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Eyes blurring with tears again, I went back to the couch to get my socks. I’d almost walked out barefoot. I tucked them in the pocket of my raggedy hoodie and burrowed my bare, bleeding feet into my sneakers. I’d probably have to throw those out too.
“Mia.”
I stopped at the door without looking back. We’d had so many goodbyes in such a short time. So much drama and angst, so little laughter. But what we had, I’d hold close for the rest of my life. Maybe someday I’d even find the strength to be grateful.
So why the next words left my mouth, I’ll never understand. I knew what had to be done. He was right about choices. It was him or me—that simple.
“That’s not my name,” I whispered, aching to turn around and run right back into his arms. He’d catch and hold me, despite everything. That lingerie weirded me out and brought back memories that tormented me in my sleep, that I cried when I came, that I was frigging insane.
“The fuck it isn’t,” he rasped. “You’re Mia. Mine.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tray
Fight night. Again. I was trapped in a real life Groundhog Day. Blood and bruises not optional.
Bouncing on my heels, I crossed the jump rope in front of me, going through the reps methodically. In reverse, crisscross, side swing. By two hundred jumps, I was suitably winded and my still raw hand was screaming its displeasure at its latest abuse.
It had suffered a lot in the past week. So had the rest of me, my chest most of all. And I wasn’t talking about my pecs.
I dropped the jump rope and peeled off the fresh bandage around my palm. Well, it had been fresh an hour ago. Now it was turning a charming shade of pink.
“Still running yourself through the grinder?” Slater swaggered across the locker room in a pair of super tight bike shorts that basically put his dick and nuts on parade. The guy had no shame. And no stomach for blood, which was kind of funny considering our profession. He paled the instant his gaze dropped to my oozing hand. “Jesus, speaking of meat…”
“Pussy.”
“Masochist.”
“Your point?”
I dug through my bag until I found the antibacterial cream. After squeezing out roughly a third of the tube on my mangled palm, I slapped on a thin gauze pad that wouldn’t inhibit my range of motion too much and tried to unwind the bandage roll against my thigh.
Slater appeared at my side and sighed. “Give me that.”
“Since you ask so nice.” I tossed the roll at his chest and grinned when he flinched. Slater was more suited to his preferred sport of surfing than our sanctioned bloodletting, but he hung in because of me. And when I left—soon, so fucking soon—he’d go with me.
He’d probably end up on a beach in
Cali with his new live-in babe, and I’d get smiley postcards every few months that would make me want to go back to knocking skulls. And I’d…what? Stay in New York while I researched sports medicine and talked myself out of every damn thing that involved taking a risk?
This indecisive streak I’d developed lately was fucking depressing.
“Now who’s a pussy?” Slater arched a brow. “Stop tensing up. The bandage won’t lay right. Though I don’t know why I’m bothering, since you’ll need a new one after the pool.”
“It’s not nice to bleed all over, I’ve heard.”
“Since when are you nice?”
“Shove it.”
“Ah, your sunny personality lights up my life, Fox.” He sobered at my growl. “You really in that much pain from this? Or is it the jaw?”
“Nah. I’m good. Just do me up already so I can get my laps in.”
I’d gotten lucky that tonight’s match was just down the street from a gym with walk-in privileges, making my pre-fight routine a lot easier than commuting from The Cage. Chlorine and my injured hand weren’t necessarily a good mix, since the concept of a waterproof bandage had turned out to be a giant sham, but I needed the stress relief. Either I jacked off in the shower or I took my chances in the pool.
Since jacking off hadn’t worked the other four times I’d tried it this week, the pool it was.
