“Oh.” I give him a patient smile. “So you didn’t bother to ask?”
“No,” he admits.
“I see.” I meet his eyes for several seconds without looking away.
“Damn,” he finally speaks. “This could be a big problem, you know.”
“Not for me.” I speak with assurance.
He glances around. “Are you sure about that?” The corners of his mouth turn up, ever so slightly.
My gaze follows his around the gym. There’s no shortage of slick sculpted male muscle in here, and this gym has a different vibe than other places I’ve worked. But I need this job and a place to train.
“Yes.” I try to project confidence.
Rodgers shakes his head and sighs. “Let’s continue this conversation in private.”
He gestures toward a staircase and we walk together silently. I take a seat on the step he indicates, while he remains standing and props his large elbow along the metal railing.
“This interview got off on the wrong foot.” He leans over the rail and down toward me. “You come highly recommended, and it would be foolish for me to ignore that.”
“Thank you.” My instincts tell me the less I say, the better.
“I was told you’re leaving Chong Kim’s because of a schedule change?”
“Yes.” Even now, the old danjo is a hike for me. With school, it’s way too much.
Rodgers nods. “Tell me about your experience as an instructor.”
“I’ve taught taekwondo, kick boxing, self-defense. Families, children. Junior competitors. On and off for about nine years.”
“Excellent.” Rodgers nods. “Do you compete yourself?”
“Only as needed to advance my rank and if time permits.” I hesitate, then continue, “I have a physically demanding day job that I need to keep.”
His eyes leave my face and a pensive look settles over him. “Let’s head up,” he tells me.
I suppress a sigh of relief as we climb the stairs together. Two adjacent workout rooms lie on each side of the staircase, with a row of sturdy equipment lockers between their entrances. Murmurs of conversation flow out from the room nearest the staircase. Rodgers halts our progress at the top of the stairs and continues our conversation in the hall.
“Last month, I got rid of the tenant from hell.” His voice is a mixture of relief and disgust. “I’m not doing that again, so I need to revamp my taekwondo and kickboxing programs. I’m losing too many students and without a tenant, I can't afford to anymore.”
“Why do they leave and where do they go?” I ask.
“They leave because I train pro fighters, and not everyone can or even wants to train at that level.” He snorts in disgust. “I have a good reputation. It brings in clients. But many don’t stay, and I lose a lot to yoga studios and mega chains.”
“I see.” Now I understand why he hadn’t changed his mind on the spot when he saw me. My old danjo had an after-school program that was at capacity five days a week. In the evenings at seven adult classes began. Taekwondo, self-defense, recreational kickboxing, even master classes for serious practitioners. Everyone was on a contract, which provided substantial cash flow.
“So you want me to teach the less competitive classes?” I’m relieved to find myself in familiar territory.
“Yes. Taekwondo and kickboxing, Thursday evenings and Saturday mornings. You’re welcome to use the weights and bags. If you want to train in one of the master classes, let me know.”
“Thanks.”
“As I said in the email, I’d like to observe you teaching tonight’s taekwondo class.” Rodgers gestures toward the occupied room. “I see you’re dressed for it. Ready?”
“Sure.”
He waves me inside the mat room, where I walk alone to the front corner. My coat and backpack slide off together and land in a crumpled heap on the floor. Tightening my belt with its four golden notches, I move to the front of the room.
“Hi, everyone. My name is Louise and I’ll be teaching this class tonight.”
The students line up in rows across the room as they take their places on the mats. Relief settles over me as I recognize the familiar types that populate multi-level martial arts classes. That’s a good thing, because right now I’ve never felt so out of place in a gym before.
Awkward teenage boys, looking for ways to deal with bullies besides getting their asses kicked. A bunch of young practical women, interested in learning self-defense but hoping to never apply it. A few urban professionals who know that nothing beats stress like striking a bag, pad, or person. There’re even a few mid-lifers and a grannie or two, trying to keep fit without getting bored.
“Since you all have different reasons for being here, please break out into groups according to your goals. Introduce yourselves if you don’t already know each other.” For each goal, I point to different sections of the room. “Fitness, self-defense, competitive ambitions. If you have more than one goal, go to the group of your most important goal.”
After the students find their groups, we begin the warm-up, calling out exercises while I wander through to learn names, skill levels, goals and to correct form when needed.
“Nice job everyone.” My announcement ends the warm up. “Let’s work on basic forms. I’ll lead them up through the advanced forms.”
Facing my reflection on the large mirrored wall, we begin with the first form. I love forms. They are almost like yoga. They appear deceptively simple at first and then your mind becomes engaged to get them right. Then, before you know it, that mind-body synthesis is doing wonders for your well-being. Thanks to my forms, I’m able to forget why I’m here and that Rodgers is watching me from the back of the room. At least for a little while.
“Nice job on the forms.” A pleasant exhaustion permeates the room and I’ve broken out into a slight sweat. “Everyone should be practicing those at home. Let’s use our last twenty minutes for contact drills. Get the equipment out and break up into goal groups again.”
