Page 23 of The Fighter

A video starts to play. I see the familiar shape of an octagonal ring, and then two fighters step in. They’re both lean. Cut. One guy in a pair of green shorts has his back to me. Then he moves, and the camera zooms in on his face.

It’s Tomas.

My ears ring with all the things he’s said to me. Fighting is a waste of time. It’s impossible to dry-clean the smell of testosterone out of a woolen suit. All the insults I’ve thrown at him and about him. You faint at the sight of blood. You’ll get a hangnail. He’d probably run for a Band-Aid when he got a paper cut.

He deliberately misled me when we first met, and all week, he’s let me make a fool of myself.

What’s your type?

Someone who can handle themselves in a brawl. Someone who doesn’t think that fighting is a waste of time.

I guess we won’t be having dirty, sweaty sex anytime soon.

Blood pounds in my ears, and I see red. All week long, Tomas Aguilar has been having a laugh at my expense. Very funny. Very funny indeed.

“Can you send me a copy of that video, Sergio?”

My voice must betray some of what I’m feeling. He gives me a curious look. “Is everything okay, Ali?”

“Everything is fine.”

Tomas is going to be here tonight late, after the gym closes. That’s good. Because when I get my hands on him, I’m going to show my smug new partner exactly how funny I think he is.

16

TOMAS

It’s after ten at night when I finally make it to the gym, thirty minutes after closing. I hadn’t intended on being this late, but some days spiral out of control almost from the get-go, and this was one of those. Antonio wanted more analysis about Spina Sacra, and then, when I was shutting my laptop, Dante swung by and asked if I could look into a company for him. I texted Alina to let her know I was running late, and she responded with a one-word answer. Okay. No snide comment about whether I’m late because I’m getting my nails manicured or because I’m getting fitted for another overpriced suit—both things she’s said to me this week. No insults, nothing. Just ‘Okay.’

Not going to lie. I missed the snark.

Arriving at Groff’s, I look up at the sign in displeasure. We really need to change it. Alina does all the work around here—the gym should bear her name. It’s a travesty that it doesn’t.

The door is locked, and the exterior lights are out. I fish out my key and let myself in. The interior lights are turned off as well, all except one over the main octagon. I’m about to flip them on when I notice the woman in the ring.

Alina.

She’s wearing a sports bra and gym shorts, her hair tied back in a ponytail. Her feet are bare, and as I draw closer, I notice her toenails are painted pink.

My cock hardens, and my throat goes dry. A deadly fighting machine with pretty toenails. God, she’s beautiful, and the contradictions just make her more irresistible.

“The Asset makes an appearance,” she says, her voice low and lethal. “You’ve been lying to me, Tomas.”

The Asset. Ah. She’s discovered the truth, and she is pissed. I hear it in her voice and see it in her eyes, which radiate fury. If looks could kill, I’d be a shriveled husk of a man.

I should be apologetic for my deception, but I’m not.

Right now, the only thing I’m feeling is desire.

“I usually wait a couple weeks before I start spilling my secrets,” I reply, shedding my jacket. “And, as a point of clarification, I didn’t lie. You made some assumptions about me, and I let you run with them.”

“You’re splitting hairs.” She beckons me forward with two fingers. “You’ve spent all week laughing at me, Tomas, and I don’t like it. Get in the ring. I looked up the Asset. You’ve built up quite a reputation. Show me what you can do.”

I toe off my loafers and start to unbutton my shirt. She is fire, and I’m a moth drawn right to the flame, diving into the inferno, reveling in it as it burns me alive. “This is a terrible idea,” I say as I slide a cufflink through a buttonhole. “I have at least fifty pounds on you.” I give her lean, taut body a slow once-over. “Make that sixty. You’re not going to win this fight.”

“That’s a lot of words to say that you’re scared.”

“Have it your way.” I shrug off the shirt and remove my socks. Tug my belt free from the loops. My trousers are a lightweight summer linen, and I leave them on. They don’t give me a lot of moving ease, but I won’t need much. I step into the ring. “Here I am. Do your worst.”

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