Saving My Soul: A Second Chance MMA Romance (Second Chance Chicago Series Book 3)

by Gina Azzi

  “My living room furniture arrives next week,” I explain, my voice monotone, as my brain tries to catch up with the fact that Connor is here.

  He boosts himself up onto the kitchen island, his legs dangling, his expression unreadable. Rocking heavy work boots, ripped jeans, and a simple grey T-shirt, he looks sexy in an understated way. Like a man who spent countless hours toiling under the hot sun, working with his hands, his muscles bunching and rippling. I bite my lower lip, forcing my gaze upward. When I meet his eyes, I also see he is exhausted and concerned.

  Knowing how much he has on his plate, the fact that he came downtown to check on me causes my stomach to flip-flop in anticipation before shame stamps it out.

  “You didn’t have to come,” I say. “You should be with your dad.”

  “I was. Visiting hours ended. It’s late, Harlow. Almost 11pm.”

  I chew my bottom lip, trying to calculate how many hours I sat on the floor staring at the photo of Bryce and Anna.

  “Harlow?”

  I glance up. “I’m fine.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Reid,” he answers easily. He reaches into a bag, pulls out a six-pack of Diet Coke, and tosses me a can.

  “What? No alcohol?”

  “Nope. You got that one night to drink your sorrows already.”

  I fold my arms over my chest, and stomp toward him. “For someone who barely dates, why do you think you’re so qualified to weigh in on how to get over a break-up?”

  He bites the corner of his mouth. I can tell he’s fighting a grin. “Not an expert on that. Just know how long it takes you to get over a hangover.”

  I roll my eyes but I already feel a little better. I can’t believe Connor came all the way downtown to check up on me. That he sought me out with the intent to cheer me up.

  “And, how long it takes to get over a loss. I don’t want that for you,” he adds.

  “Want what?”

  “You to waste any more of your time pining over fucking limp dick, Golden Boy.”

  “I’m not pining.”

  “You’re not confronting it either. You’re burying it.”

  My throat tightens at the truth behind his words. I avert my gaze.

  I hear Connor’s work boots hit the floor as he slides off the island. The next moment, his arm is wrapped around my waist and he’s guiding me into his embrace.

  As soon as my face collides with his chest, I breathe in his scent and hold in my lungs, letting it, him, soothe the hurts he can’t see.

  Connor hugs me close, his cheek resting against my head, his frame concealing mine.

  “Let it go, Low. You need to move on with your life.”

  I bury my face in his chest. Breathing in the scent of his cologne, I snuggle deeper. His arms feel strong and solid around me, like he really could shield me from pain. “How did you know?” I ask, pulling back to look at him.

  “I saw you in the gym this week.”

  I raise an eyebrow. I went to Cyanide three times, secretly hoping to run into Connor, but I didn’t see him.

  “You had this look in your eye. Like you were just going through the motions. You don’t want to live your life that way, doing each day without living it,” he continues, his eyes dark and brimming with compassion. “Trust me. I’ve wasted too many years existing like that.”

  Sighing, I drop my forehead back to his chest. Peering at our kissing toes, I tell him, “I need something more.”

  “I know.”

  “Something for myself. Something that makes me feel…”

  “Whole.” He supplies the word that flashes through my mind. “Something that sets your soul on fire.”

  I step out of his embrace and add some distance between us. When Connor is near, my thoughts scatter. All my hurt seems to dissipate and I’m more concerned if he’s going to kiss me than I am thinking about Bryce’s betrayal. But once Connor leaves, the hurt from Bryce floods back along with an additional layer of shame for being so twisted over Connor when I should be too broken over Bryce.

  “Come eat, Harlow,” Connor says from the kitchen.

  Spinning around, I watch as he pulls out the takeout containers and lines them up on the island.

  “What’d you bring?”

  “Mexican.”

  I grin in spite of myself. “Nachos?”

