Champ

by Rhona Davis

  I offer her my hand. “Come on, grab hold and we’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Sophie . . . it’s not like you to cuss.”

  “You condescending prick. I’m going back.”

  Conceding, I shrug. “As you wish.”

  Her jaw sets.

  “Race you back?” I add.

  That look in her eyes again, that deathly stare. I decide to quit while I’m ahead. Wouldn’t want to pick up any unnecessary injuries before the fight.

  She uses the base of the tree to drag herself up. Wincing, she almost falls again.

  I scoop my arm around her waist, and drag her arm over my shoulder. “Steady on, angel. You okay?”

  She grits her teeth. “Do I look okay?”

  I check out her ass. “Actually, yeah, you do . . . more than okay.”

  With her arm around my shoulder, and my hand supporting the small of her back, we start to make small steps toward home.

  “Fuck,” she shouts.

  “What? We’re just walking—”

  She cuts me off, her voice cracking in obvious pain. “My ankle. I really twisted it. Shit.”

  With no other option, I hoist her over my shoulder into a fireman’s lift. Her shapely ass rests snug against my ear.

  “Hey, what the hell are you doing? Put me down,” she barks, thumping on my back with her fists.

  I stop. “You really want me to put you down?”

  “Right this minute, jackass.”

  “Okay. You asked for it.”

  I drag her off my shoulder and drop her to the grass. She immediately howls in agony as she lands on her feet before crumpling to the floor. I stand over her, shaking my head and tutting.

  “Pick me back up,” she pleads.

  “You said you wanted me to—”

  “I know what I damn well said,” she cuts in. “Just pick me up, my ankle is screwed.”

  I smile and lift her back up into the same position.

  As we walk back to the house, she doesn’t stop complaining and moaning. It’s something I’m soon learning to get used to.

  “You better give me a good story,” she says. “This is abuse.”

  “I will. Hey, Sophie . . .”

  “What?”

  “Your ass looks nice in these jogging pants.”

  “Stop staring at my butt!”

  I laugh and don’t stop laughing until we’re home.

  8

  Sofia

  “Not too hard,” I cry.

  “Hold still. Jeez. Anyone would think you’ve broken the damn thing.”

  “Well, I could have.”

  Sitting at a table in Connor’s ridiculously spacious kitchen, I narrow my eyes. He rolls an ice pack over my enflamed ankle, almost taking joy in my suffering as a stretched grin cracks across his lips.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” I bark.

  He shakes his head.

  “And don’t shake your head, either. I never asked to be dragged along on one of your mad sprints. I’m a reporter not an Olympic runner.”

  He presses the ice pack hard to my skin, his thumbs adding further pressure to the ball of my foot.

  I kick out at his face. “Fuck! I said not too hard. Jerk.”

  He shoots up to his feet and throws the ice pack down to my lap. “Do it yourself then. I’m only trying to help.”

  As he storms off, I call out after him. “Where are you going?”

  He stops and turns, his shoulders dropping. “I can’t seem to do anything right here, so—”

  “Not so fast,” I interrupt. “I think we should get to your side of the bargain.”

  He raises a brow.

  “The interview?” I remind him. “The whole reason I’m here in the first place?” After pausing for a beat, he whips off his tank-top.

  I almost gasp aloud. His exceptionally muscled torso is drenched in fine beads of sweat. The tattoos on his flared chest snake down over his rippling wall of abs. The design is much clearer to see in the flesh.

  “What are you doing?” My voice almost breaks as he saunters back over.

  “I’m going for a shower.” He motions to my foot with a nod. “And you’re going to keep ice on that. You’ll be just right in a day or two.”

  As he walks off, my gaze follows him. Seeing the ridge of taut muscles in his back, and that iron-hard ass covered in a tight pair of shorts, makes me flush. I have to fight the undeniable lust raging through me.

  How can someone so annoying be so fine? It’s such a cruel contradiction.

