Shadowboxer (3 page)

Chapter Four

Tray

She’d gotten the best of me. No one
ever
did that.

I’d been at the gym for a couple of hours already that morning, and I’d just finished a good sparring session. But I might as well have g
iven up my fight to Mia, since she was the only thing I could think about.

I didn’t react well to tactical errors. This was a doozy. If she’d been across from me in the ring, I’d be tapping out right now. And I didn’t tap out for anyone, especially scrawny brunettes with enough marks on her flesh to play tic-tac-toe.

She’d fucking ditched me. I was fast. Hell, I made my living from my speed, among other things. Yesterday, I must’ve been moving through molasses, because she’d lost me before she cleared the first block.

Maybe she was a ghost. A figment of an overworked imagination. I’d’ve blamed my unnatural state of horniness, if not for the fact she wasn’t even my type. I liked cur
ves on a woman. Her breasts were negligible. Ass? Hardly visible under that paper-thin coat. She had long hair and long legs, though both only emphasized the dichotomy of her appearance. Female or not, she was as hard as the wall at my back. As serious as the fist I’d had at my temple half an hour ago. Lush lips aside, she’d been all angles, wounds, and huge, wary eyes. Not exactly prime boner material.

Yet here I was, still remembering our brief encounter. Still replayi
ng the few words uttered by her mouth and the many offered from her eyes. If only I understood the unspoken dialect of women…

Having an actual girlfriend was a rarity for me. I’d had one-night-stands and one-week-wonders. Now and then they lasted for a month of scattered hookups. My knowledge of the thought processes of females was p
ractically nonexistent. Not sucking in bed was a source of pride, so a few casual questions couched in cockiness after sex saved my ego. Too many of my friends had mentioned their girls faking it and I didn’t trust myself to know the difference.

O
ne vital truth remained: chicks were indecipherable. And the one from yesterday multiplied the average woman’s bewilderment factor to the nth degree.

“Knox, where you at today?”

I glanced at Coach Timmins and finished unwrapping my sore hands. The glint in his eyes verged on a glare. He’d been coaching me for two years, and I was used to his scowls, especially when he held out the pads and made me kick and punch until my limbs were shaking. I was never quick enough, never bloodthirsty enough.

At the moment, he wasn’t questioning my drive. He doubted my focus, which was even worse. Especially since he was right.

“Sorry, have stuff on my mind,” I muttered, rubbing a hand over my scalp. I’d just had my hair buzzed off this morning in the severe look I preferred. The long, wavy style I’d favored for years, mainly because I’d been too lazy to cut it off, didn’t inspire thoughts of killer skill.

I’d thought I’d be bucking tradition by learning to fight. Little had I known I’d be adopting a whole new way of life with all its own rules and judgments.

Getting in the cage used to represent freedom to me. It wasn’t about facing my opponent. The true test was facing myself. But lately that ring just felt like one more box. I’d done what I set out to do. I’d proved myself to be more than some indistinguishable rich kid incapable of coloring outside the lines my powerful father had drawn.

He’d hated that I’d turned to illegal fighting instead of college and had threatened to disown me more times than I could count. Despite the infrequency of our contact, my trust fund money kept being deposited each month. I rarely touched it, but it was there. And with every fight I won, every dollar I pocketed through my sweat and occasionally tears, my interest in the game dwindled.

At heart, I wasn’t a fighter. I’d wanted to be a vet, for God’s sake. But I’d also needed to show I wasn’t some pale, soft-bellied imitation of my dad. So I’d made my own mark, if only in the underground fighting circuit in the city. I’d taken up martial arts at eighteen and been fighting for money by twenty. Good money. Now I was wondering if the time had come to look for a new challenge.

Not that I’d tell Timmins that. He’d barbeque my hide and wash it down with my blood.

“Stuff like what? What’s more important than training to beat Costas?” Timmins folded his massive arms over his chest. He’d been a practitioner of senda and ju-jitsu and several other martial arts as long as I’d been alive. MMA was in his blood. Unlike mine.

