by Emilia Finn
Hell if she ain’t wrong.
I throw my head back and laugh, then I pull her into my side and continue walking into the gym. “If I catch you dragging your knuckles along the road like an ape, I’ll be a little sad too. Learn how to fight, baby. It’s tradition, after all.”
“Do you think I could be a champion?” Her voice turns quieter as we enter the main room and discover Ben and Mac sparring in the boxing ring.
When I say sparring, I mean they’re beating the shit out of each other; fists, blood, grunts when a hit lands right, and curses when a jab slides straight off.
Ben is marrying my cousin Evie in November. And Mac is dating my other cousin, Bean. Eventually he’ll find the balls to ask her, too, and when that happens, maybe she’ll ask me to escort her down the aisle.
Yes, I’m salty because Evie didn’t ask me to give her away.
Yeah, maybe she has a daddy that will do it. And maybe I’m one of a dozen male cousins she could have picked from. But shit, I’m the oldest! Instead, I get to be a regular wedding guest, and that doesn’t feel special enough for me.
My daddy was called the peacock for a reason… it would appear the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
“Benny hits so hard,” Lyss whispers. She cowers back when he races forward and slams a flying jab to Mac’s jaw, then she crushes her eyes closed when, in reply, Mac spear tackles Ben to the canvas and whales on him.
Best friends outside the ring. Mortal enemies inside.
“Get out, Sasquatch!” Evie stands outside the ring and shouts at her fiancé. “Hips up, dummy! Hips. Up!”
“Hips down,” Bean shouts at Mac. Best friends outside the ring, I laugh. Mortal enemies when a fight is on the line. “His left side is slacking,” she coaches. “Slide around, take that arm. He’ll be your little bitch.”
“Aaaand that’s enough of that.” I hurry Lyss out of the room and into the hall that leads to other training spaces.
She knows us now, she knows this family, and hell, she knows “shit”, but trying to explain to her why Uncle Ben will be Uncle Mac’s bitch is way out of my paygrade for today.
We pass the room with the regulation-sized octagon – my dad is sparring in there – and then the weights room – my mom and aunt laugh and screw around in there. We circle back around, pass a room filled with ladies working on their yoga, and finally, we stop in a room that houses hanging bags, red mats on the floors, and a wall of pads for training. Mirrors line one wall, and a rack of skipping ropes hang nearby, taunting our clients when it’s common knowledge that skipping is a special kind of torture.
As soon as I decide on our room, I push my shoes off and kick them against the wall. Then when Lyss drops to her butt, I help her remove her flashing boots and toss them next to mine. I remove her socks, tickle the bottoms of her feet, and when she squeals and rolls away, I laugh and pull the bag from her back and toss it onto our pile.
She chose a skirt for today, and a pink shirt with a unicorn on the front. She stands and steps into fight stance – left foot forward, right foot back, shoulder-width apart, and her adorable little fists held up in front of her face; she’s been watching us, absorbing information.
I crook a finger and bring her to my lap until she drops down with a heavy thud, then I run my hands through her long hair and work it up into a high ponytail. I thought to grab a hair tie before getting out of the car, so I fish it out of my pocket and secure her hair to keep it out of her eyes.
I boost her out of my lap, push to my feet, then grab her new gloves and hold one open for her to shove her hand into.
“One.” I concentrate on my work, fasten the Velcro, study her beautiful eyes that watch me work, then I open the second glove and repeat. “Two. When you’re a world champion fighter and super badass, I want you to tell them how Uncle Bry gave you your first gloves.”
She giggles.
“Don’t forget,” I playfully snap. “This is important. You’re my legacy, baby girl. I need to get at least a mention in your autobiography.”
Maddi
Public Relations
The Rollin On Gym is a shed in the industrial side of town, sandwiched between other sheds. The parking lot is gravel, and the glass-cutting business next door boasts a beat-up panel van parked outside, while men in work boots and navy-blue pants sit half in, half out of the van and eat sandwiches.
The guys are all older than me – forties or so – and most have Band-Aids on their fingers. I guess working with glass comes with its risks.
