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This wasn’t good.
Like all professional sports, MMA wasn’t exactly cheap. The onus was on the athletes to pay for training equipment, gym space rentals, uniforms. Not to mention our demanding dietary needs, transportation costs, manager’s fees, and our coach’s salary. Cash and I relied heavily on sponsorships —whether it was wearing the corporation’s logo on our shorts or featuring in their ad campaigns— to keep our dreams of winning a UFC title alive.
Patrick showed me the books about a month back. We had enough to get us to Vegas, but if our sponsorship contract with LHL —our biggest corporate backer by far— didn’t renew, then we were shit out of luck.
“I promise I’m working on it,” Patrick said calmly. “I’m on hold on the other line trying to get through to Bob. In the meantime, I wanted to give you both a heads up so there aren’t any nasty surprises.”
“I appreciate that. You’re a good man, Patrick.”
“I’m always in your corner, bud.”
I hung up, fully embracing the bitter taste coating my tongue.
Shit, shit, shit.
Running the numbers through my head, I budgeted the next month or so.
I’d always been good with numbers. If Dad hadn’t pushed me so hard to follow in his footsteps, I probably would have been a math teacher. Although I would probably have been forced to find an outlet for all my pent-up energy. Maybe a lap or four around the school perimeter.
When I turned the corner, still thoroughly pissed at the fact that my coach was MIA, I spotted the familiar long brunette curls of one Julia Thatcher. She was standing just outside a pet store, giggling at something on the other side of the display window.
Her eyes were bright, and her smile was just as brilliant as she tapped the glass, playing with what I now realized was a kitten up for adoption.
“You a cat person?” I asked.
Julia gasped, jumping back in surprise. “What is with you guys popping up from out of nowhere?”
I frowned. “My bad?”
“No, no, I’m—” She waved her hand, tempering her smile. “I should pay more attention.”
“Hm.”
“And to answer your question, I’m an animal person. Cats, dogs, rabbits, birds… It doesn’t matter to me.” After a brief pause, she blinked up at me, her long, curling lashes almost obscuring her eyes, pretty hazel eyes that transfixed me. “What about you?” she asked, a tinge of hesitation in her question. Her lips curled up into the softest, sweet smile.
She was unlike any sports journalist I’d ever met. For one, she didn’t have the usual aggression I’d come to expect from a sniveling reporter. She was graceful, demure, and careful.
It was in the way she carried herself, in the way that she spoke. She had more of a calm Diane Sawyer energy than that loudmouth Skip Bayless on ESPN.
“Dogs,” I answered. “They’re loyal.”
“Cats can be very loyal, too.”
“Sure, that’s what they want you to think. The second you look the other way, they’ll get you with their murder mitten.”
Julia’s smile twisted into amusement. “You must be speaking from experience?”
“My father had a cat. Whiskers. It was the devil incarnate.”
She laughed, the tips of her ears turning pink. “A big strong man like you afraid of a kitty? I can’t imagine it.”
I swallowed. My chest felt tight. A thinly veiled compliment was still a compliment, and her smile was really starting to take its toll on me. If I didn’t stop staring at her lips, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I was going to snap and do something stupid like kiss her.
Ah, how nice that would be.
Julia cleared her throat and gestured to the grocery bags. “Can I give you a hand?”
“I’ve got it, Ms. Thatcher.”
