Читать книгу In Her Corner - Vicki Essex - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

BELLA GAVE IT a couple of days before she broached the subject of the Touchstone youth center’s request for self-defense classes to Kyle. She was still sore about their exchange on Friday, but she wasn’t about to let that interfere with her training. She had to remain professional.

She’d called Reta Schwartz, Neal’s friend at the youth center, and listened to her ideas for classes to offer the young people who frequented the center. The social worker wanted something fun and practical to help boost their confidence. The center didn’t have the space or equipment, so Bella said she’d ask Kyle if they could host the classes at Payette’s.

“It would be a great opportunity for everyone involved,” she told Kyle when she finally sat down with him. “We could do it in the evenings, right after the women’s boot camp class.”

He hesitated. “What kind of compensation are we talking?”

“Compensation? Kyle, this would be entirely pro bono. The center doesn’t have money to throw around.” He grimaced, and she continued, “You can write it off. Community outreach programs like this are vital to developing relationships with potential future clients, plus they’re a great PR opportunity.”

He pressed his palms together and rested his lips against them as if he might breathe patience into his cupped hands. “In theory, it sounds like a great idea, but as much as I’d love to take this on, we’re already suffering from declining memberships. If we start inviting random street kids into Payette’s, this place stops being a world-class MMA facility for serious fighters and turns into the local Y.”

“That won’t happen as long as the teaching standards are high. These kids will see that learning here is a privilege. We have to offer them something worth sticking around for, worth telling others about.”

Kyle rubbed his forehead. He looked so much older when he did that. “I’m not sure I can convince any of the guys to run this class. They’re busy enough....”

“I can take charge,” she volunteered, sensing his crumbling resistance. “If you’re not comfortable with that, I’m happy to take a co-teaching role, though if anyone leads this class, it should be you. We can put together a basic self-defense curriculum, mix it up with a few beginner Muay Thai and boxing lessons.”

He regarded her with interest. “You’re really into this.”

“My grandfather Fulvio used to drive around the streets and hand his card out to kids in tough neighborhoods. He wanted to keep them out of gangs, get them to channel their anger into something constructive. The ones that came usually stayed and made something of themselves. It was Fulvio’s way of doing something for the community. Plus, he got some of the most brilliant fighters off the streets.”

She didn’t mention that she thought this would be a good opportunity for her and Kyle to work together toward a common goal. As many times as she’d extended an olive branch, she’d also swatted him with it. She had to mend the rift between them if she was ever going to get that wrestling training she’d come here for.

“How’d they even afford the classes?” Kyle asked. “If they’re street kids, I mean.”

“Scholarships. Or he’d make them work their lessons off. He always figured something out. The money wasn’t that important to him. All he cared about was the boys.” She sat forward. “Kyle, if we want to get people to see that Payette’s isn’t just another gym, we need to reach out to them.”

Kyle nodded. “All right. Let’s do it. I’ll lead the classes, but I want you there, too.”

* * *

IT DIDN’T TAKE them long to put the hour-long class together. Reta had fifteen students signed up right away with a waiting list of ten more.

They started the class the following Wednesday. Six girls and nine boys ranging from age fourteen to twenty-two had signed up. Many of them didn’t have proper gym clothes. Kyle handed out Payette’s T-shirts to them as makeshift uniforms. In most cases, it was better than the clothes they had.

Bella watched as Kyle greeted everyone, speaking with the comfort and ease of someone used to interviews and large audiences. He joked around with the students, but his stance and the strong line of his back and shoulders told everyone he wasn’t going to tolerate bullshit or goofing off. She wondered where he’d been storing this charming, confident, easygoing version of himself.

She surveyed the students. Most of them looked eager to learn, listening raptly as Kyle recited the gym rules. Her eye caught on one girl huddled in the far left corner with her knees drawn up to her chin, picking at her cuticles, eyes darting around as if someone was going to steal the mat out from under her.

“What’s her story?” she asked Reta discreetly. The head of the youth program glanced over.

“That’s Shawnese. She’s...a special case.”

“Special how?”