  Maybe it’s just desperation on my part? It’s been a while since I felt a man in my arms, between my thighs. The pursuit of my career killed has any time I had for dating.

  I still despise the arrogant ass, and I’m still only here to do a job, but I can’t be too hard on myself for feeling just a little giddy around him. Any straight girl with a pulse would have to be blind if they didn’t find him at least psychically attractive.

  I swipe up the ice pack from my lap, which has almost melted, and press it to my sore ankle.

  One thing’s certain; this assignment is going to be a lot harder than I originally thought.

  Connor’s daytime chef sets down a plate on the table before me. Two poached eggs, a piece of wholemeal toast, and a small slice of butter off to the side, tease me. I’m hungry and this looks, and smells, so good.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  The cook—a friendly looking lady of around fifty or so—gives me a subtle yet pleasant smile before walking away. She looks too sweet to be a slave to the most arrogant douchebag on the planet. I just hope she’s paid well for her time.

  As I tear my knife through the yolk of the egg, watching it bleed across the plate in neat rivers, Connor comes waltzing in. “Feel better, angel?”

  My eyes meet his. He looks clean and fresh. His short hair is still damp and his body is now covered in a crisp, figure hugging gray t-shirt.

  Sticking my toast into the egg, I ignore him.

  He walks to the other side of the table and pours himself some coffee from a glass pot. Then he snatches up an orange from a silver wire fruit basket and sits down opposite me.

  I look off to the side as I chew on delicious egg and bread. Best eggs I’ve ever had.

  “You look like you’re enjoying that,” he comments, slurping on his black coffee.

  I blush. I hate being watched while I eat.

  “You seem quiet,” he continues. “Ice pack work?”

  I ignore him, my mind stuck on how it’s possible for plain old eggs to taste so freaking good.

  He brings the cup to his lips and smiles, taking another sip.

  I watch him but try not to stare.

  His beautiful green eyes sparkle with his smile. I quickly look away, feeling nervous at their intensity.

  In spite of my revulsion for his show-off ways, his objectification of women—evident by the harem of half-naked girls from last night— and the way he pushes my buttons just to annoy me, a part of me would love to stare back into those dangerously sexy eyes of his.

  For a boxer he has a strikingly flawless face: Perfect cheek bones, a straight ski-slope nose, chiselled jaw, and a stunning set of pearly white teeth. Stubble adds that manly touch to his otherwise boyish good looks.

  The clock on the kitchen wall seems to tick by artificially loud as we both sit in silence. In fact, everything seems loud—my chewing when I rip into toast, the sips he takes of his coffee, the creaks of the chairs each time we shift our weight . . . the air of silence is almost oppressive.

  He finally breaks the deadlock. “I thought reporters couldn’t stop talking.”

  “Don’t worry. When I fetch my notepad I’ll chew your ears off. Right now I’m enjoying the breakfast your slave made.”

  “Slave?”

  “Yeah. Can’t you cook for yourself?”

  He leans forward with a wry grin. “And why would I want to do that when I can pay for one of the finest chef
s on the east coast to cook for me?”

  “Isn’t it a waste?”

  He frowns. “Isn’t what a waste?”

  “Having one of the east coast’s best chefs cook up a simple plate of eggs.”

  He doesn’t answer. His gaze turns to the unpeeled orange in his hands.

  “You eating that?” I ask, gesturing to his fruit with my fork.

  He looks back up at me, before rolling it across the table my way.

  “Thanks,” I murmur.

  “I train hard, Sophie. I haven’t got time to cook. Sitting down for breakfast is something I don’t normally do.”

  “How much?”

  “Sorry?”

  I nod to the kitchen. “For the cook.”

  “Sixty thousand a year, give or take.”

  I almost choke on the orange.

  “I’ll raise her at the end of the year,” he adds.

  “My god, sixty thousand just to cook eggs! You’re not thinking of hiring another chef, are you?”

