Meg Maguire – Taking Him Down (страница 2)

As the prefight prep wound down, her fascination shifted. Rich’s match followed the next one. Her energy dropped low, humming in her belly.

Just nervous for him, she told herself, nearly believing it.

Rich was a handsome, fearless showman, the center of his own universe. And he was annoying enough simply acting as though Lindsey must be in awe of him when he swung by their office to flirt. He’d surely be insufferable if he found out she had an actual crush on him, as superficial and physical as it was.

Superficial and physical and inconvenient. She was supposed to be trying to make her current relationship work.

Work being the operative word. Relationships shouldn’t be work at twenty-seven. They should be fun and natural. But things with Brett were exhausting and serious, and if she wasn’t mistaken, they were moving backward. They’d gotten engaged before relocating from Springfield to Boston. He’d moved to take his first law job and she’d followed after securing her own gig as a wedding planner. He’d broken the engagement after one month of cohabitation. Nothing like faking adoration for other women’s diamond rings right after packing your own away in the back of your sock drawer.

They’d needed to slow things down. Too many changes, too soon, he’d said. New city, new career, new home…old girlfriend, she’d inferred. A girlfriend who’d sufficed when Brett had been a broke student, but didn’t seem to be cutting it now. She knew that whatever he felt about the old apartments he’d lived in and his former identity as a kind, lovable dork…he now felt the same about her, too. They’d been friends since eighth grade, confidants through high school and finally a couple when Brett came back to Western Mass for law school. That history had been the backbone of their romance. But Lindsey had borne witness to the old Brett, and it seemed the new, polished, hotshot Brett resented her for it. It made living with him a daily struggle.

Jenna returned, handing Lindsey a plastic pint of beer and a wad of change.

“Thanks.”

Jenna sat and gulped half her red wine in one swallow.

Lindsey laughed. “You’re going to make the worst fight wife ever.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually enjoying this?”

“Oh, God, yeah. I have no idea how to tell who’s winning, once they get rolling around on the ground, but it’s still fun. Plus…you know. Half-naked sweaty men.”

Jenna shot her a squirrelly look. During a wine-soaked working lunch the previous week, Jenna had weaseled the Brett situation out of Lindsey. She normally liked to keep her personal life personal, but that was hard when your boss—and best friend in a new city—was pathologically romantic.

Last week, Lindsey and Brett had been on-again. As of three nights ago they were off-again, to the tune of a mutually negotiated free-to-see-other-people experiment. They still cared for each other, but as friends now, more than lovers. She’d poured years of love and energy into what they had, but it had begun to feel like an obligation, not a commitment.

“Brett doesn’t care if I look at other guys,” she assured Jenna. Let her think they were still together if it made her happy. “You’re not one of those types who think checking people out is cheating, I hope?”

“I’m not that old-fashioned.”

“It’s a very pervy sport,” Lindsey said with approval. “Our payback for women’s beach volleyball uniforms.”

“You perv all you want, but I’m keeping my eyes shut. They ought to make special blurry glasses, so you can’t see the blood.”

After a noisy introduction, the next match began.

The guys seemed to be getting bigger, the crowd more excited. Lindsey felt the energy herself, an electric stirring in her middle, not quite fear, not quite arousal, but as primal as both.

No shoes, no shirts, fingerless gloves. Muscular men rolling around. She scanned the crowd, surprised by how few women were in the audience. Then the guy on the mat took an elbow to the face and the resulting blood reminded her why that was. Jenna hissed with fear, squinting through her bangs.

But Lindsey leaned forward, mesmerized.

The very concept was thrilling—two humans stripped and tossed in a ring, out to prove which one was the stronger, better competitor with a minimum of rules, etiquette and padding. Lots of blood and sweat, surely lots of bruises when dawn arrived. Lots of…skin. Lots of everything she was missing out on since Brett had ripped his new, urbane identity out of an Esquire spread.

The match ended with an anticlimax, the outcome decided by the judges. Next up, the third-to-last fight, yet as far as Lindsey was concerned, the main event.

She watched the ring prep, heart thumping harder, harder, until she swore she could hear it over the rabble. She twisted her program into a tight tube again and again.