Reta hesitated. “She has trust issues.”

Bella read between the lines and nodded. “I’ll keep a close eye on her.”

They went through warm-ups and conditioning—jumping jacks, pushups, burpees. Bella watched as Shawnese halfheartedly followed along. She sidled up next to her and smiled. “Hey.”

The young woman turned a suspicious eye on her. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Is it okay if I stand here with you? There isn’t enough room on the other side.”

She shrugged.

With Bella there, Shawnese followed along more closely. When Kyle told them to break up into pairs, Bella immediately partnered with her.

The exercise was to show the difference in strength using open and closed hands. One person would rest their arm over the other person’s shoulder while they tried to bend it at the elbow. Invariably, the open-handed method always stayed straight.

“I don’t get this,” Shawnese said as she pulled at Bella’s arm. The two of them stood eye to eye, but Bella easily had twenty pounds on the younger woman. “How can an open hand be stronger if people punch with closed fists?”

“There are different schools of thought with different martial arts forms, but we’re teaching self-defense. Look.” She held out her upturned hand. “If you strike out with the heel of your palm, you’ll risk less injury to your own hand.” She slowly pushed the hand out. “Even if you don’t know what you’re doing and you miss the bridge of a guy’s nose, look at the damage you can do. Fingers in the eyes. Pushing the guy’s head backward. Palm to their muzzle. You can grab their hair. Lots of things you can do with an open hand. Closed—” she made a fist “—and you cut off those opportunities.”

Shawnese tilted her head, looking at her own hands as she flexed her fingers open and closed.

“The main thing,” Bella emphasized, “is to get away. The best way to help yourself out of a situation is to walk away from it.”

“Dunno if that’s gonna be possible,” Shawnese muttered.

“We’re just giving you the basics. If you have questions, or you want to learn something specific, just ask.” Bella hoped the young woman would do exactly that.

By the end of class, Shawnese seemed much more receptive to Kyle’s instruction and to the prospect of more lessons.

“You did a great job,” Reta said. “I’m kind of shocked Shawnese opened up to you so fast.”

That was opening up? Reta must have read the look on Bella’s face, because she chuckled. “Seriously, when she first came to the center, she barely said a word to anyone. Just sat in the corner to stay warm and safe. She tries to hide it and act tough—it’s part of the armor. I think she’s said more to you today than to anyone else all week.”

After the students had gone, Bella went to Kyle. “That seemed to go really well. You were great.”

He smiled modestly, dimples flashing in the corners of his mouth. Bella was struck by how much it changed his face. A little buzz zipped through her. In that brief glimpse, she saw the triumphant Olympic gold medalist, the heartbreaker playboy and the carefree youth she’d seen in old training footage. “You, too. Your assisting really helped move things along. The students show promise,” he said. “Thanks for sticking by. I noticed you were spending some extra time with that one girl.”

“Her name’s Shawnese. Reta says she’s got some trust issues. I thought it’d be a good idea to stay close to her. In a class of fifteen, there’s always going to be one odd man out, and there’s nothing worse than being the last person picked.”

“Let’s make sure we diversify when we pair them up,” Kyle said. “It’ll be good to get them to mingle.”

“Good idea.” She was almost certain this was the first time they’d agreed on something. It made her feel good.

“I know it’s late,” Kyle said, glancing at the clock, “but if you’re free now, we could spend an hour on the mats.”

“Absolutely.” She nearly tripped on her own feet as she hurriedly stripped out of her Payette’s T-shirt so she could work in her rash guard. Thanks to the class she was already warmed up. She stretched and shook out all her muscles while Kyle pulled off his own T-shirt.

Holy—

Bella froze as she caught the rippling expanse of his back. She’d seen him in videos wearing a wrestling singlet, but shirtless with an extra seven years was an entirely different matter. She knew all the technical names for the groups of bunching muscles—trapezius, latissimus dorsi, rhomboid major—but all she could think of was the lumps and wrinkles they would create beneath a satin blanket.

