Win by Submission

by Melynda Price

  Katie parked her RAV in the MSP parking lot and stepped out, burying her booted foot in six inches of snowy slush. “Dammit,” she grouched, setting her other one into the muck now that she was already committed. Hiking the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she slammed the door shut and tromped across the parking lot to the Delta 1 terminal.

  The bitter wind gusted, cutting right through her plaid pea coat. Reaching up, she pinched the collar closed with her fur-lined glove and quickened her pace. She’d just stepped through the roundabout doors and into the pick-up/baggage claim, when she spotted said Beast, riding down the escalator—in a freaking wheelchair! What in the hell was this guy doing? It was bad enough his back was broken, was he trying to break his neck next?

  Katie raced toward the moving stairs, her calf-high boots with the horribly impractical three-inch spiked heels clapping loudly across the atrium, drawing almost as much attention as the daredevil in the wheelchair. She wasn’t sure what she could possibly do if he fell—get run over, most likely—but for some crazy reason, she planted herself between the man and the bottom of the stairs. It wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done, but the only thing she could imagine right now was the horror of calling her uncle and telling him his prizefighter gacked in the MSP terminal from a cervical fracture.

  The man seemed to register there was a problem before she did. And as he approached the end of his ride, a dumbfounded expression flashed crossed his face. He was probably thinking the same thing she was: Why in the hell isn’t she getting out of the way?

  “Lady, you need to move!” he called down to her, his deep, rich voice holding a distinct tone of warning and alarm.

  Yes. Yes, she did, she suddenly realized, because the Beast of the East was headed right for her. The only problem was, her icepick heel happened to be stuck in the grate at the bottom of the stairs. Katie tried to lift her foot again, but it wouldn’t budge. Again, the man warned her to move, this time with a bit of profanity. Damn, he was approaching fast.

  The fighter shot a quick glance behind him, probably checking to see if the area was clear and looking as if he had every intention of forcing that chair back up those stairs. But he couldn’t move. People were actually crowding in behind him, openly staring. Some began to whisper among themselves, and she was pretty sure she heard someone say, “Oh, my God, that’s Cole Easton! Why won’t that stupid woman get out of his way?”

  Another replied, “She must be a crazy fan or something.”

  Like watching a train wreck about to happen, but unable to look away, the escalator gawkers seemed to take a collective gasp as they waited for impact. Cole cursed. Katie squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for impact as she gave her heel one final yank.

  It popped free just as Cole collided with her. She let out a startled yelp as an arm wrapped around her waist and lifted her off the ground. The momentum sent Katie falling forward, and her hands shot out to keep her from catapulting over the man’s head. She grabbed his shoulders, which felt like she was clutching rock, and braced herself, but not before planting her stomach into his face. She felt like one of those Olympic ice skaters, suspended in the air—only a lot less graceful. With his chair now one hand short, they coasted to a slow, gliding stop, and the terminal erupted into a chorus of clapping cheers and wolf whistles.

  Cole cursed again—a muffled expletive she couldn’t exactly hear through her coat—and she wondered if it was possible to die of embarrassment. She prayed the answer was Yes, it is, and that Jesus would just take her now, because this, without a doubt, was the most humiliating experience of her life.

  No such luck. The heavens did not open, and there was no beam of light to suck her up into glory. Shit . . .

  Cole leaned forward and set her on the ground, none-too-gently, and then leaned back, pinning her with a what the fuck was that? scowl.

  She had to admit, this probably wasn’t the best time to admire how blue and unnaturally bright his eyes were. The words that came to mind as she stared at him were fire and ice, leaving her feeling like she’d been touched by both. She’d watched his last fight and thoroughly Google-stalked him, but good Lord, the camera didn’t do him justice, that was for sure. The lens failed to capture the proper angle of his chiseled jaw, or the regal line of his impossibly straight nose. Fighters just didn’t look like this . . .

