Page 72 of Under Pressure

“Yes.” He doesn’t bother to elaborate or advocate for himself. He stands taller, though, prepared to take any punishment coming his way.

I glance around, all the bystanders keeping mum about the fact that Erickson was the one who instigated all this. Do they think that’s snitching or something? Well, screw that. I don’t hold by the same standards. “Tyler was defending me,” I pipe up, a roomful of heads swiveling my way. “Erickson insulted me, then tried to grab at me.” Okay, it wasn’t really grabbing, but it was definitely an unwanted advance.

Marty’s eyes shoot over to Erickson, narrowing menacingly.

He immediately goes on the defensive. “She shouldn’t even be here. She’s not a boxer. Besides, she wanted it.” He looks at Tyler as he says this, obviously trying to rile him up again, but he doesn’t fall for it this time, only clenches his fists against his side.

“Both of you in my office. Now,” Marty states with quiet authority, turning around before even checking to see if they’ll follow him.

The crowd parts further to let them pass and I desperately try to make eye contact with Tyler, but he won’t look at me.

Ethan leads me away as the office door slams shut after a few of the other gym-goers give me dirty looks. What’s that saying—snitches get stitches? Yeah, I believe it right now. But there’s no way I could have kept quiet. Tyler’s not to blame at all.

“Do you want to spar?” Ethan asks awkwardly. “Or use the punching bag?” He glances with worried eyes toward the office, his attention clearly not on me. But bless his heart, he’s trying.

“No,” I tell him softly, finally unwinding the protective cotton strip from my hands. “I’m just going to wait over by the door.”

After another five minutes, the office door abruptly bursts open and Erickson storms out, violence on his face. “This is bullshit,” he shouts, swiping his arm along a shelf to knock over a row of boxing gloves on his way out. “Fucking bitch,” he mutters as he passes by me.

I take a step back, coming up against a hard chest again, but this time I know who it is, the feel of his body impressed upon my memory.

I turn around, catching Tyler’s face set in a fierce expression watching Erickson exit. Like a predator stalking his prey. “What happened?” I hesitantly ask, almost afraid for him to turn those eyes on me next.

He doesn’t look at me, though, his gaze still trained on the door. “Marty told him not to come back. He was tired of his behavior here to begin with, constantly trying to pick fights with people. Especially me. This was the last straw.”

I’m not at all sad to see Erickson go, but hate that it was me that caused this all the same.

“I’m sorry—”

“Can we just go?” he cuts me off, grabbing his hoodie from the coat rack. “I’m not really in the mood to be here anymore.”

“Yeah, of course.” I slip on my coat and follow him out the door, carefully walking up the stairs toward the ground level, each step making my heart sink further.

Did I taint the boxing gym for him? Will he only think of fighting with Erickson every time he goes there now?

He stops in between our two cars in the parking lot, finally looking at me. I gently touch the corner of his eye where the bruising is the worst, then the edge of his lip where it’s split. “You should get ice on these.”

He nods, jangling his keys in his hand. His face is hard, like violence is still on his mind. “I don’t want you to think I did that in there because of you.” My eyes widen but I stay silent. “He was never going to let it rest till he got what he wanted.”

“That’s what Ethan said.”

I don’t know if I feel better or worse. As terrible as it sounds, a primitive part of me enjoyed the thought of him fighting for my honor.

He looks back down at his keys, running his fingers along the key fob buttons. “I need to go and take care of this.” He motions to his face.

“Do you need help? I can follow you to your house.”

He stares at me for a moment before shaking his head. “I’ll be fine.”

I watch him get in his car and back out of the space, an uneasy feeling settling in my stomach. I can’t point my finger exactly on what about him seemed off, but there was something…

God, what am I thinking? He was just in a brutal fight. And as awful as his face looked, his head and torso had to have been hit nearly as bad. He probably shouldn’t be driving home. What if he has a concussion? Can you get those if you didn’t actually go unconscious?

Maybe I should follow him, make sure he’s okay.

He doesn’t want your help. He just said so.

I bite my lip, indecision waging a war inside me. I don’t want him to resist me out of spite if he’s in a bad mood. But he really does need help…

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