Champ

by Rhona Davis

  I snort.

  “Although, in your case . . .” she hesitates, a smile pulling the corner of her lips.

  Alex lets out a loud laugh. “I think she’s got your number, Con.”

  I shrug it off. “Let’s wrap up. It’s getting late.”

  Billy hobbles out of the ring, supported by Alex. I call out after both of them. “You okay to spar in a few days, Bill?”

  Alex glances over to me. “I think we need some fresh ones.” His attention reverts back to Billy, who’s still clutching at his ribs. “Looks like he’ll be out of action for a few days, maybe for the rest of the camp. You went too hard on him.”

  I suck my teeth. That’s the third I’ve broke this week. These fighters are getting soft.

  Alex speaks louder, as he escorts Billy through to the changing rooms. “We need some bigger sparring partners anyway . . . for your power.”

  “Whatever you say,” I shout back.

  I look down at Sofia who’s busy checking through her work. After a few seconds she looks up at me, twisting her mouth to one side.

  I shrug. “What?”

  “That was an asshole thing to do.”

  “Angel, this is boxing. People get hit.”

  “It’s sparring. And that guy is half your size.”

  I look away, mildly embarrassed at being exposed by little Miss Reporter. “He’s supposed to be small. We’re working on speed.”

  Walking out of the shower stall, I hear thumps rip around the gym. I’m sure I told the guys to go home. I throw on my jogging pants, quickly run a towel through my wet hair, and leave the changing room to investigate. “Hey, Alex—”

  I don’t finish my sentence. The perfect shape of Sofia, pounding on the heavy bag, greets me. I’m actually speechless, which is no mean feat for me. Fuck me, the girl can hit.

  I creep toward her but she doesn’t hear me approach. I wince. The way she’s digging into the bag makes me wonder if I pissed her off or something.

  When I’m within an inch of her, I cough.

  She sharply turns, clutching onto the left side of her chest. “Shit. You made me jump.”

  “Enjoying that are you?”

  “It’s been a while . . .” she says, breathless.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just . . . this boxing thing . . . it’s fun.”

  I tut.

  “What?”

  “You’re not wearing gloves. You could break your hand.”

  She begins to walk away. “I was just playing around.”

  “Nah, come on. I’ll dig out some gloves and give you a few tips.”

  “I don’t know, I mean—”

  “Got anything better to do?”

  She motions with a nod of the head to her note pad on the stool.

  “Aww, come on,” I respond. “You’ve been writing all day. Come on, let off some steam. I’ll teach you how to add some pop to those punches.”

  She stares at the bag for a while and I remain silent, waiting for her to go along with it.

  Her brow creases and she waves it off. “No. I don’t think it’s for me.”

  “Think of that one person you hate. That one person in life who you’d like to punch right on the nose.”

  She twists her mouth. I can see the cogs in her mind turning.

  “Isn’t there one person you feel you’d like to hit? Just one time?”

  A broad smile envelops her beautiful face.

  “That’s it. Extend that jab and hold it there on the bag.” I shift up behind her. “Now, see how your hips are positioned?”

  “No.”

  “Look . . . here.” My hands land on her curvy waist. She’s wearing a tight pair of black business suit slacks, which are accentuated by a tight fitting, sleeveless, yellow polo shirt. Her getup shows off her Latino curves to perfection; the roundness of her peachy ass, and the ripeness of her firm, perky tits. I can feel a swell in my shorts as I grip onto the fabric of her high waistband.

  “Are you using this as an excuse to get your dirty paws on me?” she says.

  I shoot her a fake sincere look. “Would I do that?”

  “Err . . . yeah.”

  “Do you want to learn how to hit or not?”

  She laughs.

  Shaking my head, I start to walk away. “It’s quite obvious that my expertise is not wanted here, so—”

  “Wait.” She laughs more. “Show me. I’m just joking.”

  I grin and walk back over—eager to get my hands on that tight, sexy waist of hers. “Okay, see where your hand is on the bag?”

  She nods.

  “Now, look down . . . see how your hips are cocked to one side, with your weight on that back leg?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, now, you have to twist your hips back over and make the weight fall on the front foot.”

  She murmurs a light response, as my hand traces her arm. Her skin feels like velvet. Glancing at me over her shoulder, her gaze dares me not to stop.

  I clear my throat. “Now, swing your hip to the other side and let that rear hand push forward . . . but remember to bring the other hand up to your chin for protection.”

  I stand back, my heart beating like I’ve just fought fifteen rounds.

  After just a split second of apprehension, she throws the shot. It lands with a satisfying snap on the leather bag.

  “Hey, that’s great!”

  She turns to me, excited. “You think so?”

  “Ever thought of a pro career?”

  “Now you’re mocking me.”

  “No, I mean it . . . really. I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of you.”

  She bites her lower lip. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

  I furrow my brow and back up.

  She saunters closer, throwing out cute little air jabs. “Not much of a fighter if you can’t deal with little old me.”

  Fuck, is she finally coming on to me?

