by EMILIE ROSE
He stalled by spinning his chair around and staring at his wall calendar, noting the dates of all the different MMA events the gym’s clients were involved in. “Kyle?” Liz prompted.
“Nothing important. He was just calling in to check on us.” And tell me to behave myself. And sell more memberships. And be nice to Bella Fiore. Or else.
Liz looked like she wanted to say something, but whatever it was, she held back. “Bella’s warming up now. You need to go and greet her properly before she gets the wrong idea about you.” With that, she departed.
Of course, Liz was right. He had to play nice with Bella Fiore. Her family name had been the only reason he’d agreed to train her in the first place, and he hated to admit it, but he needed her reputation more than she needed his.
He wasn’t about to tell her that, though.
CHAPTER TWO
BELLA SURREPTITIOUSLY WATCHED Kyle Peters through the bars of the open vertical blinds covering his office windows. How long would she have to wait before he acknowledged her presence? Her temper simmered. She refused to be treated like a second-class student the way her grandfather and the rest of the family had treated her....
Calm down. You just got here, and Liz did say he’s cranky. She couldn’t take this slight personally. The guy didn’t even know her, and she had come on strong—one of her less attractive traits, according to her grandfather Fulvio.
She should probably cut Kyle some slack. Maybe he was simply having a bad morning.
Yet with every minute he made her wait, her doubts about leaving Brazil grew. Her family all thought she was crazy to pursue her professional fighting career against Fulvio’s wishes. Marco had been the only one who’d stuck up for her and suggested she go to New Orleans to work on her wrestling skills and take-down techniques.
“Avô will never give you what you need here,” he’d said. “You need to get away from the Fiore system. In the States, you’ll have teachers who are willing to work with you, if for no other reason than your blood ties.”
The Fiore name might open doors, but Bella wanted to be recognized as a fighter in her own right. She was more than the granddaughter of Fulvio Fiore, father of the Fiore BJJ system.
“Thought I’d bring you a T-shirt.” Liz interrupted her reverie and handed her a black cotton tee. “Don’t feel that you have to wear it—they’re too hot to train in. I think Kyle’s the only one who actually wears one on a regular basis.”
Bella slipped it on over top of her moisture-wicking short-sleeved rash guard. It was stifling, but she wanted to show her new boss and coach she was willing to be a part of the team. T-shirt solidarity could be unifying, couldn’t it?
“He should be out any minute. He’d never admit it, but calls with Hadrian Blackwell rattle him.”
“Bad news?” Bella’s question ended with a wry, speculative twist in her tone. She’d heard rumors about how phone calls with the UFF president often went.
“Let me put it this way. He doesn’t call to ask how the kids are doing. A call from Hadrian means it’s either horrifically bad news or stunningly good news.” She glanced back at Kyle and pursed her lips, and Bella got the distinct impression they rarely got the latter.
Bella looked at Kyle, too. He was gathering some papers off his desk and taking his sweet time about it. “You ever meet him?” Bella asked.
“You mean Hadrian? Yeah, once, when he cut the ribbon on this place.” She wrinkled her nose. “He called me ‘sweetheart’ and told me to get him a bottle of water.”
Bella nodded. She’d met the UFF president on a couple of occasions when he’d visited the flagship Fiore studio in São Paulo in the early days of the UFF. He hadn’t said much to her, either, but she’d only just started competitive fighting at the time, and with the rest of the boys around...well, being passed over wasn’t anything new to her.
“Careful,” Liz teased. “Your tongue’s going to start hanging out soon.”
Bella blinked. “Sorry?”
She tipped her chin toward Kyle. “You’re not the first girl to look at him like that.” Liz smiled wryly as Bella’s cheeks heated. She hadn’t even realized she’d been staring, much less drooling. “Pretty much every girl who walks through those doors falls for Kyle. He’s like a freaking calendar model.”
Bella chuckled. “I see the appeal, but I’ve been surrounded by muscly men my whole life. It takes more than a little flexing to get my attention.” Though not much more where Kyle was concerned. She’d followed his career too closely to deny more intimate knowledge of his life.
Liz shrugged as if to say we’ll see. But there was something of a warning in her look, too. Was it for Bella, or was she warning her away from the boss?
Finally, Kyle emerged, a clipboard in hand. “Bella Fiore.” He said it as though he were calling someone in line for a colonoscopy.
She stepped forward gamely and said, “Hi, Bella, I’m Kyle Peters.” She met his cool look with a goofy smile. When his face didn’t crack at her humor, she sagged and sighed. “Are we trying for a do-over? Because you really suck at them.”
Lines appeared between his eyebrows, cracking his stoic mask. “Is everything a joke to you?”
“Just this conversation. But I’m all about second, third and fourth chances. I like to get things right. Let’s try this again.” She stuck out a hand. “Hi. I’m Bella Fiore. Sorry about scaring you on the road earlier.”
He gripped her hand and slowly pumped it. “Kyle Peters.” No apologies for his rudeness. No “very nice to meet you” as he practically crushed her fingers.
“You always hold a girl’s hand this tight?” she asked sweetly, squeezing right back. “I usually get taken out for dinner first.”