  But then she noticed the thin scar over his right cheekbone and the white vertical line through the vermillion border of his bottom lip—now those fit. Unfortunately, they only seemed to add to his looks, giving him a raw, dangerous edge. Were it not for the masculine fullness of his mouth, his face would have been too fierce, too severe, to call handsome. But as it happened, Cole Easton, aka the Beast of the East, was positively the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on.

  “What in the hell were you thinking?” he demanded, snapping her back into reality and looking wholly pissed off as bystanders’ cell-phone cameras flashed all around them.

  Katie took a respective step back, and the heel of her boot wobbled precariously. Losing her balance, she rolled her ankle and winced against the burst of pain shooting into her foot. How utterly mortifying. “My heel was stuck in the grate,” she tried to explain, but yeah . . . it didn’t sound any better out loud than it had in her head.

  He gave her a skeptical scowl as if trying to decide whether she was telling him the truth or what?—trying to assault him by planting her gut in his face? Jeez, that he even had to wonder said volumes about what it must be like to be Cole Easton on any given day. Maybe he had women feigning accidents and throwing themselves at him all the time, but this was definitely a first for her. Perhaps an introduction would help. At this point, she doubted it could hurt.

  “Cole Easton . . . ?” She asked his name, just to make sure she’d assaulted the right man, and got her answer when he gave her an arched look that said, Seriously? Cut the crap, lady, and crossed his arms over his broad, muscular chest.

  Having no clue what else to do or say, she thrust out her hand and, with more confidence than she was feeling, stepped forward and said, “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Katie Miller, your physical therapist.”

  Surprise briefly registered in those icebergs called eyes before he quickly shuttered his expression. Slowly, as if he still didn’t trust her not to jump him, he unfolded his arms and took her hand in a firm grip, shaking it. The moment their palms connected, a jolt of awareness raced up her arm, zinged into her breasts and headed south like she was a freaking pinball machine. The unexpected spark of pure, unadulterated lust startled her, and she pulled her hand back.

  At her tugging, he released his grasp on her hand. His keen gaze narrowed with disapproval and she could all but hear him thinking, Strike two. “I assure you, Ms. Miller, I don’t bite—at least not unless you ask nicely.”

  Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment and she dropped her eyes, unable to hold his eerie azure stare another second. Wow, she pitied Cole’s opponents. She hadn’t been the recipient of that glower for sixty seconds and already she wanted to tap.

  This was a bad idea. And to make an awkward situation worse, she couldn’t tell if he was flirting with her, because that usually involved smiling, and so far Cole hadn’t cracked so much as a grin.

  Opting to ignore his comment and possibly inappropriate offer, because she’d already made a big enough ass of herself today, Katie cleared her throat and forced herself to meet his bold stare. “The umm . . . baggage claim is down the hall. We should probably head over there. It’s about an hour’s drive to Somerset from here.” She swept her gaze over him and added, “Is that all you’re wearing?—because if it is, we need to stop somewhere and get you a coat. It’s negative five out there right now and expected to hit twenty by tonight.”

  “Below zero?” He looked as if she’d just told him the moon had turned to blood and it was the dawn of the apocalypse or something.

  “Yes. Twenty—below zero.”

  “Shit . . .” he grumbled under his
breath, looking as if he was contemplating turning that chair of his around and hauling his ass back up the escalator. Katie had no doubt if he had a mind to do it, there’d be no stopping him. Despite his current disabled state, there was something about Cole Easton that seemed larger than life. Even in a chair, the man was intimidating as hell. His broad shoulders and definably muscled chest stretched the limits of his worn-out Dr. Pepper T-shirt. His long tree-trunk legs didn’t fit the confines of the chair very well at all, and his combat boots well overshot the foot rests.

  As she stood there staring at him, a single thought kept playing over and over in her mind—You don’t belong in there. Something inside her chest stirred at the injustice wrought upon this man, and Katie inexplicably found herself wanting to fight for him, to champion his cause, but Cole didn’t exactly strike her as a man who would ever let anyone fight his battles.