  “Of course. Eat up. You’ve lost too much weight.” He nudges a container of nachos in my direction.

  “I’m depressed,” I lament, slipping onto a barstool that, luckily, Target had in stock.

  “You’re overwhelmed.”

  I pop a nacho into my mouth. “I’m being dumb.”

  “You’re too smart to ever be dumb,” he counters, biting into a taco.

  “Why are you here?” I ask, wondering if he’s just stopping by or if he somehow knew that today was the day. That today, I would need someone, him, to hold my hand and tell me I’m going to be whole again.

  He sighs, putting down his taco. “Saw the magazines.”

  “You really seem to have a thing for celebrity gossip.”

  He chuckles and looks down at the countertop. “I remember seeing you on that magazine cover and feeling like I couldn’t breathe. You looked so beautiful, so effortless, and I hated, hated, that Bryce was the guy who made you smile like that. Today, when I saw him on that cover with that other girl —”

  “Anna.”

  “Whatever. I figured you must be hurting.” He looks back up, meeting my gaze.

  “So you thought you’d come check on me?”

  “And feed you.” He pops a tab on a Diet Coke and hands it to me. “A lot has changed in the past two years, Low.”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “Like what?”

  His expression turns serious, almost severe. My stomach knots as I wait for him to continue.

  “Like me. I’m done being stupid and not showing you that I care. I’m done being silent and avoiding things that need to be talked about. Right now, I’m here for you. So whatever you need, I got you. Even if you just want to eat tacos and chill in silence.”

  “Thanks, Connor.”

  “Always, Low.”

  8

  Connor

  “Use your body weight. Turn into it,” I explain to one of my fighters early the next morning. I need to be at my construction job at 9AM so I scheduled Jay for a 6AM workout.

  “Got it,” he replies, returning to the center of the ring where he’s sparring with another trainer.

  “Don’t drop your guard!” I call out.

  “Assalamu alaikum.”

  Turning, I see my friend Moe as he walks toward the ring.

  “Walaikum assalam,” I greet him, grasping his hand and slapping his back. “What’re you doing up so early?”

  Moe chuckles, stepping back and flipping his chin to Jay. “He looks good. Getting faster.”

  “Yeah, we’ve been working on footwork.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Why aren’t you at your own gym?” I ask. Moe owns Madness, a boxing gym about twenty minutes farther out of downtown than Cyanide.

  Moe blows out a long exhale, shuffling his feet. When he meets my eyes, I see the hesitancy in his as indecision flickers across his face.

  I turn away from Jay and lower my voice. “What’s going on?”

  “Do you have a minute?” Moe asks and I know it’s serious.

  Moe and I have been in the circuit for about the same amount of time. He never fought as much as me, but he’s a strong fighter, a dedicated competitor, and one hell of a coach. I respect and admire him, even traveling out to Madness from time to time just so we could spar and shoot the shit.

  “Of course.” I indicate to the trainer to keep sparring with Jay. “Want to step outside?”

  “That’d be good,” Moe agrees.

  We exit Cyanide and round to the side of the building where we won’t be overheard.

  The early morning breeze is dying down as the heat of the day rises. The chirps of birds are loud, interrupte
d only by the occasional passing of a truck on the main street.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, kicking my foot up on the brick of the building behind me.

  Moe raises an eyebrow. “This stays between us?”

  I study my friend for a long beat and nod.

  “You know my cousin Salma?”

  “Yeah,” I say, recalling the quick-witted girl in her early twenties who trains at Madness.

  “Her best friend from school, Callie, got into it with her boyfriend two nights ago.”

  I kick off the wall, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my shorts where they curl into fists. If there’s one thing I don’t stand for, ever, it’s violence against women. Assault is too fucking common, a hell of a lot more than it should be. Because it should be nonexistent.

  “Is she okay?”

