her vivaciousness had dimmed. Kyle got what she was going through. The higher you ranked in the sports world, the more criticism and mockery you got. She'd start to doubt herself, afraid she couldn't live up to the hype. He'd gone through the same thing.

They went back to training. Bella hesitated, though, and her strikes barely dented the pads. Kyle yelled at her, trying to incite a reaction, but she was working on autopilot. He'd hoped the article might have enraged her, but instead she seemed empty. Not Zen-like, but zombielike. Kyle was worried.

By the end of the day, they were all wrung out. Kyle drove her home.

“Tough day.”

Bella didn't reply, her expression pensive. He didn't know whether to scream at her to wake up or pull her into his arms and tell her everything would be all right.

“Look, I know that article was harsh. But Quinn Bourdain doesn't know what she's talking about.”

Bella chewed her lower lip. “At least she didn't mention Shawnese by name.”

“She shouldn't have mentioned Touchstone at all, considering what the article was supposed to be about. I ought to call her editor and give him a piece of my mind.”

Bella didn't respond. She just stared out the window.

“Forget about Quinn and the article. I'm more concerned about you right now. Is your diet giving you trouble? Are you feeling tired? Hungry?”

“I'm fine.”

“Then what's wrong?”

“Don't worry about it.” Her sad smile did nothing to reassure him.

He watched her walk up to her apartment, feeling shut out as she closed her door. He stifled the urge to go up there and demand she tell him what was going on. He couldn't help but think her lackluster performance was his fault somehow. If he was any kind of man, he'd figure out a way to fix it, to get her out of her slump and back into fighting form. He had an idea, but he wasn't sure if, as Bella's coach and boss, he had any right getting into her personal business.

Right. Because you're so good at boundaries...

His job was to make sure she fought to win—and that was it. She deserved a coach who was completely dedicated to her training and success.

But the moment they stepped foot off the mat...the moment she threw him that flirty, secretive smile, he couldn't help himself. He wanted things from her that he couldn't begin to list out. And it scared him.

Kyle knew one thing: he was tired of this frustrating dance that he and Bella kept doing.

It's not like she was asking for marriage—she'd made it clear she didn't want anything more than a one-night stand. Well, why not give her what she wanted? They both needed to let off some steam, and she really needed to get her fighting spirit back. He used to always loosen up and wrestle better after getting laid. There'd even been studies that showed sex released testosterone. It was biology, plain and simple.

He chewed on his lower lip. He'd botched their chance in Vegas, but he was certain he could go through with it now. He had to. For her sake.

He stepped too hard on the gas as conviction set its claws in. The engine revved hard.

They could do this
and
still be professional afterward.

If Kyle could get through one night with Bella Fiore—if he could sleep with her without having another freak-out—they'd both be better off.

He just needed to convince her it would be good for her, too.

* * *

H
ADRIAN
SWUNG
THE
bat hard, nearly wrenching his shoulder as the fastball whistled past. The pitching machine whirred and reloaded, waiting to lob another missile at his head.

He actually hated baseball. It'd bored him to tears as a kid, but watching the games on TV had been the only time his father was willing to spend with him. The old man had loved his games more than anything. Hadrian remembered how as a boy, in an effort to win the man's affections, he had tried out for Little League. He was so bad that his father had laughed at him when he'd come home. And he'd continued to mock Hadrian every time his son tried to sit and watch the game with him.

Hadrian was sure a shrink would have a million things to say about why he'd had a batting cage installed in his backyard after he'd made his first million. Nothing got Hadrian worked up more than missing that ball every single time—he'd gotten quite good at swinging hard and hitting nothing. It was humbling and reminded him that no matter how much he tried, there were some things he'd never be able to do.

“Sweetie?” Quinn's voice drifted to him from the back porch door. She walked out onto the deck, her burgundy blazer slung over her shoulder. Her shirt looked a little rumpled, and a mustard stain glowed bright on the collar.

Hadrian carefully replaced the bat and turned off the pitching machine. He didn't greet her as he stripped off his helmet and gloves, and barely made eye contact as she made her way across the grass. “You having a bad day?”

He pressed his lips together. “Mmm-hmm.”

“You read the article.”

“Oh, yeah.” He slammed the cage shut, leaving his hot anger behind and donning his cool business facade. He'd promised himself he wouldn't get angry, but his feelings had been on simmer all day. “You made me sound like a jerk, Quinn.”