There was one answer I could give him that would earn his commiseration, as well as his disgust. He’d recently gotten a divorce and considered women to be the scourge of the earth.

“There’s this woman—” That was as far as I got.

“Oh,
fuck
no. You’re my smart one.” Coach shook his head and paced away, then back again. “All the other guys act like pointer dogs with their dicks, but not you. In two years’ time, you’ve never once taken a broad into the ring. Don’t tell me you’re starting now.”

“I didn’t say I was taking her into the ring.” Even when lying, I got defensive. This was
why I’d never be a good lawyer. Or criminal. Though I sort of was, taking my profession into account. At least until New York regulated MMA. “It’s not anything serious. Not anything at all really.” All true.

“Then what’s your problem?”

Hell if I knew. I gave a jerky shrug. “She got under my skin. I’m not even sure why.” More truth. Some liar I was. “She also took my jacket.”

Coach’s bushy eyebrows drew together over his perpetually sleepy eyes. He never missed a trick, but you couldn’t tell it from his hangdog expression. “Your girl stole from you?”

Put that way, it sounded ridiculous. She wasn’t my girl, and I don’t think she’d even intended to swipe my coat. If I had to guess, she’d run without realizing she still wore it. Still, she was now in possession of my most prized belonging, excepting my ’Vette and my pup, Veyron. Since I lived in the city, I rarely took the ’Vette out of the lot. And Veyron thought he owned me rather than the other way around.

She was also in possession of the item in that jacket, which I should’ve thrown out the minute it was handed to me. But since I hadn’t, I needed it back before she got too nosy. Assuming she hadn’t already

Yeah, right.

The chick knew people ca
lled me Fox. That meant she knew I fought. Whether she’d seen a fight or heard about one, she probably had enough info to put two-and-two together about what was in my pocket and add it up to five. I didn’t need that kind of intel floating around. In this neighborhood, with so much money on the line, a BS bug landing in the wrong ear could seriously fuck me up.

I smudged my thumb over my sore knuckles.
“She’s not exactly my girl.”

“But she stole from you?”

“It was unintentional, I think.” I shoved off the wall and mopped my towel over my sweaty face. I needed an ice cold shower and about a quart of electrolytes. Maybe the cold water and colder drink would screw my brain back into place.

“Be back here at nine,” Timmins called after me. “Don’t let your romantical shit make you late.”

I nodded and waved over my shoulder, barely stifling a snort.
Romantical
. Yeah, that was what I was all about. Put me in tights, hand me a quiver of arrows, and hearts would shoot out of my ass.

In fifteen minutes, I was showered, dressed
, and on my way out, minus my sneakers which were still near the front door. MMA was the main specialty at The Cage, hence the no footwear past the entrance rule. Anyone who came into the on site dojo or mat work areas with shoes on usually got reamed out good. No thanks. Timmins bitched at me enough already.

I passed one of the younger guys leaning against the wall and cursing as he tried to tape his ankle. He wasn’t a fighter, but he’d obviously hurt himself.

“Hey, there. Need some help?”

His furrowed brow
cleared. “Fox?”

I grimaced. That damn name followed me like the plague. Everyone had a ring name, but mine wasn’t as awesome as some of them. Like Killer Cobra. Or even Mad Dog. Hell, even Giovanni Costas had
been dubbed Grinder for his fighting style. Anything was better than Fox.

H
e gave an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. Tray, is it?”

“Yes. Tray. What happened?”

He glanced up and down the hall, then screwed up his. “I fell on the treadmill.” He frowned as if he was expecting me to laugh. “Lame, huh?”

“No. It’s happened to me too.” I set down my weight bag and knelt beside him. “Here, let me see that roll of tape. I have a lot of practice doing that, if you don’t mind?”

“No, no, go ahead.” He tossed the roll of tape at me.