  His lips turn upwards. “I might have a space for you . . . but I’m very demanding.”

  I laugh.

  “Wow,” he says, “a smile at last.”

  I chew on a segment of orange and look into his eyes again. I actually feel bad for being a bitch. He’s being nice.

  The silence returns but unlike before I break first, pushing from the table. “Right. I better get cleaned up so we can start the first part of our interview. I haven’t made a single note since I got here.”

  “Sure. You want a shower first?”

  I look down at the perspiration stains on my top, opening my arms wide.

  “Of course you do,” he says. “You have your choice of bathrooms. Five in total. You would have already noticed that your room doesn’t have one, but if you walk down the corridor you’ll see a bathroom to your right. There’s clean towels and women stuff—”

  “Women stuff?” I interrupt.

  He pauses. “I have a lot of guests.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “You’re a riot. Anyway, like I was saying, you’ll find everything you need. Just help yourself.”

  As I go to take my plates over to the sink, Connor grabs me by the shirt.

  “What?” I say.

  “We’ve a cleaner for that.”

  I pull away from him. “I know how to wash up.” I stay on the spot, staring down at him.

  His lips pull into a smile. “Whatever you say. I may be out when you’ve finished your shower. Gotta put some rounds in at the gym. Just make yourself at home and we can get started later, okay?”

  I shrug and walk off.

  Sitting on a cushioned stool at the dressing table, I scrunch at the end of my hair with a small towel and examine my reflection. As I get sorted out, fresh and satisfied from the shower, I prop my phone against a small ornament of a boxer which sits next to the dressing table mirror. I punch in my mom’s number and wait for her to appear on FaceTime.

  As it rings I smile, thinking about the little nugget of sweetness Connor displayed at breakfast. I’m not so sure he’s as bad as people make out. In a way—besides all the money, and superficial girls and friends that leech from him—he seems lonely. I start to wonder if his upbringing as a foster child has something to do with his almost self-destructive and extreme ways. I’m far from being a shrink, but as a reporter it’s my job to dig.

  Mom’s face comes up on the phone screen.

  “Momma,” I say, joyful at seeing her.

  “Sofia, my baby, how are you?”

  “I’m okay, momma. Busy.”

  “Your editor’s not being too hard on you, is he?”

  “No, momma. We’re okay now. I just had to pay a few dues.”

  She sighs. “You don’t have to prove how good you are as a writer, everyone knows it. Don’t take his shit.”

  I gasp. “Momma!”

  “So what if I curse? He deserves it. He doesn’t know what a gift he has in you. We’re all proud of you back home.”

  I tut. “Enough now.”

  “Really. Your Papa would be so proud to see his little girl do so well.”

  I feel a thorn stick in my throat. Any mention of my late father is the trigger to tears. On this occasion, though, I try to hold it back. I don’t want to show my mom any signs of weakness.

  I miss her. I miss my little sister. It pains me not to see them. The air fare is too much, though. They live in Mexico, and juggling crippling college debts, a greedy landlord, and the money I send home to look after them, I can’t afford to visit. It crushes me. But it also inspires me to work harder. Get to the top. Make that money for my family.

  “Where are you?” mom says.

  I pick up the phone and show her the expanse of my large, beautifully decorated room.

  “Oh my, Sofia. That’s gorgeous. What hotel is that?”

  “I’m not staying in a hotel.”

  “Then where are you?”

  “Remember I told you about that boxer . . . the world champion?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m staying at his house.”

  She gasps and starts flipping out. “Sofia, is he your boyfriend?”

  I look over to the bedroom door and place a finger to my mouth. “Mom, shush.”

  “Oh, baby, I’ve been waiting so long for you to find love.”

  I chuckle. “I haven’t found love.”

  “Oh, but soon . . . that’s how it starts. What’s he like?”

  “Momma, he is not my boyfriend. I’m staying here to do a job for the paper.”

  She looks confused.

  “It’s so I can document the life of a boxer on training camp.,” I continue. “That’s all this is, a job.”

