Fighting Hearts

by Annabeth Saryu

  “Six foot-five.” His voice is calm, certain and unapologetic.

  Unlike most men, he’s not exaggerating. I tilt my head upward to look at him, something I rarely need to do. I don’t encounter many taller men, never mind ones that tower over me. In other circumstances, that would be nice.

  “And how much do you weigh, Usalv?” Wearing heavy pads make it impossible to guess.

  “Right now, about two fifty-five.”

  Wow. And from my memories of him shirtless in the locker room, most of it is muscle. “You’re pretty solid, aren’t you?”

  “I sure the hell hope so.” He pauses. “What about you? And don’t get pissed at me for asking. I never fight women, so I’d like to know what I’m dealing with, too.”

  “I’m not pissed.” Fair’s fair. After all I’m bigger than most women—a fact that’s hard to hide.

  “Good. And please don’t lie. Because you’ve got nothing you need to lie about.”

  “Thanks. I’m five-ten, one fifty-five.” It’s an odd thing to discuss with a man, but nice to be honest about it.

  He gives me a nod just before his demeanor changes. Now he reminds me of a feral cat in that split second between spotting its prey and pursuing it.

  “I’d like to start with hand strikes, go to hand and kick combos, then end with kicks. Okay?” Even though I’ll be the one attacking, the feeling that this real-life warrior has the advantage is unshakeable.

  He acknowledges me with a single nod, and my hands touch his focus mitts before he pushes them away.

  I’m timid at first, so I start with basic hand strikes that are met with solid resistance. My God, he’s strong. He braces himself but his hands don’t move when I strike them. It’s a little intense to hit someone with so much physical strength, even when you know they won’t hit you back.

  As we progress, I start to throw more kicks at his legs then move on to his torso as I inch my way up his gigantic frame. Usalv starts to push back on my contact, which forces me to work on my balance. I respond with quicker strikes.

  Through the face pads of his helmet, sweat starts to bead across his forehead, and I suppress a smile. Two MMA style fighters would be on the ground by now. I give him lots of credit, using his arms this aerobically must be unusual for him.

  But no one can say he wasn’t warned.

  “You okay?” My voice is breathless.

  “I’m good,” he replies.

  Shit. His breathing sounds almost normal and his resistance is still solid. His strength and skill make him a wonderful partner, and as my feelings change from cautious to confident, my strikes become more complex.

  Until a single mistake changes everything.

  Usalv misreads my high round kick. An MMA fighter expects hand strikes to the face rather than kicks, especially a man that size. He’s tall, but so am I, and my heel heads straight for his jaw. When I realize his block is too low, I check my kick.

  Too late.

  Usalv’s natural fight instincts take over. He steps toward me and blocks my leg with a solid muscular forearm, which smashes into the side of my quick-moving knee. He grabs my extended leg and takes me to the ground like any well-trained wrestler. My back hits the mat. Hard.

  Ow. Damn, that hurt.

  I’m on autopilot and try to roll, but he’s got my leg in an unbreakable hold. I grab his right shoulder, and try to steer his two hundred fifty pound frame away from my face and throat as our momentum thrusts him toward me.

  I’m in big trouble.

  I gasp in anticipation of our collision. Somehow he manages not to land on me, and the side of his right hip slams into the mat with a loud thud. Usalv grunts at the impact before his shoulder pivots out of my grasp. But he retains hold of my left leg, the knee firmly pinned against his hip. I scramble to stand on my other leg, but his hand snakes out, trapping my ankle in his huge hand.

  A primal panic swells inside me. With my legs restrained, I hurl my open palm at his face, but he turns and braces for it. The gesture checks my visceral fears and the strike aimed at his chin lands beside his ear on the mat instead.

  Usalv gives a large sigh of relief, but I’m panting from a mixture of exertion and something else. My breathing normalizes slowly, then comes to sudden stop when I realize I’m sitting spread eagle.

  On his cup.

  Neither of us move. My inner thigh, resting low and motionless on his muscular abdomen, tells me he’s not breathing either. Perversely, I wonder how long he can hold it. My eyes dart from his eyes to his chest, waiting for it to move again. Usalv’s fingers straighten, releasing their grip with a long slow breath.