“I didn't make you sound like anything.” She said it so smoothly, oil would've rolled off her tongue. “I told you I'd been working on this piece. I made requests for interviews with you through Mrs. H. instead of ambushing you in bed, and that was only out of respect for what's between us.” She dropped her blazer over the back of a patio chair.

What's between us.
He snorted and grabbed a beer from the wet bar. He snapped off the cap and took a swig. The cold liquid did little to soothe him.

“‘UFF president Hadrian Blackwell has previously sworn never to have women fight in the UFF,'” he quoted, the words seared into his memory. “‘His is a world of old boys and closed doors, where jokes about harridan wives and gold digger girlfriends are exchanged freely, where women are hired and fired based on their dimensions. Critics have said inviting the girls to play must be a desperation move on his part to hide these chauvinistic practices.'” He glared at her. “That's all bullshit, Quinn, and poorly written, to boot. If you're going to tell me I'm sexist, why don't you tell me to my face?”

She gazed at him coolly. “I gave you the chance to respond. You didn't.”

“You went behind my back.” He slammed the beer bottle on the countertop. “You told me this was about the future of MMA.”

“It is.” She squared her shoulders. “When you announced the Fiore-Kamino fight, it changed the story. Why a women's fight? Why now? You have critics, Hadrian.”

“I didn't expect
you
to be one of them.” That sounded petulant and accusatory even to his ears, but he stood his ground.

“Well, I
am
one of them. Do you have any idea what kind of world your female employees live in? What I put up with? How about your female fans—do you have the slightest idea what they deal with?”

“Women don't even make up a third of my fan base, Quinn. If we're talking business—”

“See? There you go right there. You've marginalized half the population by reducing this to business. You used to say every fan mattered. Did you even read my article?”

“Several times. Mostly because I couldn't believe the garbage I was reading. All you did was bitch and whine about the lack of women's fights. I'm giving you a goddamned women's fight! What more do you want?”

She shook her head slowly. “You didn't read it at all.”

“So I'm the bad guy in all this? I'm doing my job, Quinn. I promote MMA fights. I make money and bring tourism dollars to cities that host them. I make jobs and I make stars.”

“And
I'm
doing my job as a reporter and as a woman who is sick and tired of taking misogynistic crap. I gave you every opportunity to sit down with me professionally for an interview, and you put me off.”

“I was busy announcing a history-making fight. I thought you understood. You think all those long nights and missed dinners were me at a strip club or something?” He forked his fingers through his hair. “What's this really about? Are you jealous that I've been spending time with Bella Fiore? I couldn't help but notice all the potshots you took at her in your rag.”

Quinn's cheeks burned red, and her nostrils flared. “How dare you.”

It was three little words, said almost on a whisper, yet Hadrian felt them sink in slowly like knives dropped point first into pound cake.

“I'm a professional, Hadrian. I didn't start this relationship with you because I wanted a
scoop.
I liked you, and I was halfway to falling in love with you. I actually thought you cared—thought you liked me as more than some plaything. And now you...you cheapen me by suggesting I'm playing catty games because I'm jealous of another woman?”

If it had been any other woman in front of him, he would've believed that the tears in Quinn's eyes were from sadness. But he knew Quinn better than that—at least that's what he told himself. He swigged his beer and muttered, “Sounds pretty plausible to me.”

She stared at him a moment longer, her calm fracturing. “If that's what you think, then I guess I've been an idiot.” She folded her arms across her chest and looked toward the horizon. “The fact I had to write this story should've told you something, Hadrian. You can't throw us a bone and call it a feast. Screw this
baby steps in equality
crap. I've spent twelve years reporting sports, did you know that? Twelve years of letting guys pat my ass and call me honey, all so I could get a good story. And you know what I get for it? An average of 17 percent less pay than the guy five years my junior and a hundred comments a day from jocks who all think they know better than me. Guys who make fun of my clothes and hair and call me a dog and say my tits aren't big enough. Guys who've threatened to rape and kill me if I don't agree with their thoughts on a fighter's technique.”

His gut squirmed uneasily, but he wasn't about to apologize for something he didn't do. “It's not my job to police every dickhead's ignorant-ass comments on the internet, Quinn. You can't hold that against me.”

“This isn't about you!” she exploded. “And it's not about
one
women's fight, either—it's about
all
of them. And from what I've learned and the way you're acting, we're still losing.” She plucked her blazer from the chair. “I'm going now.”