Fighting for It

by Jennifer Fusco

  He had failed. He caused her pain, then and now. But he wouldn’t anymore. The responsibility to make everything better fell on him.

  She shifted and murmured something that sounded like Thank you. He didn’t deserve her gratitude, not an ounce.

  Fighting to stay awake, he blinked away the sleep that threatened to overtake him. He couldn’t fall asleep. He needed to make sure she was all right, and that didn’t mean dozing off on her. Things changed so fast with her that he could wake up only to find her pissed at him again.

  And this was nice.

  Holding her. Listening to her breathe.

  His breathing slowed, matching her rhythmic pace, and he wrapped his other arm around her. Drawing in her warmth, he blinked again. But this time, when his eyes opened, morning light streamed through the windows, and in the second it took for him to realize what had happened, he noticed she had left him.

  Chapter Ten

  Women. Can’t live with them, can’t understand them.

  Jack raised his head and looked around the empty room. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Probably gave her the wrong impression, kissing her and telling her he would follow her plan, only to sleep the next morning until . . .

  He checked the clock.

  Ten.

  He rolled off the sofa, expecting to find her standing there, arms crossed and pissed. But she wasn’t. He braced himself, ready to endure her wrath. Easing himself around the corner, he looked into her bedroom. Maybe she moved from the sofa to a more comfortable spot. He found her bed made, shoes lined in a row, and her bedroom completely empty. He listened for sounds coming from the bathroom, but there were none.

  The cabin was quiet, and he found himself alone.

  She probably went for a coffee run. He liked his black, hoping she hadn’t forgotten, and maybe she’d round up some eggs and biscuits too. He could eat. And, technically, it was still breakfast. Passing by the window, both cars sat outside the cabin, and his idea of a hot, steaming cup of coffee quickly crumbled.

  He opened the cabin door and wandered outside. Maybe Daniella sat on the swing? Birds chirped overhead. Sounds of cars whizzing past echoed in from the highway just up the long drive. Voices carried from somewhere across the lake. People laughed. Vacationers, locals, from this vantage point it was hard to get a read on where anyone was. Sound traveled.

  He stood gazing into the morning light and a note taped to the outside of the door flapped in the breeze.

  He walked over, unstuck it from the glass, and read:

  The difference in fighting and fighting to win comes down to heart. How badly do you want your heart’s desire?

  Gone for a run.

  She signed her name. Not knowing if the note was a dig or a prompt, he went back inside, passing through the house until he reached his room and found some workout clothes. Jamming his feet down into his running shoes, he headed back through the cabin and ran down the steps.

  Heart. He’d show her heart. Jack started up the drive, kicking it into high gear when he reached the main road. He turned right, a familiar stretch of road, but with the hills the run wouldn’t be a light one. His heart ratcheted up a notch, pumping. He increased speed. Blood flooded his system, setting his skin on fire. Sweat dampened his shirt. He was hitting his stride now. And thinking. Hard.

  What was the note supposed to mean? He kept his pace steady and continued to run up the deserted highway. Passing the landscape, he took in the beauty of the trees, the sound of the birds and nothingness as the breeze grazed over his body.

  Another half mile went by. He slowed down as the road led by the place near the water, the spot he and Daniella used to go skinny-dipping. The place where the water met the shore drew him in, so he ran there, to his newly intended destination. Memories showered him.

  Hot pink material lay on the stump where he and Daniella used to shed their clothes. He remembered how shy she used to be about taking them off. How he’d have to remind her no one was watching and how she’d never believe him. Of course she didn’t, because he always watched her peel off her clothes, reveal the hint of curves still forming at the time, and the promise of what her body could deliver. Heaven. Pure pleasure.

  He smiled, looking down at the clothing. Bending down, he lowered his hand and picked up the material. He glanced upward with the clothes still in his hand, and Daniella’s head popped up from under the water.

  “Don’t even think about walking off with that.”

  He stood up. “I, uh . . .” His mouth suddenly went dry.

  “How did you know where to find me?” She raised herself out of the water slightly. Instead of just her head being visible, her neck and shoulders appeared. Her wet, bare flesh tempted him to rip off his clothes and join her, but she didn’t offer an invitation.

  “I got your note. Started running. Ended up here.” His throat tightened as if he were having trouble breathing.

  She gave a nod of understanding.

  Seeing her swimming in the lake, naked, made his insides stir.

  The sight brought back memories, lots of them.

  A smile twisted his mouth.

  She’d kept herself up, he’d give her that. Both physically and mentally. After a night like last night, he expected to find her wearing a bathrobe and moping around the cabin, drinking some crap like herbal tea.

  She’d surprised him. Skinny-dipping in the daytime took a whole lot of confidence he didn’t know she had.

  “Well, are you just going to stand there and stare?” she asked. Her words pulled him out from the space in his head that took up so much of his time lately.

  “Turn around,” she ordered.

  He dropped her clothing back on the spot where he found it and turned his back to her. Water splashed. The sound of her emerging from the lake and her bare feet padding against the ground hardened his dick. Knowing she was naked did torturous things to his body. He wanted to turn around and take her right there, if nothing else than for old times’ sake.

