“I’m in training, remember?” he said, lifting the glass to his lips.
“I can’t watch.” Grabbing her coffee cup, she leaned against the counter as he put the glass in the sink. She shot him a look and he moved it to the dishwasher. “Thank you.” She hesitated, biting her lower lip. She couldn’t not say something. The man was crazy to take this fight. “Have you ever even seen Cruz fight?”
He nodded. “I’m not intimidated,” he said as he went to the closet, retrieved his suitcase and rummaged through it for a shirt.
“You should be. The guy is the biggest middleweight I’ve ever seen. I swear there’s something wrong with the weigh-in scale. There’s no way he’s one eighty-five.”
Walker tugged the shirt down over his abs. “It’s those chicken legs of his. All his weight is in the upper part of his body.” He buried a cough in his muscular forearm.
“Exactly. All of his weight is in his fists.”
“I’m not worried, Gracie.”
“You should be,” she mumbled.
He walked toward her and stopped inches away.
She tried to back up, but the kitchen counter was already at her back.
“Why are you so concerned about me anyway? I’m just your best friend’s annoying older brother.”
She avoided his eyes as she shrugged. “Because you are Kylie’s brother and she’d kill me if she knew I was letting you do something this stupid without trying to stop you.”
He lifted her chin. “But if I back out now, that puts your boyfriend in a tight spot again, doesn’t it?”
She struggled with air trapped in her lungs at his touch. The roughness of his fingertips against her smooth flesh caused her skin to tingle. Her entire body felt warm and she reached for the counter behind her to steady her unbalanced knees. Thank God he continued without waiting for an answer, because she couldn’t remember the question anyway.
He backed away, letting his hand fall. “Besides, I have you to thank for this fight.”
She frowned, her heart rate slowly returning to normal. “Do explain.”
“Romeo wasn’t going to give me the fight. He said I wasn’t ready.”
“He’s right.”
“Then you walked in with your obvious ‘concern’ and all of a sudden, I’m in.”
She swallowed hard. Erik had been about to refuse the fight request? He’d changed his mind. Damn it. Was her attraction to Walker that evident? Did Erik see it? Was that why he’d decided to propose the night before?
Did Walker see it? He certainly had been oblivious to it ten years ago . . . or he’d chosen to ignore it.
Whatever. All that mattered was that she put an end to it. Or at least hide it better.
He reached for a tissue on the end table and sneezed, then tucking it into his pocket, he reached for his running shoes.
“Where are you going?”
“The gym. I have to start training today.”
She clenched her jaw. He was determined to do this—sick and all. It wasn’t a good idea to train when his immune system was weakened, but she held her tongue. Better off exhausting himself now in training than getting killed inside the octagon in three weeks. “Listen, if you’re going to do this, I’m getting you a new trainer.” Cage Masters was only a day away from shutting their doors. She knew the head trainer over there didn’t care about his fighters’ safety and had checked out already, waiting for another violation to be shut down.
“That’s not necessary, Gracie.”
She reached for her cell. “It is.” She opened her contact list and scrolled through her text messages to Tyson Reed’s name—the owner of Punisher Athletics, located a block off of the strip.
Walker took the phone. “Gracie, you’ve done enough.”
“Give me the phone.” She held out her hand. “Tyson Reed is one of the best MMA trainers in Las Vegas and he owes me a favor for the promo I did for his gym last month.” It had been a one-time promotional event that had actually benefited them both. She’d brought fighters to his gym, and now they were ready to compete in the MFL. Still, the guy insisted he owed her one, and now was as good a time as any to cash in on the offer.
“Wow, does everyone in town owe you one?” he said with a grin, handing her back the phone.
“Don’t joke, you’re on that list now too,” she said, texting Tyson.
“I will make it up to you.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips.
Her gaze was locked on the point of contact, and a shiver ran through her. Oh, what would her fifteen-year-old self be thinking right now? She probably would have passed out. Well, she wasn’t that naïve little girl anymore, willing to allow Walker Adams to walk all over her heart. She was a successful career woman with an amazing . . . almost fiancé. She pulled her hand back and turned away from him as she said, “Well, at least if you die in the octagon, I can tell Kylie I did my best.”
***
Walker’s debt tally to Gracie was adding up, and he wished there was a way to repay her for the help she’d given him that week. She’d always been such a mystery, the only one of his sister’s friends who hadn’t shown any interest in him, which made him like her the most. She’d been shy, quiet, kind of awkward when she’d spend time at the family home. Now she was beautiful, successful, and confident and still had no interest in him, and he couldn’t quite figure out why that bothered him so much. She was his sister’s best friend, which was only one of the many reasons she was off-limits.
One thing was sure though. She’d been right about Punisher Athletics being the place in Vegas to train. Entering the busy gym, he could feel his excitement build. Tyson Reed came from a long line of champion fighters, and the man himself was next in line for the light heavyweight belt. Training with him would be an honor. Hell, training alongside these guys would be good enough. Unlike Cage Masters, there was no duct tape holding the heavy bags together, the training ring was standard size and not covered in bloodstains, and there was more than one treadmill in the cardio workout area.