My announcement results in quiet murmurs. I glance back at Rodgers, who leans against the wall with an inscrutable expression. Well, if he doesn’t hire me, it will be because of my teaching style rather than a poor imitation of someone else’s. How the hell do you train people if you don’t watch them move?
“Really?” a lanky young man with a yellow belt asks after raising his hands. “Even the lower belts?”
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Lucas.”
“Lucas, taekwondo is a combat sport.” I make my announcement for both Rodgers and the class. “You must spar with others or you won’t improve.”
When everyone is suited up in their protective pads, including myself, I pull the lanky young man to the front with me. Holding a large striking pad firmly away from my body I brace myself.
“Front snap kick. Right here. Go,” I tell him.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Go!”
My voice startles him, and he throws an off-balance kick that glides past the bottom corner of the pad.
It takes another four tries before he’s able to land his kick in the center. “Make sure you’re balanced and close enough before you throw your kick, otherwise you’ll get clocked with a counter attack.”
The lanky kid nods and his demeanor changes. He goes from being scared and embarrassed to pissed off and determined all in the space of a minute.
“Keep it up. As many as you can in the next two minutes.”
A surprised look crosses his face, and he ends up kicking the hell out the pad for a solid two minutes. At the end, he’s exhausted with a satisfied smile on his face.
“Lucas, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiles between breaths.
“Good work.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Everyone, get with your partner. Same as Lucas, two minutes fast as you can with perfect form. Alternate legs and then switch.”
The class ends on an energetic no
te. Rapid breathing and sweaty faces indicate most have had enough. I gather my things from the front corner of the room, where several students approach me.
“Zumba’s got nothing on these speed drills,” a middle age woman tells me as sweat rolls of her brow. “Will you be here next week?”
“It’s Kate, right? I’m not sure yet. But if you like the speed drills, consider a kick boxing class.”
“Thanks,” she says and wanders off with a good looking middle-aged man.
“I’m Alison. I love the kicking drills,” a young woman tells me. “They do a lot for balance. I never hit my target until I was aiming for someone. Hope you’re here next week.”
“Thanks, me too.”
Rodgers stands at the back of the room, arms crossed around his barrel chest. Several people greet him as they leave. I feel him watching and waiting for me to be done so he can deliver his verdict.
He approaches me from the door and we meet in the middle of the mat room. Standing in front of him at my full height, he’s forced to look up at me, but gives no indication he’s uncomfortable doing so.
“Louise, you’re obviously a good instructor. Very patient and knowledgeable. I’d like to offer you the job.”
“Thank you, Grandmaster.” I give him a relieved smile. “I would like that very much.”
He smiles back and extends his hand to me. I reach out and shake it.
“Just Rodgers, please. I believe in respect. Formality, not so much.”
He leads me out of the training room and as we reach the stairs, he turns to me and stops. “I find teaching mixed level classes very frustrating,” he admits.
His confession catches me by surprise. Appearing to give him advice on the subject would be impolite, even if it seems like that’s what he wants.
“Yes, it can be frustrating,” I agree. “But that’s because everyone’s goals are different. Sometimes we aren’t even sure what we want.” I smile at him. “Mostly, I think we’re all fighting our own demons.”
“Are you fighting demons, Louise?”
“Every single day.”
“Maybe that’s why I’ve always enjoyed working with pros.” Rodgers grunts and ushers me down the stairs. “They know what they want. The rest is easy.”
“Makes sense,” I reply.
“All right, Louise. See you back here, Saturday morning at nine?” he asks at the bottom of the stairs.
“Of course I’ll be here,” I assure him. “Thank you again.”
“Do you know your way to the locker room?” he asks.
“Is it this way?” I turn and point toward the corridor where I entered.
“No,” Rodgers corrects me. “It’s the other way.”
I turn to see where he’s pointing as his arm swings down.
“Thanks.” I take one final look around and then walk briskly down the corridor.
3
“Damn… While I hate like hell to say it, you’re in the wrong locker room,” a masculine voice with a faint accent declares.
“A-h-h!” My indrawn breath echoes off the tile into a wordless scream. Mortification sends me diving behind a nearby locker door, where I place as much distance as possible between that voice and my naked body.
“Easy, sweetheart.” His deep voice conveys reassurance. “I don’t bite. Not unless I’m asked.”
“Yeah, I’ll pass. Thanks.” With my back pressed against the locker door, I peer around the side to look at him.
My hot rush of embarrassment turns to a hot, inconvenient rush of something else.
A Riace Warrior statue has come to life, and it’s standing at the far end of the lockers. His Bad Boys, slung low on lean muscular hips, encase an impressive pair of sculpted thighs. Each hand holds the end of a crumpled black T-shirt draped around his neck, while the shredded chest it adorns glistens with sweat.
“Sorry. It wasn’t an offer.” Concerned cobalt eyes meet mine around the edge of the locker door. “More like an assurance.”
A scar extends through the arch of his jet-black eyebrow, a jagged white streak that runs the length of his almond-shaped eye. The contrast between the scar and deep cobalt color make him look more alert, more predatory.
