Page 1 of Falling for the Forbidden Fighter
CHAPTER 1
CATHERINE
I walk through the doors to the sound of gloves hitting bags. The impact, as always, shakes me to life. It jolts me awake.
The gym is crowded. It’s early, and a lot of guys get their workouts in before work or class. Two fighters spar in one of the old rings, dancing on the mat, jabbing and testing each other’s defenses at half-speed.
A few familiar faces pause their training to greet me. They go out of their way for it, smiling too broadly, wiping away the sweat, and obviously flexing for my approval.
“What’s good, Cat?”
“Cat, what you got going on this weekend?”
“Yo, Cat! Wanna run pads for me?”
They all know the rules, but they flirt with the line anyway. Too bad I’d never let any of them cross it. I give them friendly greetings, but that’s all they’ll get.
Growing up surrounded by fighters taught me a few things.
First, always keep your hands up. It’s boxing-101, but fresh and veteran fighters alike still forget it. Drop those paws, and you get mauled.
Second, never pick a fight, but don’t pretend like a fight’s not coming when it is. If some asshole is in your face, it’s better to throw the first punch so there won’t be a second.
And lastly, most importantly, never fall for a fighter.
I leave the boys taking out their sexual frustrations on punching bags and sparring partners, heading straight to the office at the back of the building. The gym is neat, clean, and orderly (if a little aged), but my dad’s office is a windowless hole in the wall as cluttered as his mind. Folders are stacked up on most flat spaces, extending the height of file cabinets toward the ceiling, covering up old posters from his glory days as a contender. My attempts to convince him to let me digitize everything have failed for years.
He’s sitting behind his desk, wading through a sea of membership forms, notes on fighters, and contracts for bouts. That stubby, unlit cigar in his mouth looks so wet that it’ll start molding any minute now. His chair loudly demands WD-40 as he leans back.
“Morning, Catty,” he yawns. “Bring your old man a cup, would you?”
I drop my gym bag on his dusty old sofa and move a few things to access the ancient coffee pot. “We need to retire this thing, get you an espresso machine.”
“What even is that?Espresso.” He puts his cigar in his ashtray and runs his fingers through his stubble. “Coffee is coffee.”
That’s my dad: Mr. Practical. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. We’ve got equipment older than I am, but he keeps it all working. He’s a boxer from another age—a stout, solid man who downed a dozen beers after every bout, especially if he took a good beating. He won’t turn his back on the old ways of doing things, or the old people who did them. If he weren’t the way he is, he wouldn’t be so respected in the game.
“It’selevated.” I pour two cups of the grimy stuff he gets from the dollar store. It smells like he brewed it yesterday. “I got a new machine at my place. Come over for dinner and I’ll make you some.”
“Busy,” he grunts. The man spends most of his waking hours here.
“I know, pop.”
I sit in the only uncluttered chair at his desk, slide him his mug, and grimace as I take a sip from mine.
“So, what’s up?” I ask, setting the mug down indefinitely. “I’ve got three patients in the afternoon, so whatever you need me for will have to be done before lunch.”
There’s a certain look my father gets when he sees something exciting on the horizon. He can’t help it. A mischievous grin cuts through his weathered face, making him look twenty years younger and like he hasn’t taken so many punches.
“New fighter,” he says. “Tough as nails, so I’m told. You remember Marcus Brewer?”
“Your old Navy buddy? I haven’t seen him in years. How’s he doing?”
“Nearly retired,” my dad laughs. “Old bastard stuck out the enlistment. There was a kid on his ship, good fighter, a little wild but solid. Undefeated in their ship league. The kid’s out of the military and in New Mexico…”
“He from here?”
My dad shakes his head. “East coaster.”