I caught it one-handed and took over the task of wrapping his ankle, much more loosely than he’d been doing. “You’re going to inhibit the range of motion if you bind it that tightly. That’ll set you up for another injury. I’m assuming you’re going to continue your workout?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

Obviously not. But I shared my suggestions for how to proceed with minimum risk for more complications anyway, as wel
l as what he should do for aftercare. The entire time, he stared at me with a dopey smile. I couldn’t lie. It made me feel good to be admired. To have someone impressed with me for
me
and not my last name.

“Got all that?” I asked a few minutes later.

“Yeah, absolutely, Fox. I mean, uh—”

Rising, I grinned. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone calls me Fox.”

“Without getting their faces bashed in?”

I had to laugh as I stuck out my hand. “What’s your name, dude?”

“Kevin.”

“Nice to meet you, Kevin.” I slung my bag over my shoulder. “Take care of that ankle.”

“Sure thing. Hey, did you ever think of going into PT after—” He blushed and shook his head. “Not that you’re ready to retire. It’s not like you’re old yet.”

I laughed again. I liked this kid. “Amen to that.”

“I mean, you’re still killing it in the ring. All I hear about is your fucking fight with Costas. Constantly. Which isn’t a bad thing—” He bit his lip. “Jeezus, all I do is stick my foot in it. I just meant you really know your stuff. You could help people. The ladies in the PT clinic are freaking trolls. Mean as hell.”

“Thanks, man. I mean i
t.” We bumped fists and I smiled. He had no way of knowing I’d actually considered taking a few PT courses, just to give myself some choices. I couldn’t do this forever. Didn’t want to. “Good luck with your ankle.”

“Thanks. Good luck with your fight.” He gave me a crooked grin. “You’re gonna kick Costas’s ass.”

I wasn’t as certain, but the idea of losing didn’t bother me as much as it once had. Still, if I went out, I wanted to go out on top. I just wasn’t sure I was ready to turn my back on the lifestyle. Yeah, it was rough and dangerous and gritty, and I met a lot of less than savory types. I also met guys like Kevin.

And honestly, where else would I be idolized? I was just an ordinary guy for the most part. Nothing special. Fighting made me someone. I’d grown addicted to the attention. To the women who threw themselves at me before fights. After them. Even if I hadn’t taken them up on their offers for a while now, I still enjoyed being asked. What man wouldn’t?

Truth was, having fans was like shooting a drug directly into your veins. Just the thought of removing the needle burned like a motherfucker.

I said goodbye to Kevin and headed outside to grab a bagel from the food cart directly across from the gym. Coach would be on me if he saw me horking down carbs, but he was busy working with the two kids who acted as mascots during fights. Ronnie and Neil were adorable and knew how to get the cro
wd pumped before a match. People found it hard not to respond to a pair of ten-year-olds with gap-toothed smiles who already kicked and punched like ninjas on crack.

In under a decade, they’d be in the cage, and I’d probably be toothless, marginally brain-damaged
, and retired. It was a hopeful future to look forward to.

The snow had lessened finally, and the sun had come out to turn the gray sludge around my boots into slush. I strolled up the street, contemplating a second bagel. It was past noon and
my muscles ached from my extra-long sparring session. A necessary evil, especially this close to my next match. My bout with Costas next weekend would be the biggest I’d had so far this year. The kid was rumored to be leaner and more dangerous than anyone who trained at The Cage. More likely to bring me down. Plenty of people had bet on that very outcome.

Rumors were like assholes, and just as shitty. I’d long ago stopped listening to them. I’d even quit watching tape before fights. Why psych myself out? Yeah, I was cocky, but I also knew what a fighter did last night didn’t necessarily have a thing to do with what he’d do when he met me in the ring.

Maybe I just had a death wish.

I pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt—damn, I missed my jacket—and put my head down against the relentless win
d. Vinnie’s was another six blocks away, but determination would keep me warm. Long shot or not, I had to hope I could get Mia’s address out of someone who worked at the bar. What other choice did I have? Asking every guy at the gym if he remembered seeing a pretty brunette with a face full of bruises at a match?