  I can feel my cock harden the closer she gets. The fiery sweetness of her perfume makes my balls tingle with anticipation. Thoughts of throwing her down to the gym floor and plowing right into her soft pussy, fill my head with carnal need.

  She’s almost up against my nose now. I can feel her fresh minty breath glide over my face. My hands stiffen into tight fits by my side. I can’t remember the last time I felt so nervous around a girl. In fact, I don’t think I ever have. This is a first.

  “A big, tough guy like you should be able to handle a girl like me with ease,” she whispers.

  I almost choke. “What makes you think I can’t?”

  “I don’t know, you seem . . . ”

  “What?”

  Without warning, her knee softly pushes against my groin. “Worked up.”

  With that, she marches back over to her stool—cruelly laughing.

  “You bitch,” I call out.

  She throws her arms in the air. “Guilty as charged.”

  Damn. She’s such an impossible fucking tease.

  “Are we heading back to the house now?” she asks.

  I look up at the clock on the gym wall. “Guess so.”

  She glares at me as she fixes up her folder. “You’re not sulking, are you?”

  I cross my arms. “No.”

  I am.

  “Fine then. I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since lunch and it’s, what . . .” she looks at the clock. “Nine at night. Come on champ, you need to be up early and I need to send my editor an update.”

  “Sophie . . .”

  “Yes?”

  I stare at her but say nothing.

  She looks down at my groin and then looks away, shaking her head. “This is a purely professional arrangement. Nothing more. I like you, but—”

  “Then what’s the problem? Maybe it’s you who is all worked up. Maybe I can relieve a little of that pressure.” I step toward her, hoping we can rewind a few minutes so I can change that stubborn mind of hers.

  She straightens up, her face blank of emotion.
“I am not sleeping with you, Connor. I am here to do a job. I can’t afford get involved. It’s a conflict of interest.”

  “What if you weren’t doing that job, would you think about it then?”

  She half laughs.

  “Well?” I press.

  “And who’s going to support my family . . . or me for that matter? Is your career important to you?”

  Exasperated, I exhale. “What kind of question is that? Of course it is.”

  “Then respect mine, please.” She pauses, her face softening. “I’ll meet you in the carpark.”

  She starts toward the exit, leaving me a complete wreck in the middle of the gym.

  Perhaps playing nice isn’t working after all.

  I think it’s time for the bad Connor to come out and play. There’s only so much blue-ball torture a guy can take.

  10

  Connor

  With my trainer busy taking a phone call in the office, I decide to finish today’s session early. Scooping up my protein container from the side of the ring, I make a beeline for the exit before he catches me. It’s a glorious sunny afternoon so I think I’ll roll down the top on my silver BMW convertible.

  As I cruise down the freeway, my thoughts travel back to yesterday’s close call in the gym with Sofia. That girl is a twenty-four carat dick tease. All I want to do is get home quickly and spend time with her. It’s so nice enjoying the company of a woman—not just for the obvious reasons of her being so beautiful, but for simply having her around to talk with. She’s funny, smart, quick-witted, and on-point. She can level my bullshit with more than a little of her own, and I like that about her. Normally chicks dance to my tune at the click of a finger, so it’s fun being challenged for a change.

  Pulling up the driveway, I jump out of the car and race toward the double doors of the house. As I glide through the hallway toward the kitchen, I call out for her. There’s no answer.

  Rounding the corner, I walk into the kitchen and see two ripe globes of ass stare right back at me in a tiny swimsuit pants. Sofia’s bent down, sweeping up something from the floor.

  I cough into my fist, which soon gets her attention. She shoots up and turns to face me, holding onto a small dustpan and brush.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, slightly bemused.

  “Nothing.”

  I motion to the brush in her hand, as my gaze roams over her beautifully toned Latino figure. She’s dressed in the two-piece I gave her on the first day she arrived. She looks just as sexy in it as I remember.

  She glances at the brush and shrugs. “Thought I’d tidy up.”

  I grin. “Why? We have a cleaner for that.”

  “It’s her day off, remember?”

  “Well, it could’ve waited.”

  She breathes out through her cute button-nose. “Connor, I’ve been rattling around this mansion all morning. I got bored topping up my tan so I thought I’d be useful. Anyway, it’ll save your cleaner a job when she comes back tomorrow.”

  I slowly walk toward her, my eyes feasting on her sexy hard body. As I reach for the brush in her hand, she flinches slightly. Gently, I take the brush and set it down on the kitchen worktop. “Thanks.”

  A slight smile teases the corners of her cherry-red lips. “I made lunch.”

  “What?”

  “Well, dinner really.” She looks up at the clock above the oven stove. “I didn’t expect you home so early.”

  I walk over to the sink and help myself to a glass of water. “Figured I’d join you and take a break.”

  “And your trainer’s okay with that?”

  I take a long sip of water. “I’m his boss. He has no choice.”

  She sweeps a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Anyway,” I continue, “what do you want to do?”

  She looks puzzled.

  “It’s a nice day,” I say. “Fancy a ride in the sports car?”

  She chews on her lower lip.