Along the wall was a glass display case that held dozens of mixed martial arts and jujitsu championship trophies and medals, two boxing championship belts, and dozens of framed newspaper articles about fight wins credited to the Reed family.
He would be in good hands here and he was eager to meet his new trainer, whom he’d only ever had the pleasure of watching on pay-per-view.
“You the moron who accepted a fight on three weeks’ notice?” a guy coming toward him asked.
“Also known as Walker Adams—yes that’s me,” he said, extending a hand.
“Tyson.” The man looked even bigger in person than he did on television. His six-foot frame came short of Walker’s six foot two, but he was twice as wide. His shaved, tattooed head and battered cauliflower ears were sure signs of a mixed martial artist.
He looked at the hand and instead of accepting it, he offered his fist, allowing the briefest contact before pulling away.
Well, that explained the immaculate condition of the gym. He’d heard the owner of Punisher Athletics was a germophobe, and the rumor looked to be true. “Thank you for agreeing to take me on, man.”
“Grace Andrews leaves no room to argue.” He shook his head. “This place was empty for the first three months, before anyone realized we were here. I’m a fighter, turns out I’m not great at promotion, but then Grace performed her magic last month with an open house that attracted every steroid-enhanced bicep in Vegas, and now I’m turning guys away.”
So, he was even luckier to get this opportunity. The pressure not to disappoint Gracie only pumped him up further. “Okay, where do we start?” he asked, following Tyson to the locker room. He coughed and Tyson swung around to face him.
“You’re sick?”
“Just a head cold,” he insisted.
“Are you shitting me, man? Getting you ready in three weeks was tough enough, but now you’re not even running at full capacity . . . not to mention you risk spreading your dise
ase to my guys?”
“It’s a head cold.”
Tyson reached into a locker and tossed him a bottle of hand sanitizer. “Use this. A lot.”
An hour later, his head cold was the least of his pain.
“Again,” Tyson said, getting into takedown defense stance.
Walker wiped the sweat from his forehead with a towel. “Come on, man . . . can we work on something else for a bit?” The guy wasn’t even in his weight class. He was used to fighting guys his size or lighter over at Cage Masters. Too many excuses for why he was having his ass handed to him came to mind, and his confidence wavered slightly.
“You already know how to punch people in the face. You need to learn how to take them down and dominate the fight from the mat.”
“I don’t plan on letting the fight get to the ground,” he said as he guzzled a bottle of water. The liquid felt like razor blades trickling down his throat, but at that moment his entire body hurt and it was hard to pinpoint which part of him felt worse.
“All right. Then show me your takedown defense,” Tyson said, straightening.
Walker got into position and waited for the attack. Seconds later, the wind was knocked from his lungs as Tyson’s body slammed into his, sidestepping him, and tossing him onto the mat with ease. Walker forced a breath as he lay there, trying to focus his rattled brain.
Tyson stepped over him. “Can we do this my way now?”
***
“This guy is in trouble, Grace.”
Grace cringed. That wasn’t the update she’d been hoping to receive from Tyson later that afternoon. “I know. That’s why I sent him to you.” Her arms full of promo material and cradling her cell phone against her shoulder, she kicked the vending machine in the hallway of her office building, freeing the protein bar that had jammed.
“Flattering, but I can’t promise you he’ll make it beyond the first round.”
Shit. Walker had to make it at least until the bell rang after the first five-minute round, otherwise he’d receive the minimum payout on his contract for the fight—which was barely worth the effort—and he could kiss his hopes of competing in the division again good-bye. “He has to. What can I do to help?” She headed toward the boardroom where her team was meeting to go over the changes to the fight card.
“Honestly, his biggest roadblock is his inability to accept that this fight is going to be a fucking war. Sorry for the language.”
“I work for the MFL, Tys.” Her innocent little ears had been deflowered long ago.
“Right. Anyway, if you can somehow get him to realize there is a definite chance he could get hurt in the cage, that would help.”
Get through to Walker Adams’s thick skull . . . Yeah, because that wasn’t impossible. “I’ll give it a shot.”
“Great.”
“And thanks, Tyson. I know you have your own fight coming up and this takes away some of your training time,” she said as she entered the boardroom, unwrapping the only thing she would probably have time to eat that day.
“No problem, Grace, just make sure to promote the shit out of my next fight.”
“You got it.”
“Hey, can I ask—why this guy?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could have called in your favor at any time, but you choose this guy to waste it on. I don’t understand.”
Neither did she. Except he was an old friend who was in way over his head, whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not, and she wanted to ease her conscience knowing she’d done everything she could to help him. “He’s sleeping on my couch and I want my apartment back,” she said lightly.
“Pretty boy is sleeping on your couch? How does Erik feel about that?” he asked, a smile in his voice. She knew Tyson and Erik had a history, one neither of them talked about. They didn’t like each other, and if Tyson didn’t attract the big sponsors and large crowds, Grace knew Erik would never put him on a fight card. So, any thought that Erik might be frazzled gave Tyson reason to gloat.
