Page 9 of Under Pressure

He nods.

“Have at it,” I gesture to it. “I made them for us.”

He picks out one of the biggest and wolfs it down, then grabs another.

“Greedy much?”

“They’re good,” he says, grinning. God, that smile. It’s unfair how such a charming smile could belong to someone who doesn’t know how to properly utilize it.

“Thanks.” I select one for myself and carefully peel the wrapper off. The first thing I always do is lick a bit of the frosting. Mmm, buttercream. I’ve tried a lot of different frosting recipes, but always end up going back to the original Betty Crocker one. It’s a classic for a reason.

I look up to find his eyes on me and quickly dart my tongue out to get the frosting on my lip.

He tracks the movement, then meets my eye, the blue so intense I get lost for a moment staring into them.

I clear my throat and break the contact, taking a small bite. “What got you interested in this research subject?” It’s the first thing I can think of to say.

He stays silent, and I assume he’s going to pull the same stunt where he says we don’t have to talk, the way he did in the waiting room during our interviews. But he surprises me by answering, “I used to get in trouble in high school.”

I raise my eyebrows, encouraging him to continue.

“I was an angry kid.”

“You don’t say,” I murmur.

He props his chin on his hand and smirks. “I got into boxing and it saved me.”

Of course he’d be a boxer. The definition in his biceps, the sense of leashed aggression surrounding him I’ve felt at times. No wonder he wants to fight with me if his life is consumed by fighting.

“Hmm,” is all I say.

He glares at me. “What ishmm,” he mocks, “supposed to mean? I thought you wanted to talk.”

I take a moment to gather my thoughts, not wanting to offend him. “Psychology is usually about helping people, healing them. Fighting seems so at odds with that.”

He shakes his head. “Not fighting. Boxing. There’s a difference.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Boxing involves discipline, skill, precision. There are rules.”

“Aren’t you worried about concussions? Brain trauma? I’m sure you’ve taken some of the physio classes. You know what the effects are.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not fighting Mike Tyson. It’s mostly me and the punching bag, and when I do spar with someone, it’s nothing serious.”

I guess if he’s not getting knocked out on a regular basis, it’s okay, then. “So how did it save you?”

“It gave me focus, a place to channel everything.”

“Your anger?”

He nods.

“What were you angry about?”

His face darkens for a second before he clears it, pasting on a smirk that doesn’t seem real. “We’re not that close yet.”

Fair enough.

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