  “Just for an hour or so. You can carry on with some work after. I’ll tell you how I won my first golden gloves contest . . . and some of the crazy dramas backstage.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Aww, come on,” I cut in. “There’s no ulterior motive here. Just some fresh air and a chat. Besides, I want to know more about you.”

  She squints. “More about me?”

  “Yeah, what makes you tick. Why you do this job. It must be hard work shadowing an ego manic like me.”

  She snorts and then smiles.

  I raise a brow. “See? You don’t even deny it.”

  She pauses. “Well, okay then.” She looks down at her swimming custom and then back up into my gaze. “Give me five minutes to change?”

  “Nope.”

  She frowns. “What do you mean, nope?”

  “We’ll head down to the beach. Look out across the waters. It’s a warm day, you’re fine just the way you are.”

  “Can I grab my lotion and shades at least?”

  “Sure.” I wink at her. “Meet you in the car.”

  “Don’t get any ideas, Connor.”

  I lift up both hands. “I promise.”

  I’m such a bad liar.

  11

  Sofia

  I wish he’d stop looking at me like he wants to kiss me. I’m so uptight that I can’t stop grinning, but I don’t want him to see me smile. It only encourages him to flirt more.

  Sitting on a large beach towel on the warm sand, he shifts ever closer to me. He’s shirtless, wearing just a small pair of red shorts and a trendy pair of shades. The sun casts soft shadows under each cut of lean muscle on his body. It’s hard not to appreciate how gorgeous he looks.

  I feel so nervous around him. I hate him, but like him all the same . . .

  It’s so weird . . .

  It’s like that one jock at school you could never stand but who made your heart beat wildly and your stomach do crazy dances. I pride myself on self-control, on my poker face, but my mask is slipping further by the second. I wish he wasn’t being so damn charming all of a sudden. Playing the gentleman instead of the player only makes him seem more attractive.

  Stretched out by our feet is a large hamper full of goodies: Tasty sandwiches, fried lobster, ice-cold champagne, and freshly squeezed fruit juice. The sun shines bright, but the sky carries a pleasant breeze that takes the edge off the heat, and the emerald-green sea shines like a blanket of diamonds just a few feet away from where we sit.

  “So,” he starts, sipping on fruit juice. “Why did you become a reporter?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess I’ve always loved to write.”

  “Fiction?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your paper, they like making up stories don’t they?”

  I frown.

  “I don’t mean to insult you,” he continues. “I mean, most newspapers often blur the truth with lies.”

  “The bad ones, yeah.”

  He looks out across the sea and smirks. “Let me know when you find a good one.”

  I pause for a moment and stare at him. It should be no surprise that his sweet side never lasted. I’m incensed by his disdain for my profession. I should let him know that I think smashing your fist into someone’s face isn’t so noble, but I don’t want to waste time on another petty run-in. I need him to open up to me so I can send my impatient editor an update on my story.

  I pick up the champagne bottle and pour myself a glass. I shouldn’t be drinking, but fuck it . . . I need it around him.

  “Do you have an issue with trust?” I ask.

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know . . . you seem pretty cautious around journalists.”

  He smiles. “Only the ones who don’t look as beautiful as you.”

  My cheeks flush, but I shake myself quickly out of it. “You’re so cheesy.”

  “Hey, if it gets me what I want . . .”

  I sneer. “God, you’re insufferable.”

  “That’s a big word.�
��

  I shake my head and then chuckle. He laughs back and takes another sip of juice. My brows meet. “Not drinking?”

  He pauses and holds up the juice.

  “I meant the champagne,” I say.

  “I’m training.”

  I look out at the vista, which resembles a picture perfect postcard, and grin. “Yeah, sure looks like it.”

  “Why work as a reporter and not write books or something?”

  I huff and switch my attention back to him. “Because it pays the bills. Unless you know a publisher who wants to pay me to write novels.”

  Speechless, he smiles.

  “I thought not. I need the job and it beats working in a coffee shop. Anyway, at least I can use my skills—”

  “And meet up with hot world championship boxers,” he cuts in.

  My lips curl up. “Tell me when you see one.”

  “What, a world champ?”

  “A hot one.”

  We both pause before laughing almost at the same time. After a beat, he removes his shades and leans toward me. His eyes bore into mine and I feel my heart skip a beat.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I whisper.

  He leans closer.

  My breathing hitches. “What?”

  Placing a finger on my right cheek, just below my eye, he strokes across my flushed skin before pulling back. He holds his finger out. “Eyelash.”

  I freeze as he pushes to his feet and wipes the sand off his shorts. “We better head back. My trainer will go crazy if I don’t put in some more work.”

  “I thought you said you are the boss?”

  “I am. But I’m making an executive decision. Besides, I’m not sure I can stay here much longer with you.”

  My brow lowers. “Why not?”

  Gazing down at my bare legs, his jaw sets. “I think you know perfectly well why.”

  12

  Sofia

  I stare up at the ceiling. Aside from the gentle whir of a fan, the room is deathly silent. I turn to my left and peer at the green neon glow of an alarm clock that’s perched on the nightstand. It’s been a whole seven minutes since I last looked.