He let go abruptly and took a step back. She folded her arms over her chest to keep from flexing her fingers. “I hope you realize this is a serious place of business,” he said, his demeanor icing over. “Our clients expect a certain level of professionalism.”
“I think I know how to deal with clients.” Wow. Who’d sucked the fun out of him? Marco had warned her that Kyle was charming and quite the ladies’ man. Well, whoever he’d been talking about, it wasn’t this cheerless drill sergeant. She didn’t care how hunky he was—the guy was a cuzão.
He settled the edge of the clipboard against his hard, flat stomach. “I’ve got you scheduled to teach a few of the free classes open to new and potential members. I have the last teacher’s notes if you need them, but you can design the programs however you like.” He handed her a sheet. Apparently, they were jumping right into things. Which would’ve been fine, except...well, she hadn’t been sure what to expect.
This wasn’t a Fiore studio run by her family and close friends—it was an official UFF gym, backed by one of the biggest MMA fight promoters in the world. What were the rules and expectations here? Were they stricter about how employees used their time?
“We’ll also be hosting a booth at a local health and fitness fair on the first weekend of November. You’ll be expected to take a shift, give demonstrations and do the setup and takedown.”
She scanned the schedule Kyle had handed her and scowled. “What’s ‘Bootyfit’?”
“It’s a class primarily for high-impact aerobics and core strengthening. It’ll be your responsibility to pull together the program.”
“And this—‘Girlicious Foxy Boxing’?”
“Women’s-only kickboxing. Noncombative striking, aerobic focused. Tito helps out in that class. You two can put your heads together and figure out how you’ll teach it.”
“Why didn’t you call it aerobic kickboxing?”
“Because guys who are serious about fighting would be disappointed by the class and girls won’t join it at all. These classes are meant to attract members outside our core demographic. I don’t know if you noticed, but this is
an MMA gym. That label doesn’t inspire a lot of women to come through those doors.”
“And nothing reels women in like a class that teaches them to shake their booty while men gawk at them from the weight room.” Most women she knew would be happy to simply work out in a fun class. They didn’t need to be reminded that they had to be foxylicious or bootytastic or tittytacular or whatever.
His look grew stony. “The classes are held in the upper studio. And you should know that there are strict rules about harassment in place here at Payette’s. All my employees and clients are expected to behave appropriately. No double standards.” His viciously stern tone made her flinch. Bella did not like being talked down to. She was on the verge of snapping back at him when, thankfully, Liz intervened.
“Boss? Everything okay?” She glanced between them questioningly.
Bella hadn’t realized they were standing toe to toe like two growling pit bulls. Kyle broke away and rubbed tiny circles into his right temple. “It’s fine. It’s nothing.”
The receptionist gave him a look like a mother threatening a time-out, then went back to her desk.
Bella let out a breath. Less than an hour in and she was already picking fights with the boss. She knew she was antagonizing Kyle partly because it was too easy to mess with someone that uptight. Kyle reminded her of her grandfather—as unsmiling and unyielding as a stone gargoyle. The guy had to have a funny bone somewhere beneath all that tightly wound muscle. She could practically see his high blood pressure throbbing through the veins on his corded neck. What he needed was a long vacation.
Or a good lay.
But as much as she wanted to shake him up, she couldn’t keep poking the bear. Bella folded her hands behind her and bowed her head. If she wanted to work with the best wrestler in the biz, she had to dial it back. “I apologize. Again.” She had a feeling she’d be doing that a lot with him. The thought grated. “As long as there are people taking the class, it doesn’t matter what it’s called.”
“It’s half-full now,” he said tautly.
He ran through the rest of the schedule with her. She would teach four classes a week and give physical assessments and personal training sessions. The rest of the time she could spend training.
“Don’t expect my guys to drop everything for you,” he warned. “Some have their own fights to train for and clients on the side. Do you have fights coming up?”
She’d been looking, but opponents in the women’s 155-pound weight class were few and far between. “No.”
“Then you won’t be a priority. We focus on the clients with upcoming matches as we get closer to the dates.”
And just like that, he’d dismissed her again. “I’m still looking for my next fight. But in the meantime, I’m happy to settle in here, learn the ropes.” She tried for a smile but was sure she was baring her teeth at him.
Kyle nodded. “Good. I’ll have Tito start conditioning with you.”
“And then?”
“And then we’ll see.” He started to walk stiffly away, but paused and said over his shoulder, “I wasn’t scared, you know.”
“Scared?”
“When you came up to me on your bike. I wasn’t scared of you. But you messed with my car. If you’d been a guy, I would’ve probably punched you in the face.”
Bella tilted her chin up unapologetically, not in the least intimidated. “This is going to be a thing between us, isn’t it?”
His look was stone-cold. “Just don’t touch my car again.”
* * *
AT THE END of the day, Bella opened the windows in her apartment to let in the damp night air. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend she was back in São Paulo. Of course, there it would be getting hotter as summer encroached while in New Orleans, the summer season was tapering off. The idea of living through two winters in one year kind of depressed her—not that winter in New Orleans would be like anything she’d experienced when she’d gone to university in Canada. She was grateful for that.