  “Don’t get any ideas.” Her voice trailed over his shoulder. The slap of Lycra against wet flesh tempted him to sneak a peek, but if he did, he would seal her opinions of him. The belief that he couldn’t be trusted would be etched in her brain forever.

  So he stood there, his back facing toward the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, and hell, if he wasn’t going to get to look at her, no one was. He guarded her protectively until she said it was okay.

  “Good run?” he asked. When he was finally able to turn around, color came into view. Pink. Bright pink. And tight as hell.

  Daniella wore running clothes that hugged her body so tightly that no man had to wonder what her mama gave her. It was right there. Hot damn. She stood with the light glimmering off the lake behind her and stepped toward him.

  “Good run.” She panted. “Just a little over five miles. It was so hot out that I decided to take a swim.”

  He agreed. It was hot. Damn hot. Hotter when a woman who’d been naked only seconds ago stood behind you, that was for sure.

  “And you decided to take it here.” He looked around at the branches overhead. The canopy provided the perfect cover for skinny-dipping, and he wanted her to know the memories weren’t lost on him.

  “Seemed like a good spot.” She lifted her hand and wiped a trail of water than ran down her neck.

  “The note you left. What was that about?” He recalled her message before he’d left the cabin. Fighting to win comes down to heart. What was his heart’s desire?

  She shrugged. “Just a thought, I guess. An observation. I mean, you have to want it right, deep down in your gut. Winning can’t come from a place of obligation.”

  He grunted. Her psychology nonsense wasn’t lost on him. No, he wasn’t stupid. She’d enticed him into a five-mile run only to find her here. Naked. Talking about what he desired. He could stand for a lot of things, but being manipulated wasn’t one of them. If she wanted him to work out, why didn’t she just yell at him like she usually di
d? She’d have gotten the same results.

  He rested a hand on his hip. “You think I don’t feel it?”

  She cocked her head to the side and wore a quizzical look. “Do you? Because I’ve never been certain of how you felt about anything.”

  So that’s what this was about. The past, and if he felt anything for her? Of course he did. He did then. He did now. And now she wanted him to feel the fight to win. In his core. With the same intensity he had over something he cared about.

  Like his old feelings for her.

  He didn’t know what her angle was, or why some head trip down memory lane sounded like a good idea. Maybe it was because she still didn’t trust him. Did she think he’d go through the motions of training without really wanting to win? Or was it about power or payback?

  Whatever intimacy or feeling they shared last night was gone . . . all gone.

  “Guess we better head back,” he said flatly.

  She strapped on her shoes and had finished tying them when he started up the path toward the highway that would ultimately lead them back to the cabin.

  He started with a slow jog. After a few paces, Daniella caught up to him, rolled her wrist, and checked her watch for time. As they ran beside each other at an even pace, he couldn’t help but to wonder as to why they were really here. Sure, Tahoe was a rockin’ place to train, there was no denying it. But she’d left him a note, and he’d run past the place where they used to fool around.

  That, mixed with all the talk about heart and obligation, cluttered up his ability to think straight.

  Arriving at the cabin, Daniella disappeared inside, and Jack headed for the top step, only to run back down the stairs, and back up again, over and over, until his heart rate increased and sweat started to roll. Jack hated how things in his life seemed to circle. And some circles, like the one with Daniella, he couldn’t escape. He shook his head while keeping his eyes focused on the task at hand.

  Women. Can’t live with them, can’t fucking understand them.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I told you before, spread your legs and use your hips.” Daniella sighed. She hated when her phone conversations started to sound like a sex chat. Why didn’t her clients ever take her advice during their regularly scheduled appointments? She rolled her neck from side to side, releasing the tension. She could’ve sworn that sometimes they called her just to hear her say things like Put it in the hole or Swing off your frustration. Didn’t they know they could’ve gotten the same thing told to them in a sweeter tone for five ninety-nine a minute?

  “You have to commit to the shot,” she told her client for the thousandth time. “The best golfers adhere to a shot plan and a routine. Next time swing with present-moment focus.”

  She turned her back to the direction of Jack’s room and hoped she didn’t wake him. She’d asked him to nap before an early dinner. His training plan was hard tonight, so she lowered her voice. If Jack were in her shoes, he would have already lost his shit by now, and told the guy to man up. Even she had to admit her client sounded like a baby. Of course golfers worried about taking shots. They were never on the receiving end. Like Jack.

  Footsteps sounded on the floor behind her. At the moment the sound of feet padded into her bedroom, she turned around and stopped talking midsentence.

  She drew in a quick breath. He stood under her doorframe. Shirtless. His bare skin was so enticing, his abs so defined, she wanted to count each one.

  With her tongue.

  Her lips parted.

  He paused for a second, as if waiting for some sort of gesture to tell him not to come in. She allowed her eyes to travel the length of his abdomen. And her lips parted wider. Her mouth watered.

  The person on the phone must’ve said something she didn’t hear. Instead of asking them to repeat it, she said, “Sometimes you have to accept things for the way they are.”