  Moe grimaces. “Two broken ribs, a fractured jaw, split lip, black eyes. He messed her up, Connor. Real fucking bad. And she…she’s like family to my family, man.”

  “Jesus, Moe, I’m sorry. How can I help?”

  Moe taps the butt of his fist against the building, choosing his words carefully. “Callie’s staying at my aunt and uncle’s until things settle down. She’s got a lawyer and is pressing charges, broke off all communication with Daryl.”

  “Good,” I rasp out, knowing how often the opposite occurs. A woman stays because she feels like she has no other options, no out. The violence doesn’t end, the man never changes, but the woman endures.

  “Just got me to thinking, man. I gotta do something. I can’t, I won’t let this keep going unchecked if there’s something I can do about it.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “It’s not just Callie, although if you see her, her spirit is broken more than her body. But there’s been other women too. Wives, girls in college, young kids with braids or pigtails in their hair, coming into the gym, wanting to learn to protect themselves.”

  “They want to feel empowered.”

  Moe snaps his fingers and points at me. “Exactly. They need to regain a little shred of something they lost.”

  “Zoe used to run a weekly self-defense class here.” I tip my head to the building. “She’s taking some time off, but—”

  “It needs to be more than that,” Moe cuts me off. “Zoe’s class was dope. She knows her shit and I know how successful her YouTube Channel is. The Fit Bitch Life has a serious following. But her self-defense class focused on how to defend yourself if you were grabbed from behind while putting groceries in your trunk or found yourself in an alley with some drunk dude.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “These women, they’re not trying to ward off an isolated incident. They’re trying to survive with their husbands, the father of their children, a repeater of brutality against them. Some of them break ties and walk away after the first time their man comes at them. But other women…”

  “They stay,” I whisper, my eardrums roaring, my anger spiking the longer Moe talks.

  “Yeah. They stay. Sometimes until they feel strong enough to leave. Sometimes forever. Sometimes until it’s too late.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I want to do something more. I want to build a program that offers these women skills to rely on in situations when they need to protect themselves.”

  I finally put two and two together. “Okay. You want to build something that’s geared more toward empowerment.”

  “Something that’s non-combat though.”

  “Something for survivors and victims.”

  “Exactly.”

  “A support group, a circle where they feel safe,” I continue, ideas popping into my mind.

  “A place that offers consistency and hope. Two mornings a week, before the gym opens to regular members.”

  “You could bring in speakers. Therapists, professionals who know how to provide other types of support and resources.”

  Moe nods, excitement rippling across his expression. “Yes. Man, I love that idea.”

  “Okay. So you want to do this at Madness two days—”

  “I want to do this at Cyanide. That’s why I’m here. I want to do this with you, Connor. Your gym is so much closer to the city. The blue line is two blocks away.” He points in the direction of the L station. “I don’t know how to go about doing all of this. I want a partner. I need you to do this with me.”

  I stare at him, trying to absorb everything he’s telling me.

  Partner up. A new venture. A chance to support women, to help them feel empowered after being the victim of violence. A fresh start. Something with a larger purpose…

  “Man, really? You sure?” I finally ask.

  “I’m positive. You already have the self-defense participants. I’m sure some of them would be interested in a more dedicated program.”

  “Yeah.” I nod, recalling at least three of the women from Zoe’s class having pressed charges against their spouses or been in altercations in their own homes.

  “You have a wider reach than me. More notoriety.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  Moe chuckles. “Dude, anyone would have lost to the Bulldog. He had been preparing for that fight for eight months, with no distractions, no other obligations.”

  “My name is currently worthless,” I sigh, gesturing toward the gym. “I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to keep the lights on here. I want to help you; I want to do this. But I also need to keep the gym running.”