She checked her watch and right on time, the phone rang. She picked up.
“Querida, tudo bem?”
“I’m good, Mamãe.” Her mother, Ana, had called every day since she’d arrived in New Orleans. “I started at Payette’s today.”
“Did you make any friends?”
“I suppose.” Except for Kyle, she thought acerbically. But that had been partly her fault. “Cómo está o Papai?”
“Your father misses you, but Fulvio keeps him too busy to mope.”
“Is Fulvio still mad?”
“Your grandfather?” Ana blew out a breath noisily. “Who knows? He hasn’t said anything, but that’s Fulvio. You know what he can be like when he doesn’t get his way.”
“I guess the silent treatment is better than the yelling treatment.” Though Bella wasn’t entirely certain that was true. They’d parted on terrible terms, and the guilt of storming out on him ate at her conscience. She loved her grandfather—he’d taught her almost everything she knew about fighting. But she couldn’t let him dictate her future.
She asked after her brothers, and her mother went on at length about their various clients, fights and adventures in the gym. Bella was content to simply listen. She could tell Ana missed having her daughter around to talk to. She missed her mother, too. But Ana understood why she’d had to leave.
“So, did you get your driver’s license yet?”
“I told you, my bike is enough. I didn’t go through the trouble of shipping it here so that I could buy a car.”
“No one in America rides bicycles. Some crazy idiot in an SUV is going to get you killed.”
She thought about her encounter with Kyle and smiled to herself. “I’ll be fine. My apartment is barely a thirty-minute ride from the gym. I rode everywhere back home, and you never complained.”
“You never heard me complain is all. Worrying about you took years off my life.”
“I wear a helmet. Besides, I face worse every time I spar.”
“Don’t remind me.” She sighed. “I realize this is your dream, Bella, even if no one here approves. But I want you to know I love you and all I want is for you to be happy and safe.”
“I can promise I’ll be one of those things. But probably not both. Not by your definition.”
“Bella...”
“I’m taking all the precautions. I never do anything I don’t think I’m capable of. I was trained by the best.”
After they hung up, Bella was restless. Her first day had been a paperwork and orientation kind of day, and while her brain was tired, her body wasn’t. She got dressed and went for a walk.
She wasn’t too far from Bourbon Street, so she pointed herself toward the district. As she meandered along the famous strip, she was surprised by the number of people out on a Monday night. Weaving through the crowd, it was hard to imagine what the weekend would look like.
She peeked into the bars as she passed, then walked into one that suited her—clean, classy, with modern furnishings and an extensive menu. TV screens showed sports highlights, a baseball game and, more importantly, an MMA fight.
She parked herself at the corner of the bar closest to the screen showing the fight. She ordered a bottle of beer. She didn’t normally drink when she was training, but it didn’t seem right to order water.
She nursed her drink as she watched the fight, studying the two lightweights’ techniques. She knew of one of them—Alessander Mortensen, an up-and-comer who specialized in judo. He’d trained briefly with her brothers in São Paulo. His opponent, Mike Bourne, danced out of the other man’s reach, striking and weaving, but not getting any significant hits in. The guy was afraid.
“Oh, c’mon!” she yelled at the screen. The match ended to a round of boos. Bourne had let the clock run out, evading Mortensen as long as po
ssible, scoring points with cheap kicks to the shins. Sadly, she couldn’t say that Mortensen was doing any better.
“I didn’t know chicks watched this stuff.” A man slid up next to her. He smelled like uncooked ground beef. “Can I buy you a drink?”
She barely spared him a glance. “No thanks. I already have one.”
The man asked the bartender for two beers anyway. “What is it about these fights that chicks like? Two greased-up guys mounting each other? That’s pretty gay.”
She turned cold eyes toward him. He might have been okay looking in a certain light, but the words coming out of his mouth spoiled any such illusions. “I like watching the fights because it’s what my family and I do for a living. And as for your homophobic comment, I won’t even dignify that with a response. Now take your cheap-ass beers and go away. I’m trying to enjoy the fight.”
He slid closer. “Aw, don’t be like that. I didn’t mean—”
“Read between the lines, asshole.” She raised her voice so everyone in the place would hear. “You insulted me. You blew it. Now leave me alone.”
“Hey, buddy.” A presence as oppressive as a storm front pushed into her personal space from behind. The hairs on Bella’s neck rose. “Is there a problem?”
The beefy-smelling man snatched up his beers and grumbled, “Dyke bitch,” as he shuffled off.
“We’re good here,” she ground out, keeping one eye on the man. “Just giving this creep his walking papers.” She challenged him with a level look when he turned and glared, but his eyes canted to her protector and he moved on.
“Were you planning on starting a bar fight here tonight? You don’t want to get banned before you’ve tried their shrimp po’boy sandwiches.” Kyle took the guy’s place next to her, staying close until the man made it back to his table.
“If he started something, I would’ve finished it.” She took a long pull of her beer to soothe her nerves.
“I don’t doubt it. But I’d hate to have to explain to your family why I had to bail you out of jail when you haven’t been here a week.”