Seeing this place, the ugly van, the gravel ground that crunches beneath my heels, and the fact the world-famous gym is just a shed… it’s surprising, I guess. That’s not to say that gyms aren’t allowed to be sheds. I’m certain many are. I’m just surprised this gym is a shed.
And more than that, I’m surprised I never knew this.
Leaning back into my Audi, I snatch up the folders I prepared yesterday at the office – er, before I assaulted Bryan Kincaid’s testicles at the tracks. Then I stand tall again and fix my skirt. My eyes are shielded from the sun with a pair of wide sunglasses, my hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
I cast a fast glance around the parking lot, and don’t see the Chevrolet Camaro I spent so long studying last night, so with a new surge of confidence, I release a deep breath and lift my chin so I can do what I came here to do.
If Bryan was here, I’d still go inside. I’d probably just take a second longer to prepare.
Closing the car door and shoving my keys into my little purse, I turn toward the front doors and head inside with the expectation that the air-conditioning will cool me off. But there’s no cool air to be found. No climate control. No fresh air. Just the sounds of shouting, of fists thudding against bodies. Of heckling, wrestling, and cussing. There’s the smell of deodorant, of some kind of antibacterial cleaner that leans toward pine. And beneath all that… ball sweat.
I don’t mean to be a socialite princess. I swear I don’t mean to be a brat. But ball sweat isn’t something I know. As a result, my top lip curls back, and that’s the face that the first person who walks into the reception area sees.
Ten feet tall, broad like a double wide, roguish with his chocolate brown eyes… He’s not Bryan Kincaid, but he looks a hell of a lot like him.
And I’m standing here with a curled lip. “Uh…”
He’s surprised for a moment, startled by my appearance, but then his eyes flick along my body, my outfit – clearly corporate – and he keeps walking with a chuckle.
He moves behind the short desk and ducks low. A second later, he comes up with a bottle of chilled water. Then a second. “Thirsty?”
“Uh…” I clear my throat. “No thank you.”
Shrugging, he tosses the spare back beneath the desk, then leans on the top and studies my face. “Can I help you?”
“You’re Bobby Kincaid?”
His lips quirk up. Dammit, it’s the same smile his son wears. “Yes I am. You don’t look like a typical fight fan. I mean…” He pushes off the desk and stands tall. “That’s not to say you can’t be. Hell knows, my wife used to dress like you for work.” He pauses. Tilts his head. “You an accountant?”
“Er… no.” I juggle my stack of folders and extend a hand for him to shake. “I’m in public relations, Mr. Kincaid.”
He takes my hand and gives it a fast pump. “Just call me Bobby. ‘Mr. Kincaid’ sounds like I’m paying bail again.”
“Uh… okay.” I laugh. “You do that a lot?”
“My fair share. How can I help you, Miss PR?”
“Oh, shoot! Sorry. My name is Madilyn, and I work for Monaco Auto. I’m head of marketing and public relations there, and I was hoping I could speak to someone here about a collaboration.”
His eyes narrow to dangerous slits as he casts a fresh gaze along my body. “It’s Sunday, Madilyn. Your office usually open on Sundays?”
“No, sir.” I readjust my files and stand tall under his scrutiny. “Um… I u
nderstand this is a cold call. That usually means the asker is the one that would benefit. That often means the askee…”
He points at himself.
I nod. “Suspicion is understandable. Nobody likes a cold call. But what I have to discuss, well, I hope it would be mutually beneficial. We could both make money, get a little press, join two thriving businesses, and pray that it works out.”
He leans against that desk again, his bulging shoulders and wide chest puffed full of blood and adrenaline, and from the sweat sitting on his brow, in his hair, I suspect he was training before he walked out here.
He might be Bryan’s dad, and maybe he’s twice my age, but he’s not old, and he’s not out of the game.
“So, you thought your company, who sells…” He pauses. “Tires?”
“We manufacture car parts, Mr—” I clear my throat. “Bobby. Tires, rims, exhaust systems, steering wheels, all of that cool stuff. I was hoping to speak with the Stacked Deck team.”
“Oh…” He tilts his head a little and grins. “So you’re not looking to work with the gym. Just the tournament?”