  Moe nods, biting his lip as he thinks. “I got you. Of course, it has to make financial sense. What about if we hold a fundraiser? A launch? I don’t know, something to really spread the word. It’s got to drum up interest. See if we can get some of the fighters behind it? I don’t know about this publicity stuff, but there has to be a way to—”

  “I know the perfect person to reach out to,” I say suddenly. “She might not have the answers, but she definitely knows people who will.” Knowing Harlow’s network is wide and her personal connections are strong, she is the perfect person to connect with before launching this new program. Plus, isn’t this the type of work she wants to get into? Albeit in a different way…but still.

  “Okay.” Moe grins, feeding off the energy I’m giving off. “Give him a call and let me know.”

  “Her.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a she. And she’s going to be all over this idea.”

  Moe claps his hands, relief evident in the way his shoulders relax. “Okay then.” He slaps my back as we walk back toward the entrance. “Let’s do this, Connor.”

  “Let’s do it. I’ll hit you up later.”

  “Yeah, sounds good. Thank you, man, really.”

  “No, thank you.” I punch his shoulder lightly. “Take care of Callie. Let me know if you guys need anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Moe walks across the parking lot to his car, I pull out my phone and send Harlow a message.

  Me: I have an idea I want to run by you.

  I’m surprised when she answers moments later.

  Harlow: What idea? Why are you awake?

  Me: It’s 6:30AM. I’ve been awake for hours. Why are you awake?

  Harlow: My dumb brother drunk dialed me.

  Chuckling, I shake my head.

  Me: At least he misses you.

  Harlow: (5 x sleeping emoji) Tell me about this idea.

  Me: I will. You free for dinner tonight?

  Harlow: Is this your lame game way of asking me on a date?

  I snort, laughter bubbling in my chest. Leaning back against the building, I re-read her message, a strange lightness filling me up at the truth behind her playful words.

  Me: No. You’re not ready. When I ask you out, Harlow, it won’t be concealed as anything but a real date. I’ve got mad game, baby.

  Harlow: (3 x laughing emojis) Okay, hot shot. We’ll see about that.

  Me: Dinner tonight?

  Harlow: Persistent. I like it. Tonight works.


  Me: Going to visit Pop. Pick you up at 9PM?

  Harlow: Sounds good.

  Me: See you then.

  Harlow: XO

  Grinning at her hug and kiss, I slip my phone back into my pocket and reenter the gym. A newfound purpose begins to take shape in my mind as I run Jay through the rest of his training. It follows me to the construction site where new thoughts form. By the time I pick Harlow up for dinner, I’m bursting with ideas, purpose, and a new mission for Cyanide. I’m also excited that she’s the first person I’m sharing my new vision with.

  9

  Harlow

  “You clean up nice.” I look Connor up and down after I pull open the door to my apartment.

  He stands in the hallway, biting the corner of his lip to keep from smiling. I think he’s still wary of how much he wants to smile or laugh when I tease him.

  “You look beautiful,” he replies, running his hand over the back of his hair.

  I beam. Is it lame that I like to keep him on his toes a bit? Or that a kaleidoscope of butterflies ascends through my stomach and chest when he compliments me? If it is, I’m fine being lame.

  “Thank you.” I smooth my hands over the simple summer dress I paired with strappy, silver sandals and oversized hoop earrings.

  “You ready?”

  I swipe my purse off the console table. My furniture finally arrived! Settling my purse on my shoulder, I lock up my apartment and turn to Connor. He takes my hand and a zing of awareness travels up my spine.

  It’s strange. When Connor and I were hooking up for real — all the passion, all the smoldering looks, all the orgasms (I really miss those) — he would never hold my hand. He would never treat me like anything more than a friend in public. But now that we’ve shared PG-rated kisses and pancakes, he’s holding my hand like I’m his girl.

  It makes me feel giddy. I tamp down my excitement knowing I’m getting my hopes way up.

  Once we’re settled in Connor’s truck, he breaks the comfortable silence that always seems to stretch between us now. Not like before, when his pauses made me desperate for his words, when his hesitations caused anxiety to swell in my throat. Now, it’s different. Better.