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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 practically 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.
One 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 called 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.