“Rich is next,” Jenna said, the collar of her shirt fisted in both hands. “Why couldn’t Mercer be into fly-fishing? Or ultimate Frisbee?”

“Too bad you didn’t inherit your dad’s love of fighting, huh?”

Instead, Jenna had inherited the gym, along with a portion of the former factory that housed it. She’d been estranged from her dad but had moved to Boston to take advantage of her odd inheritance sight-unseen and open a new franchise of Spark, a regional matchmaking company. Lindsey was awfully happy she had. She liked her new job. In fact, she’d probably love it, once her own romantic hangover subsided. At the moment it wasn’t the easiest thing, mustering enthusiasm for other people’s relationships.

“I just don’t get it,” Jenna said, blue eyes on the activity in the ring.

Lindsey shrugged. “Mercer will never get matchmaking. It’s healthy to have some autonomy.” Did she believe that for real? Or was she just trying to make herself feel better about how much space she craved from Brett?

The announcer scattered her thoughts.

“Next up, the match to decide the New England MMA Light Heavyweight Championship!” Music started up and the gigantic arena screen displayed two open double doors.

“In the blue corner, defending his title, a mixed martial artist from Warwick, Rhode Island. Thirty-one years old, five feet eleven inches, two hundred and five pounds. Greg ‘the Trucker’ Higgins!”

Striding down the aisle toward the cage, Higgins was meaty and pink-faced, with a tacky chinstrap beard and a trucker cap that helped explain his fight name. Several men in matching hats and shirts followed.

Jenna clapped politely. Lindsey hated Higgins out of principle, and booed along with the minority as he strutted to Johnny Cash’s “I’ve Been Everywhere, Man.” He stripped to his shorts and entered the ring, warming up as his music faded.

“A-a-a-nd in the black corner, a boxer and kickboxer hailing from Lynn, Massachusetts. Twenty-eight years of age, six feet three inches, two hundred and four pounds, Rich ‘Prince Richard’ Estrada!”

Her breath hitched when Rich appeared on-screen. She twisted in her seat to watch him descend. His intro music was a remixed hybrid of hoity-toity chamber music and some infectious Latin hip-hop. He wore black warm-up pants and an open, deep purple sweatshirt lined with ermine fleece, hood cocked. Raising his arms, he welcomed the modest applause, and hisses from the Higgins fans. He dropped his hood with a grand, arrogant gesture and bared his chest, fists thrust triumphantly in the air, his entire body emanating 10,000 watts of pure, blinding smugness.

Mercer trailed him, along with a couple other guys Lindsey recognized from Wilinski’s, his corner for the fight. Unlike Higgins, Rich’s team didn’t have special gear splashed with sponsor logos, just black T-shirts with Wilinski’s Fight Academy, Boston, silk-screened on the front.

“This match will be comprised of three five-minute rounds,” the announcer confirmed for the fans.

Rich stripped and Mercer shoved a mouth guard between his lips. When one of the guys from Wilinski’s slicked his arms and chest with Vaseline, Lindsey suppressed a ridiculous stab of jealousy. He entered the ring to warm up and the lights over the audience went dark as the music faded, setting Lindsey’s skin prickling.

The men fought barefoot. Higgins wore loose-fitting kickboxing trunks covered in sponsorship logos. Rich sported far snugger, plainer shorts, ones that hugged his thighs and butt and…other places, and made Lindsey feel funny. Dangerous-funny.

The men hopped and shadowboxed, keeping their muscles primed as The rules were announced. When Rich circled she could see the large tattoo inked between his shoulder blades in black and gray. The dark wingspan of a condor above a shield, framed by draped banners—the Colombian national crest, a snoop through the MMA message boards had told her. He had a mismatched design on the swell of his right shoulder—a circular field showing a river and horizon, an ax, an anchor—the seal of his hometown. There was a third one, a line of black Thai characters that ran down his ribs. Lindsey didn’t know what they said, only that he’d trained in Thailand for a year. All indelible reminders of where he’d come from, or perhaps souvenirs of where he’d been. Apt for a man destined to go places.