“I mean… are they not one and the same?”
He shakes his head. “They are very, very different.” Then he laughs. “You’re gonna wanna talk to the foursome.”
My eyes pop wide. “Hmm?”
He steps around the desk and waves me along to follow. “Evie, Ben, Mac, and Bean. They are Stacked Deck. We’re just their minions. This gym is just somewhere they decided they could train without paying for gym space.”
“Oh… uh… okay.”
I practically run to keep up. My heart pounds in my throat, it threatens to choke me, because I met Bobby Kincaid, and without so much as a police check or a business card exchange, he leads me inside the gym until we stop at a doorway, and I get a view of two women fighting.
And it’s not like giggling jabs and pillow fights. It’s Marvel-movie-style slamming fists, it’s flying feet, spurting spit, and snapped jaws when one of them gets through the other’s shielding fists.
“Holy shit,” I murmur under my breath.
I know who they are, of course I do, but suddenly, my bowels are feeling a little… liquified.
Abort mission. Abort mission!
Bobby chuckles beside me, waits while a clock on the wall counts down – twenty seconds to go – and when the brunette one, Bean, lands a solid fist to Evie’s jaw, he ducks, weaves, grits his teeth when Evie cusses her frustration.
“You fucker!” Evie roars. She drops her shoulders in a heartbeat, pumps her arms, and then she runs at her cousin until the pair slam to the floor with so much power that I swear I feel the concrete foundations vibrate.
The clock buzzes to signify the end of a round, but they don’t stop. Evie climbs onto Bean’s hips, and with fire in her eyes, throws fist after fist at her cousin’s face.
And I stand thirty feet away, stunned and almost in tears, because if someone sat on me like that to hit me, I’d be useless. I’d cry for mercy and pray that my attacker would listen.
Evie rides Bean like a bull, absorbs the way Bean rolls her hips, the way she tries to buck her off, and when they tangle legs and Evie slams to the floor, I literally find myself bringing my files up to half cover my face.
What the hell was I thinking, coming here? What the actual fuck was I thinking, trying to meet with any one of these people?
Alcohol made me brave on Friday. A crowd and a swift knee made me brave last night.
Today, I’m feeling a hell of a lot like the cowardly lion from Oz.
“Girls!” Bobby claps his hands so hard that I jump, and though they don’t stop, the boys that are watching them do.
Wearing only shorts and a pair of fingerless gloves, they each turn and study me with twin grins and curious eyes.
I’ve done my homework, so I know the one on the left, the broader one, is Ben Conner. The groom for that infamous, upcoming wedding. And the skinnier one with a scar that stretches all the way along his chest is Mac Blair. He’s with the chick they call Bean, though I know her real name is Lucy.
I shrink under their gazes. Burn up under their study. Then I jump when Ben snaps out a loud “Eve!”
The girls in the ring fall apart. They drop to the sweat-covered floor amid panting breaths and giggles – giggles! – and a second later, the curly-haired blonde turns to her side, and stops when her eyes meet mine. Hers are bright blue and, despite her giggles from a second ago, dangerous.
I’m a suit inside her shed-gym.
“Who are you?” she demands.
“Evelyn.” Bobby’s word is low, scary as hell, as he waves me forward and leads me closer to the ring. “Guys, this is Madilyn, and she’s from Monaco Auto. She’s head of their PR department.” He looks to me for confirmation. So I nod. He turns back with a grin. “Nailed it. She was hoping she could have a moment with Stacked Deck. Business to discuss, I suppose.”
Evie’s eyes continue to scour me. My shoes, my skirt, my shirt and hair. She turns to Bean for a moment, then back to me. Finally, with narrowed eyes, she looks back to Bean. “We still have that pile of clothes in Daddy’s office?”
Bean nods.
Evie looks back to me. “Sizing’s about right. Uncle Bobby, can you take Madilyn from Monaco PR to Daddy’s office and find her a pair of shorts and a tank? Send her back out here, but without the shoes. We can talk once she’s ready to spar.”