  “Your move, Louise.” His cobalt eyes radiate heat.

  My heavy breathing renders me speechless, thank God, because my natural tendency to joke this off would result in further disaster. Common sense screams at me to leap off with all due speed, but I can’t. My shocked body can’t endure anymore heat or friction.

  Instead, I nod and remain silent during my slow, tortuous dismount. As I lay next to him in a silent heap on the floor, a flood of emotions overcome me. Anger, embarrassment, and something that remains unnamed.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “I think so.” My eyes skate down his muscular body, watching his chest rise and fall in a slow rhythm. No fatigue there. Wow.

  I prop myself up on my elbows next to him. My own breath resumes its normal rhythm, and a bead of sweat rolls down my forehead between the bridge of my nose and eye.

  “That was a mistake.” I wipe the sweat away with the edge of my hand.

  “Yeah.” Usalv stares at the ceiling. “I didn’t think you’d be that good.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I reply.

  “Well, your hand strikes really are underwhelming. I got a little too laid back, too early.” He reflects out loud in a distant voice. “But Christ, those kicks…”

  “Hello?” I sigh in frustration. “Like I said before, our fighting styles are different. That’s why I was worried.”

  “You panicked,” he accuses. “That never helps.”

  “I panicked?” I bolt upright, rising with my temper. “Before or after I almost broke your jaw?”

  He sits up and brings his face inches from mine. “Were you really going to bitch slap me?”

  My heart races at his closeness, but I chalk it up to fury. “Did you really try to dislocate my knee?”

  He winces. “I dislocated your knee?”

  Troubled cobalt eyes dart to my leg. His large hand touches my knee, gingerly feeling the area around the joint. My skin burns where he touches and I roll away from him.

  “Jesus, it hurts that much?”

  “Give me a minute.” I go into nurse mode, and assess my knee. It’s perfectly positioned, and there’s no swelling. Curious, I lift my leg into the air and bend it before recoiling in pain. As I do, Usalv leans over me to watch the joint work.

  “My inner thigh hurts like a bitch, but the knee’s okay.” I’m both impressed and irritated that he incapacitated me without inflicting serious injury. The man knows his business.

  “Try to walk it off.” Usalv rises and extends his right hand down to me. “Let me help.”

  I want to tell him to shove it, but getting up without help isn’t happening anytime soon. Reluctantly, I take his hand, and he hauls me to my feet in a powerful fluid motion.

  “Put your arm around me.” He coils his arm around my waist.

  My shoulder tucks under his arm while the side of my body presses against him. I dig my fingers into his hip and he presses me into his side to support more of my weight.

  As he steps forward, I put weight onto my hurt leg. His grip tightens on me and the scent of heat mixed with bergamot rises from his skin. Despite the pain, his closeness distracts me.

  “You good?” His deep voice rasps by my ear.

  “Yeah.” I force myself to focus. “Keep going.”

  I move forward, but my hurried attempt makes my leg buckle from too much weight. Usalv
swings his free arm out to break my fall. He grips me underneath my arm and touches the side of my breast, while my other arm remains hooked under his shoulder.

  “Take it easy, Lou. It’ll come.” He removes his hand from near my breast.

  I lean against him. “Damn it,” I complain.

  We take another dozen steps together before my leg takes the full weight. He continues to hold me, and I’m in no hurry to let go. To fill the awkward silence, I give my curiosity free rein.

  “Have you been a pro fighter for very long?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” He’s focused on my hurt leg.

  I take a few more steps. “Are you ranked?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Yeah.”

  “I saw that.” I wait for him to look at me. “Well…are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “Does it matter?” His arm drops from around me.

  “After this?” I point to my leg. “Yeah, it matters. Besides, I’m curious.”

  He steps away from me, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “If you don’t know by now, I really doubt it.”

  “By now?” I rest a hand on my good hip. “Am I supposed to know something about you other than what you’ve told me?”

  He shrugs. “Well, it is a small place and word does get around.”

  “Sorry, I missed the memo, but so far the only conversations anyone around here tries to have with me are about my girly equipment and where it does and doesn’t belong.”