  Her gaze strayed to his scarred hands, and she noticed his knuckles were blanched white. He gripped the wheels of his chair so tightly, the ropes of muscles tracking up his forearms flexed in an impressive display of masculine power.

  Katie’s pulse quickened with feminine awareness, and it suddenly felt much too hot in here—until she met Cole’s stare again and got hit with an arctic blast of what the fuck are you staring at?

  “Perhaps you guys do things differently here in the Midwest, but where I come from, it’s rude to stare. I didn’t fly halfway across the United States for your pity, Ms. Miller. So let’s get something straight right now. I don’t want to be here. I’m doing this for Marcus because he refuses to accept what countless doctors have already told him. I’m not going to fight again. Hell, I’ll probably never walk again, so between you and me, you’re wasting your time.”

  Spoken just like a typical headstrong, arrogant athlete. If she’d needed a reminder why she hated working with these cocksure jocks, well, here it was. Schooling her features to match his bullheaded attitude, she replied, “Well then, I guess that makes two of us.”

  His brow arched in surprise as if he’d expected her to try to convince him otherwise, and she nearly laughed. Cole wasn’t the only one who could be blunt, so if that was the way he wanted to play it, that was the way he was gonna get it. “As long as you have that pissy, dogmatic attitude, I am wasting my time. I’ve reviewed your medical records and I happen to agree with my uncle. Between you and me”—she paused dramatically, throwing his words right back at him—“the only reason I agreed to take your case was because, as I’m sure you well know, my uncle Marcus is nearly impossible to say no to. He thinks the world of you. Though as of yet, I can’t see why.”

  Turning away, she headed toward the baggage claim and tried like hell not to roll her ankle as the heel of her boot wobbled. The brisk staccato of her boots—clip, clomp, clip, clomp—proudly proclaimed her ire.

  A moment later, Cole went whisking by her, maneuvering that chair as if he’d been in it all his life. Then again, as far as first impressions went, she couldn’t imagine Cole ever letting anything dominate him. Well, this was certainly going to be fun. Katie made a mental note to tell her uncle Marcus, Fuck you very much.

  By the time she reached the baggage claim, Cole had his duffel on the ground and was yanking a charcoal-gray hoodie over his head. After poking his arms through the sleeves, he pulled the waist down and dragged the hood off, leaving his dark hair a sexy, disheveled mess. Zipping the bag shut, he propped the single piece of luggage on his lap, and spun his chair around to face her. CFA was emblazoned across the front of his duffel, and for some reason, seeing that logo hit her with a wallop of reality.

  This was Cole’s life—his career—and the only thing standing between him and ruination was her. In that moment, she felt a renewed sense of purpose and a deep desire to help this man, but she was quick to avert her gaze lest he confuse it with pity.

  Cole led the way as if he knew where he was going. The heel on Katie’s boot continued to loosen until she wobbled precariously with each step, forcing her to slow down before she twisted her ankle again. When they neared the exit, Cole turned down the hall and stopped at a bench outside the bathrooms.

  “Sit down,” he told her as she approached.

  Katie bristled at his command and stopped short of the bench, everything inside her immediately revolting at his overbearing briskness. Most of the time when her panic attacks hit, she could get someplace quiet and ride them out, talking herself down from the sudden rise of adrenaline surging in her veins. The triggers were never the same, but they were always instantaneous—the familiar scent of cologne, the tone of a man’s voice . . .

  The noose of dread squeezed her throat, trapping the air in her lungs. She couldn’t breathe! The instinct to flee was riding her hard, and if she thought she could outrun him, she might have done just that. Cole reminded her too much of him. Not in looks, but in that masculine, domineering arrogance . . . Lord, what was she thinking? This was such a mistake! How had she ever thought she could help this man? She couldn’t even help herself, for crissake!

  Katie stumbled another step back and her ankle buckled. Cole’s hand shot out to steady her. His grip on her arm was firm, but gentle—nothing like his, she reminded herself. She took several deep breaths and focused on Cole’s touch as an anchor to reality before her mind took her someplace it didn’t want to go. There was no pain, only steadying strength—no malice or suspicion in his eyes, just a mixture of surprise and concern.