“Wait, what?” My voice literally comes out on a squeak. “I don’t… uh… I never… ha.” I let out a nervous laugh. “You’re funny. I don’t know how to…” I shake my head. “Nuh uh.”
“Uncle B?” She gives Bobby the puppy dog eyes that I’m certain gets her anything she wants in life. “Please?”
“I can’t force a stranger into a room and demand she undress, Smalls. Pretty sure the law frowns upon that.”
“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes and pushes to her hands and knees. Then she flips to her feet and turns to offer a hand for Bean. “What do you want, Madilyn? We’re kinda busy.”
“You… uh…” I point at my own lip. “You’ve got a little blood…”
What the fuck have I walked in on?
“I’m bleeding?” Evie brings her free hand up to swipe at her lip, and when she pulls it away to confirm the words, she releases Bean’s hand and lets her cousin splat back to the floor. “You made me bleed, fucker.”
“Well if you kept your hands up more often, you wouldn’t bleed.” Bean pushes to her feet and snickers when Evie glowers. “I’m not even a fighter anymore, and I’m still better than you.”
“Fuck you are!” Evie turns to run at her cousin, only to be pulled off her feet when Ben dives in and grabs her. “Let me make her bleed, Sasquatch!”
“Let’s try to act professional, Evelyn.” The heavy fighter laughs when Evie throws an elbow back to hit him, then he punctuates it with a noisy kiss to her cheek that turns her to jelly. He pulls her out of the ring, sets her on her feet in front of him, and wraps his beefy arm around her trim stomach.
She has a fucking six-pack!
Ben smiles when he’s got his fiancée under control, then he pushes his shoulders back and looks to me. “You don’t have to fight if you don’t wanna.”
“I’d rather not,” I murmur. Where has the girl from the tracks gone? Where is the girl who was seven bottles deep on Friday night? “I would probably cry, to be honest.”
He chuckles. “How can we help you, Madilyn?”
“Um…” I stumble forward a couple steps until I’m no longer on concrete, but on rubber mats. I juggle my folders, snag out the cover letter – I spent all day yesterday working on it – and offer it to the least scary person here. The irony isn’t lost on me that the biggest is the most approachable. “I work in the public relations and marketing department of Monaco Auto.”
“Okay…” He lets his eyes scan my letter. “I don’t need a new car, so…”
“Uh, no…” I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. “I
was actually thinking along a different line. My company enjoys sponsoring sporting events. We would negotiate pricing, and in exchange, you offer us a promo package and a plug when you stream your tournament each year.”
Evie’s lip curls back much the same as mine did when I walked in. “You wanna buy ad space at our tournament?”
I swallow and take a step back when the other chick, Lucy, joins the couple, and brings her fighter boyfriend with her. They could kill me. Literally. With their fists. “In a nutshell, yes. We would buy ad space. You sell millions of streaming subscriptions a year for folks wanting to watch your fights. We would buy a twenty-second ad during that live feed, plus have a sign or two displayed on the outside of the octagon.”
Evie’s eyes narrow. “So… we built this tournament ourselves, we backed it with our own money, we busted our asses to create a successful event, and now that we’ve done that…” She leans a little closer. “You’d like to put your name on it. Am I hearing you right?”
“Well… uh…” I nod. “Yes.”
She bursts out laughing. “Get the fuck outta here, Corporate Barbie. We built it!” She points to the three other members of her exclusive little club. “We did! We busted our fucking asses to make it happen. We bled for it, cried for it, trained so fucking hard and ensured it would all work out. We took all the risks, and even when we win our own divisions, we don’t get to keep our prize money, because that shit goes straight back into the bank to make sure we can continue paying bills.” She shakes her head, not to say no, but as though to shake around a little sense. “Why the fuck would I let you piggyback on that?”
“Smalls…” Again, Bobby does that low timbre of his. He lifts a brow, and takes a step closer, as though to cut me out of the conversation. “Back in my day, this was called an endorsement deal. We worked our asses off, we created our own brand and empire, but in our spare time, we pretended to drink the most fashionable sports drink and wear the sexiest sneakers. That’s how endorsements work. In exchange, those brands give you money.”
Evie looks to me. “How much money?”