He grabbed a sleeveless black V-neck workout top from a gym bag and pulled it over his head, but not before she got an eyeful of his chest. She couldn’t help but wonder what those pectorals would feel like.

“Okay, so you’ve probably got all the basics. I’ve seen your fights, and I think you have at least some techniques down.”

“Let’s not skip anything, Coach. Teach me the way you were taught.”

Something flashed across Kyle’s face. She wasn’t even sure she’d seen it, but she thought it might have been resentment. He set his feet apart. “Okay. Show me your square stance.”

Bella planted her feet shoulder-width apart, head up, knees slightly bent and elbows tucked at her sides. Kyle gave her a light shove to test her balance. Warmth snaked through her.

“Good. Now show me staggered.”

She shifted her right foot back and lowered herself farther. “That’s a little too low. You’re way off balance, see?” He pushed her side to side, and she stumbled as she tried to stabilize herself.

“Well, I’m not going to stay in this position, am I?” Of course, it wasn’t only his push that had tipped her off balance. “I thought the idea was to drive forward and attack. Like this.” She lunged at Kyle and crashed into his middle, wrapping her arms around his waist and dragging him down. He was solid and warm, exactly as she’d imagined. And though they’d never sparred, this felt comfortably familiar.

He fell to his butt as she climbed on top of his chest. She was easily fifty pounds lighter than he was but kept him effectively pinned. She’d only managed that twice with her brothers. Heady triumph filled her as he struggled.

“Get off me!” Kyle roared.

She leaped off. Had she hurt him? He scrambled to his feet and took four big steps away.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t feel you tapping out—”

He gave her such a nasty look she snapped her mouth shut. “Don’t ever do that again,” he snarled. “We don’t have matches without refs, and we don’t attack people who aren’t ready.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Lesson’s over. Practice your stances. You don’t have the basics down at all.”

“Kyle—”

She watched him stalk off. She kicked at the air. Porra! She wasn’t going to get anything right around him, was she?

* * *

HADRIAN BLACKWELL WHIPPED his cell phone onto the ground, and the pieces of shattered plastic case scattered across the hardwood floor. He forked his fingers through his hair and grabbed fistfuls at his temples, ready to tear it out.

Soft footsteps alerted him he was no longer alone in his home office.

“Babe? Something wrong?”

He looked up and his heart skipped a beat. He would never get used to seeing her like this—Quinn Bourdain in a silky cream negligee, her red-gold hair tumbling around her shoulders, barefoot and free of makeup toddling around his house. The sight of her nibbling on her lower lip worriedly made him ashamed of his violent outburst.

“I just got a call from Wendell McAvoy.” He stooped to gather the pieces of the phone. “He’s out. Torn ACL.”

Quinn’s hazel eyes snapped into focus and she straightened. “That’s official?”

“Doctor said he’ll be in recovery for months.”

She left the office in a flutter of silk. Hadrian shook his head and followed her to the bedroom, where she was already pulling on her bra, panties and socks. She cradled her cell phone between her shoulder and cheek.

“Jason. Yeah, it’s me. McAvoy’s out of the UFF anniversary fight. ACL injury. Can you make room?” She paused, casting her speculative gaze on Hadrian. “No, I’m thinking more like a quarter page. Let me see what I can get first. I’ll call you back.”

“Do we really have to do this now?” Hadrian groaned.

She pulled one leg through her jeans. “I have to pay the rent somehow.”

“That wouldn’t be an issue if you just...” He trailed off at her pointed look and raked his fingers through his hair again. For months, he’d been asking Quinn to move in with him and quit her job, but she’d refused. She loved being a sports reporter on the MMA beat, even though it frequently put them on opposite sides of the table. Seeing her scramble back into work mode, so eager to leave their bubble of bliss, made him want to tie her down. Preferably to the bed.

“Stop, stop, stop.” He took her by the wrists as she reached for her T-shirt. “What’s the rush?”

“You don’t want me to interview you topless, do you?” A single, plucked eyebrow arched. “You wouldn’t be altogether there if I did.”

“Hey, I’ve had to wheel and deal with guys running around with their junk hanging out in the locker room. I think I can handle a little boob.”