“Lucky me.” My twisted hip begins to ache against the locker door. As I shift to find a less painful stance, a substantial portion of my inner thigh peeks out from behind the locker.
“Hey, are you…?” He waves up and down at the awkward arch of my back and the bent leg.
“Um, yeah. Another minute and we’d have met in the shower.”
“Oh Christ.” His head snaps back. “You do know what kind of gym this is, right?”
“I am aware.” My voice is filled with irritation as he retreats toward the entrance, granting me a glimpse of his powerful back. “Thanks.”
“This could have been a lot worse, you know,” he warns as his muscular form disappears from view.
“Please tell me you’re joking.” My gaze follows him before I snatch my clothes from the nearby bench.
“Joking?” Annoyance seeps out in a single word. “Look around and take a deep breath. How the hell could you mistake this for the woman’s locker room?”
“Locker rooms get converted from one gender to another all the time. Besides, there weren’t any guys in here, and that’s usually the big giveaway.” Of course, I clearly misunderstood Coach Rodgers—a fact I withhold from him.
“And the smell?” His voice booms past the lockers.
He does have a point. Locker room funk tends to give away the occupying gender. I inhale deeply and the odor of strong industrial cleaner burns my nostrils.
“This place reeks of Pine-Sol,” I answer.
“Sure smells like the boys’ room to me,” he replies.
“What do you think they clean the ladies’ room with? Lavender water?” I snap. “And yes, this is a fight gym. I wasn’t expecting fresh cut flowers and free hairspray, okay?”
Between his potent presence and my predicament, it’s difficult to focus. I want to get dressed but I can’t find my underwear, and hiding behind the locker door doesn’t make it easy.
I sort through my clothes, until only a pair of periwinkle sports panties remain in my hand. I slide them up my legs, but the sticky sheen of sweat on my skin makes it slow going. A badly needed shower is out of the question and a disgusted groan escapes from me.
“And what about the urinals?” he asks.
My fingers cease their tugging. “What urinals?”
When he doesn’t answer, I turn toward him and see the back of a long sinewy arm pointing at a neat cluster sitting loud and proud by the shower entrance.
Shit. “I didn’t see them.”
“Clearly.”
“Damn. How did this happen?” I wonder aloud, trying to remember where Rodgers had stood and pointed when he’d told me to go the other way.
“The locker rooms are diagonal from each other, on the opposite sides of the main gym.” His words echo off the tile. “If you come in from the parking lot, you’re by the women’s. If you come in the front—”
“—you’re by the men’s. Damn.” I thought Rodgers had pointed to the other side of the corridor, not the other side of the gym. “Well, thanks for the tip.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies.
At first his remark strikes me as snide, but his tone remains calm and certain, as it has been throughout our conversation. Sometimes fighters can be over the top and in your face, but many elite ones possess a calm quiet confidence that can permeate a room.
They know their skill, their power, and confrontations don’t rattle them. His certainty of presence—and monstrous physique—tells me a great deal about him.
“This is my fault. Obviously. And I’m sorry. You have no idea how sorry.” Rodgers hadn’t wanted to hire a female at all. What will he think about all this locker room commotion? Is it possible to be hired and canned on the same day?
“I’ll bet,” he replies.
“Lis
ten, I know I’m in the wrong locker room, but would you mind leaving so that I can get dressed?” I try to sound calm and reasonable, but it’s hard to tell if I’ve succeeded. “Please?”
He gives a short laugh. “Only stayed so this didn’t happen again with someone else.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies. “And I’m Usalv.”
“I’m Lou. Or Louise. Either one works.”
“Sweet Lou?” he asks.
“I get that too. Sometimes.” I start to relax a bit. “Mostly from men who have trouble calling me by a guy’s name.”
“Well, you sure as hell aren’t a guy.”
“Nope.”
“Well. I am. And believe it or not, I’m a pretty good one, most days.” His relaxed tone becomes serious. “In about two minutes, there’s going to be about ten guys in here, and I won’t vouch for any of them. You need to hurry.”
“Oh my God, that’s all I need. It will be weeks before I can show my face again. If that soon.”
“I’ll go stand by the door,” he promises. “But the sooner you’re out of here, the better for everyone.” His feet scuff gently against the tile. A few seconds later, I hear wood slide across the tile floor as he kicks the door jamb away. A loud whoosh follows and the door slams shut.
Good Lord.
I collapse on the bench, panties halfway up my thighs and take a long deep breath. I gather myself together and give them a good yank up over my hips, wedgies be damned. I retrieve my sports bra from the heap on the locker floor and pack the girls in quickly.
“Are you done?” Usalv calls from the doorway.
“Almost,” I reply.
Since no one was here, I’d taken the liberty of spreading out the entire contents of my bag along the bench. Nursing scrubs, make-up case and street clothes are all being shoved into my bag when I hear Usalv’s voice.
“Hey, Drew, give us a minute,” says Usalv.
“What’s the problem, Madman?”
“No problem,” he replies. “But…there’s a woman in here. Give her a minute, eh guys?”
“A woman?” another voice bellows.
“Yeah.” Usalv’s reply is calm.
Fighting Hearts Page 2