  Looking at Jack, she wondered if she could take her own advice.

  She slowly turned back toward her bedroom window and started wrapping things up, telling the caller that if he needed her, not to hesitate to reach out, which was followed by the usual exchange and her firm response of, “Aw, aren’t you sweet. However, I have a policy about not dating clients.”

  She followed Jack into the den. He was seated on the sofa and turned around as she entered the room. She caught his eye and lifted a finger to indicate one more minute. Then she said, “Just remember to make a few swing-aways to get rid of built-up frustration prior to attempting the shot. Visualize the ball going into the hole.” She paused. “Okay . . . Thank you. Good-bye.”

  Jack turned around and leaned back, sinking into the red leather. “How’d the Sultan of Swing take it when you turned him down?”

  She let out a little huff, insult mixed with laughter, and walked over to him. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the criticism. Laughing at a client was not professional.

  He stretched out his legs, as if to ease the tightness that came with sleep. “You really believe all that stuff you say?”

  She felt her face pull down. “Of course. Winning is built in the mind first. The body can do whatever the mind believes it can.”

  “Is that right?” He stretched again.

  She turned her head away from him for a moment. What did he think sports psychology was? “Sure it is. Get up.”

  “Huh?” He looked confused.

  Well, she’d straighten him out.

  “Stand up.” She moved back to allow him space to rise from the sofa and he followed her to the middle of the room. Then she looked at his deliciously broad frame and asked, “Do you believe you are a world champion?”

  “What?”

  She loved how his brows drew together when he was utterly confused. Extending her arm, she touched his elbow. “I won’t believe you think you’re a world champion until you say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “That you are a world champion.” She couldn’t believe the look on his face. He actually rolled his eyes. “Put up your hands.”

  Her fingers drew back from him and he raised his arms up slowly, curling his hands into fists, assuming the proper boxer’s stance.

  “Do you believe you are a world champion?” she asked again.

  “Of course,” he answered with a nonchalant edge.

  “Then show me what you’ve got.” Even to her own ears, her instructions sounded like a taunt.

  Keeping his hands in perfect position, up with his elbows tucked in, chin down, he snapped his jab, hitting air. His shoulders turned only slightly toward his imaginary opponent, he bobbed and weaved, ducking pretend shots, delivering his signature one-two punch. He shadowboxed in front of her and kept going as she said, “Do you believe you are a world champion?”

  In less than a second, Daniella reached across and tapped him on the chin with her hand. She’d gotten past his hands and flashed him a satisfied grin. “Keep going,” she instructed.

  This time, slicing his fist through the air, he threw a right hook. Lines etched deep in his face. Lines of focus. Determination.

  “Champions have good body shots. Show me yours,” she demanded.

  His eyes shifted. And, before he could swing, her hand touched his chin again. He took a step back.

  “How are you doing that?” he growled, but he didn’t break position. He picked up the pace with his footwork, as if he were determined to duck around her next attempt to touch him. With a quick one-two he delivered blows to the air, an attempt to show her what he had. The strength. The power.

  He may have all the makings of a champion, but there was one thing he missed.

  “Champions have more than fancy footwork,” she said, and before he could move, her hand touched the temple of his head in the spot that, if she were a two-hundred-pound heavyweight, would have knocked him to the floor.

  “Time.” He broke position and dropped his hands. He walked off his visible frustration, pacing. Then he returned to where she was standing. “How’d
you do that?”

  She shrugged. “You don’t believe you’re a champion, a winner. That tells me all I need to know.” Her words came out in a rush. “You probably think this is all this psycho-head-trip nonsense, don’t you?”

  “How’d you do it?” His voice sounded serious and matter-of-fact.

  She flashed a smug grin. “I said you don’t believe you’re a champion, and your body tells me all I need to know.”

  “How?” he pressed.

  She reached out her hand for his and said, “Follow me.” He slipped his hand into hers, and when she started to pull him toward her bedroom, the space between their palms heated. With a quick glance over her shoulder, he walked behind her as if she were leading him to bed and there was no other place he’d rather be. Hell, if she wanted to bed him, that kind of therapy would be easier than what she had to show him.

  They crossed from her room into the bathroom and stopped in front of the mirror.

  “Assume the stance,” she told him in a dry, clinical tone, as if she were asking him to turn his head to the side and cough.

  Again he raised his hands.

  “Go ahead, start again.”

  He did. He threw some punches toward the mirror, watching himself in the glass. He had excellent form, strong punches, and delivered them all with impressive force.

  As he was about to throw a body shot to his invisible opponent, she said, “You’re not a champion.”

  A beat passed and then she screamed and pointed, “There!”

  And he leaned into the mirror, examining the spot.

  A vein popped from his temple a nanosecond before he dropped his hands. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “What your mind believes, your body delivers,” she said.

  He lifted his hand and placed his fingers on the place where the vein appeared. A dead giveaway.

  “You are basically telling your opponents when to throw a punch. Not only are we going to have to work on your physical training, but we’ll need to work through your confidence issues,” she said over his shoulder.