“‘Little’?” She feigned outrage and placed her hands on her hips, making her chest jut forward. Of course, Hadrian had seen bigger. But he opted for the politically correct response.

“No, perfect.” He tried to give those perfects a squeeze. She evaded him.

“Sorry, babe. Mood’s gone, and I’ve got a story to chase.”

He moaned. “Damn it, I shouldn’t have answered that phone.”

“Told you so.” She grabbed a pen and notepad from her overnight bag then turned on a digital voice recorder. “Okay, so McAvoy’s out of the big tenth anniversary matchup?”

He sighed. He should’ve asked her to go home and change into her reporter’s outfit—the ugly almost ten-year-old burgundy pantsuit and white button-up shirt she’d been wearing to UFF press gigs since she’d started her career. That suit was as effective as a chastity belt.

He tore his eyes from her jeans and bra combo, and turned his back to her, mustering up his public voice. “The word from the McAvoy camp is that Wendell suffered a serious ACL injury and will be in recovery for at least six months.”

“Do you have a replacement in mind?”

“Gimme a break, Quinn, I heard about this exactly thirty seconds ago.”

Lips pursed, she waited.

“Fine. We’re working on finding an appropriate match against Darren Dodge.” He’d be making a lot of calls that weekend. He always had backups for the main event, but he’d already used four of them to fill other holes on the card.

“This is the fifth fighter to drop out of this event. People have said the anniversary is cursed.”

“Off the record, people are idiots.” When Quinn gave him her “be serious” look, he went with the company line. “Injuries happen, and the health and welfare of my fighters is important. A torn ACL is nothing to take lightly.”

“But the last three cancellations—DePolo’s doping scandal, Vasquez’s battery and assault charge against McCaffrey, Brown’s controversial remarks about—”

“I read the news, Quinn.”

She sucked in a lip and plowed on. “These infringements are indicative of something more pervasive and widespread in the UFF. You’ve got bigger prizes, more at stake, and more fighters and gyms competing with each other every day. Is the increasing pressure to perform driving fighters to justify unsportsmanlike behavior?”

Hadrian stared at her, trying to sort out her eye-crossing question. “That’s a lot of ten-dollar words to be throwing around on a Saturday, Quinn. Sounds like you’ve been holding on to that question for a while. When were you planning to spring it on me?”

“Sunday night, probably.” She shrugged. “It’s just business, babe.”

He stuffed down his irritation and the resentment that her answer had tweaked. “I have a deep respect for these fighters,” he said, clearing his throat, “and I put all my confidence in them to behave appropriately. Whatever beef they have with each other, whatever they’re doing to their bodies—legal or otherwise—that’s their deal. I can’t control them every second of every day. They know the rules. They should know how to conduct themselves.”

“But you have to admit, you’ve made the stakes such that the UFF is the only game in town.”

“That’s not true. There are dozens of other leagues—”

“That can barely compete, and you know it. That’s why you’ve been buying them up, isn’t it?”

He threw his hands in the air. “I thought this weekend was supposed to be about having fun.”

She shut off her recorder. “I’m not attacking you, Hadrian. I’m asking a valid question.”

“Yeah, but why the third degree? What story are you working on, exactly?”

“It’s a feature,” she said vaguely. “I’m freelancing it out.”

“About what?”

“I have an idea, but it’s all about research right now. I don’t have a bigger picture yet. Just some ideas. And I won’t say any more until I know exactly what I’m going to write about.”

He set his jaw, eyes slipping back down to her chest. If he didn’t know better, he could have sworn she’d planned the whole topless inquisition. Not that he really minded.

“Will you stay for dinner?” he asked, trying hard to keep hope out of his tone.

“Better not. I have to get to the office, make some calls and see who has the pulse on McAvoy.” She pulled her T-shirt on and grabbed her running shoes. “Besides, you’re going to be preoccupied, too, finding a replacement. If I finish early, maybe I’ll come back, okay?” She gave him a peck on the cheek and left without saying goodbye.

Hadrian sighed. Well, there went his weekend.