“Well, he put Walker in this fight, so what do you think?”
***
Grace entered her apartment after seven that evening, surprised to find the door unlocked. “What are you doing home? I thought you had to work tonight.”
Walker lay on his side on the sofa, a facecloth over his forehead, watching a football game on television. “Maria sent me home.”
“So I guess I don’t need to ask if you’re feeling better,” she said, setting her purse onto the counter and opening the fridge. She retrieved two diet sodas and went into the living room.
Walker sat up, giving her space to sit down. He removed the cloth from his forehead and accepted the cold drink.
“You look terrible,” she said, noticing the bottle of NyQuil on the end table with a straw in it. She picked it up.
Empty.
“Then I look better than I feel,” he said before a bout of coughing took over.
“Fever?” Leaning toward him, she touched the back of her hand to his forehead and as she expected, the heat she found there burned her own cool flesh. She went to pull her hand away, but he held it in place.
“Ahhh, your hand feels nice,” he said, closing his eyes and moving it to his cheeks and back to his forehead.
The simple gesture made her pulse soar as she stared at his big hand holding her small one to his face.
“The NyQuil doesn’t seem to be working.”
Grace glanced at the bottle again. Expired September 2013. “You just drank a bottle of expired medicine. Where did you get this?”
“Your fridge.”
She rarely got sick. Her body knew she was too busy. “I’ll get you some Tylenol. That might help.” Tugging her hand free, she went into the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, she removed the bottle of painkillers and shook two into her hand. Replacing the bottle in the cabinet and then shutting the door, she shot herself a look in the mirror. “Be good,” she warned her reflection before leaving the bathroom.
In the thirty seconds she was gone, Walker had rested his head against the back of the couch and fallen asleep.
She stood there for a moment, looking at him, a memory of the last time she’d seen him this sick flashing in her mind. He’d been fifteen and had come back from summer camp with unexplainable symptoms of fever, exhaustion, headaches, swollen glands . . . The doctors had even hospitalized him for a few days, keeping him on oxygen and monitoring his unrelenting fever. His parents had taken shifts at his side for three days, and even Kylie had been worried sick.
It turned out he’d had mono. From kissing almost every girl at camp. Rolling her eyes, her thirteen-year-old annoyance and jealousy returning, she kicked his foot. “Wake up, take these.”
He opened his eyes slowly and then, sitting straighter, he accepted the pills, tossed them into his mouth, and started chewing.
“Gross, what are you doing?”
“I can’t swallow pills,” he said, after swallowing the chalky medicine.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered. It amazed her how these rough, tough guys were really big babies with crazy, irrational fears. “How was training?” That was the best place to start. Give him time to beg for a way out of this fight.
Instead, he lifted the edge of his shirt, revealing dark bruising along his ribs and kidneys. “On a pain scale of one to ten?” he asked with a grin.
“Only you would think these bruises were a good thing,” she said, desperate to keep her focus on the injury, but her gaze wandered across his flat stomach and upward over his muscular chest. She saw shirtless fighters all the time. They were all sculpted, chiseled, beautiful . . . so why did this particular set of pecs and abs make her want to run her tongue along them? Feeling the tips of her ears burn, she reached for his shirt and pulled it back down.
He smirked. “Too tempting?”
“Shut up.” He was still as arrogant as ever. Why had she expected that to change when he’d only gotten better looking over the years?
“Yeah, well, he says he can’t, so you’re screwed.” She sat back down on the sofa with a sigh.
Walker was quiet next to her for a long moment, then he cleared his throat as he said, “Look, I may have underestimated how tough this fight was going to be.”
“You think?” Glad he finally caught up.
He turned sideways on the sofa to look at her. “But I need this fight, Gracie.”
“Why? Why is this one so important?”
“Look at you—you’re two years younger than me and you’ve got it all figured out—the career, the boyfriend, the apartment . . . I’m a law school dropout, sleeping on my baby sister’s best friend’s sofa. Pathetic. I need to know I can make a living from fighting. Prove to myself and . . . others I made the right decision going after my goals.”
“So, it’s about your father?” She knew growing up with Judge Adams had never been easy for Walker. He’d always been expected to do the right thing, get the good grades, and then follow in his father’s footsteps. When his mother died from breast cancer when he was sixteen, she knew things had only gotten tougher for him. He’d been close with his mom and she’d balanced his father’s strictness, encouraged him to follow his own dreams. Grace wondered if things would be different if Emily Adams were still alive.
“My dad is part of it. He’s never listened to me when I’ve tried to talk to him about my future. He is dead set on me becoming a lawyer . . . and eventually a judge. And I know that’s important to him, but I don’t see myself being happy in that life.” He paused. “But the other reason—the biggest reason I want this fight—is knowing what I’m capable of and going after what I want. For too long I did what everyone else wanted me to. I played it safe, went to law school, lived on my trust fund. That’s not who I am.” He touched her hand on the sofa next to him and she stiffened but didn’t move it away.
Breaking Her Rules Page 5