  Stop it! You’re all right, she scolded herself, repeating the mantra over and over inside her head. Dammit, it’d been almost a month since she’d had one of these panic attacks. She was so certain she’d finally made a breakthrough in putting the past behind her. How could she let a bossy stranger get to her like this?

  “Hey, you okay?” Cole asked, guiding her to the bench.

  Numbly, she nodded and plopped down across from him.

  “Well, you don’t look all right,” he added unhelpfully. Letting go of her arm, he sat his bag on the ground and unzipped the side pouch. Pulling out a roll of fighter’s tape, he learned forward and caught hold of her thigh, lifting her foot onto his lap. “You’re going to break your ankle in these boots,” he grumbled, pulling off a long strip of the white tape and ripping it free of the roll with his teeth. Grasping her ankle, he lifted her leg and wrapped the tape around the heel of her boot, crossing over the top of her foot, and weaving it around her heel a few more times.

  “Believe it or not, these boots have great traction,” she replied. Thankfully, the surge of panic began to recede as quickly as it’d come. “This heel is like an icepick sticking into the ground.”

  His dark brow arched as he glanced up from his tape job. His top lip twitched, not quite breaking into a smile. “So I’ve noticed.”

  Was this his attempt at making a joke? He sealed the end of the tape across her boot and wiggled the heel to test his wrap job. “There,” he said, setting her foot on the ground. “Only one of us gets to be the cripple, and that’s me. Sorry.” He dropped the tape back into his bag and zipped it shut before hefting it onto his lap and putting his chair into motion.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled, unsure what else to say. Either Cole Easton had a very dry sense of humor, or he was just about the snarkiest man she’d ever met.

  By the time Katie caught up with him, Cole was at the edge of the sidewalk. It had just quit snowing, and the plows hadn’t been by yet to clear the roads. The slush was thick. It wouldn’t be easy for him to navigate his chair through this muck. Without thinking, she stepped behind him and grasped the chair’s handles, setting them in motion. Cole immediately grabbed the wheels, stopping them more effectively than the brakes, and whipped his head around to glower at her.

  “What are you doing?”

  Startled, Katie froze. “I . . . I’m helping you,” she babbled lamely. “Through the snow.”

  “Well, I don’t need your help!”

  But wasn’t that why he was here in the first place? Though judging by t
he scowl on his face, she didn’t particularly think now was the best time to point that out. She didn’t want to do anything to further incite his ire. When he continued to stare pointedly at her hands, she realized she’d yet to let go of the handles and jerked her hands back as if they’d burned her.

  He gave the wheels a hard shove, shooting out into the street. The chair cut through the slush like a knife through hot butter, and Katie stood there dumbly, in awe of the upper body strength he possessed to be able to move like that.

  Cole must have realized she wasn’t following him, because he suddenly stopped in the middle of the street and looked back at her. His scowl darkened, and she fought the involuntary shudder rising up inside her.

  “Are you coming?” he asked curtly. “I have no idea where you’re parked. Unfortunately, I lost my psychic abilities along with the use of my legs.” He gave a negligent shrug. “Who knew?”

  Yeah, Cole was definitely bitter, and she could add sarcastic smartass to the fighter’s character analysis as well. His exhaled breath billowed in the frigid air, which no doubt did zero to sweeten his disposition. The wind must have been cutting right through that hoodie.

  “It’s the silver RAV across the street,” she called, stepping into the slushy road. As she entered the parking lot, she dug into her purse, fishing for her keys. Finding the hot pink cylinder in the bottom of her bag, she pulled out the pepper spray key chain and started her car with the remote.

  The lights flashed and the car fired up, leaving no doubt which SUV was hers. As she popped the hatch, she was pretty sure she heard him grumbling something about, “colder than a well-digger’s ass” and finally having proof that hell has indeed frozen over.