  She pauses for a second.

  “Mom?”

  “Is he nice?” she slowly says, a naughty smile creeping across her mouth.

  I can’t help but break into laughter. “You’re crazy, but I love you.”

  “When will you visit? I miss you so much.”

  “Soon. I promise. This job could really make things better.”

  “That’s good, baby.”

  “How’s my little sis?”

  “Ana’s doing fine, sweetheart, there’s nothing to worry about. She’s doing so well in school.”

  I glance at the time on the phone. “Is she there now?”

  “She’s still at school.”

  I let out a sigh. God, I miss home so much. “Momma, I have to go.”

  “Of course, my love. You go and be fantastic.”

  “You have everything you need . . . all your medicine?”

  Her brow screws. “Stop your worrying.”

  “Momma, you know what the doctor said. If you need money for more pills, you tell me. You have to keep yourself well.”

  “Baby, knowing you are doing good is all the medicine I need.”

  “Mom—”

  The connection cuts before I can finish. I trace the phone screen with my finger. A dull ache pulses through my heart. So far the hopes and dreams I had, and all the selfless faith my family—especially my late father—had in me, has amounted to nothing. They all think that because I work at a paper, I’ve made it. If only that was even half true.

  I think about calling back but stop myself. The more I see of momma, or anything that reminds me of home, the more I’ll be compelled to blow any spare change I can find on a plane ticket back and just give this all up.

  But that is not an option. I promised dad I’d never give up my dreams.

  I breathe out and fix my attention back to my reflection. As I dry out my tangled strands of hair, the tear, threatening to spill from me earlier, finally rolls down my cheek.

  9

  Connor

  Two weeks have passed and not once have I made a move on Sofia. This must be some kind of world record. It wouldn’t take some Einstein genius to figure out I’ve got the major hots for her. And as best as I try to hide it there’s one thing I know with absolute certai
nty—Sofia is one smart cookie.

  I’d love to lay it all on her. Seduce her in the most wild and wicked of ways. Make her mine, completely. But she isn’t the type of girl who’ll drop her knickers at the click of a finger. She needs working on. I need to get inside her head somehow, and not just her pants. Resisting the urge to make a pass on her might just be about the hardest fight I’ve ever had to endure. But, as champ of the world, I like a challenge.

  The beep of the clock timer echoes around the gym. I pull back from my sparring partner and spit my gum-shield out on the canvas. I look over at Sofia, who’s sitting on a backless stool just outside the ring, and shoot her the kind of smile a person would give to make sure they’ve impressed. She mirrors my smile and jots stuff down in her spiralled note pad. Her work ethic is crazy—my kind of girl.

  My trainer, Alex, climbs inside the ring and tends to the opponent who’s cradling a sore rib. “Jesus, Connor. I said go easy on him.”

  “He’ll be fine,” I say, looking over at the injured kid.

  And so he should be. Billy Jefferies is a super talented middleweight prospect with a fine amateur pedigree.

  “Hey, Billy,” I call out from the other side of the ring. “You’re all good, ain’t ya?”

  He gives me a reluctant thumbs up, as he struggles to get his wind back.

  Good sport.

  I throw my arms over the ropes and lean my body into them. “Only way to become great is to learn how to take a shot . . . ain’t that right, Billy boy?”

  He nods as Alex gives him a sip of water.

  I stretch my gloved hand out to Sofia. “You can write that shit down. This is the dog house. We never do light sparring.”

  She doesn’t look up, her hand furiously writing away. “Isn’t the . . . ?”

  “Go on,” I press.

  “Well, isn’t the whole point of boxing to hit and not get hit?”

  Alex and Billy both smirk at me.

  I laugh and shake my head. “God, she spends a couple of weeks with the champ and now she’s an expert.”

  “Mock me all you like, Connor Patrick,” she says. “But I’m sure the whole point is to walk away at the end of a career without brain damage.”