  “Point taken.” His spits through gritted teeth.

  “At least tell me your real name. The only thing I’ve heard anyone call you is Madman.”

  He sighs. “It’s Markovski.”

  “Usalv Markovski? Madman Markovski? That Madman?”

  He looks at the floor and nods.

  Oh shit.

  While I’m far from an MMA junkie, I enjoy an occasional fight night as much as the next girl. Although I’ve never watched him fight, Madman Markovski is often a topic of past fight results and future match ups.

  “Well…I guess you are ranked.”

  “Yeah.”

  I stand there, oscillating between feeling like the village idiot and being betrayed. He just expected me to know? Well, maybe I should have, but that’s beside the point. This isn’t high school.

  I start to pace despite the dull ache in my leg. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shrugs. “You haven’t said much about you either before today. Thought maybe that’s how you wanted it.”

  “That’s different. I don’t expect people to know who I am.”

  He grins. “Don’t worry, Sweet Lou. Every guy here knows who you are.”

  “What the hell should I do?” My voice fills with disgust. “Paint myself puke green like the locker room walls to blend in better?”

  “It’s not you. We’re guys. In a fight gym. Most of the time, we’re either talking about fighting or fucking.” He explains in a sober voice.

  “Really?” My forward motion screeches to a halt. “Just so I’m clear, which one are we discussing right now?”

  A flash of fury crosses his features, but it passes in an instant. He stands there, his eyes assessing me, much the way Rodgers did the first time we met. But Rodgers’ expression was one of disbelief and indecision. Usalv’s expression remains inscrutable.

  “You’ve got beautiful dangerous kicks. Seductive even.” His words are dispassionate. “In most fights, you’ll kick the other guy’s ass. But if you run into someone who knows what they’re doing, they can hurt you.”

  “You’re not most fighters, Usalv. You’re a world class one with a monster reach. Trying to outbox someone like you wouldn’t go well either.”

  “I can teach you better hand strikes,” he offers.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. My class starts in twenty minutes. I need to ice my leg.”

  He nods. “You want one of the trainers to look at it?”

  “No. It’s a sparring accident. And I am a nurse. It hurts but it’s not serious.”

  “I’m glad it’s not.

  “And I’m glad your jaw isn’t broken, Madman.”

  7

  I panicked.

  After Louise blew me off, a wave of disbelief hit me like a Mack truck. Women do not dismiss me. It just doesn’t happen, especially for being some stunted moronic clown who speaks with an accent.

  Then and there I wanted her attention back, any way I could get it. She’s into workouts and combat sports, my rock star super-powered area of expertise, so naturally an offer to help her train the way to make that happen.

  What could go wrong?

  In my haze of outraged egomania, it had never occurred to me that she would be any damn good.

  But a few minutes in, she’s tapping my A-game. And damn it, Louise was right. It’s rare for me to defend my head against high kicks. Now her leg is fucked up and it’s my fault. I need to make this up to her but damned if I know how.

  I pull the band collar of my jacket up before leaning back against the wall next to the outside door of the gym. A quick check of my phone tells me it’s been two hours since she went off in search of ice and to teach her class.

  The door to the gym flies open and Sweet Lou emerges. She doesn’t notice me—the angle of the open door hides me from view. But I sure notice her.

  The wind kicks up and smacks my face with the rush of her scent, a mixture of sweat and sandalwood. Heat races to my groin and I blink hard to get a grip. Her rubber soled shoes crunch against the snow as she moves away.

  She favors her kicking leg slightly as she walks, and guilt gnaws at the pit of my stomach. I step toward her and start to speak, but someone beats me to it.

  “Be still my heart,” a familiar voice says.

  Fuck. Not him. Not now.

  Louise stops as the tall, fit owner of that voice comes around the corner and into view.

  “What’s your problem?” she snaps.

  I smile and hang back to watch the show. After the day Louise put in, she’s sure to shut down Lucky Mike’s hit-on parade.

  “Louise?” Lucky Mike asks.

  Her demeanor does a complete one-eighty. “Michael?”

  Michael? Where the hell do they know each other from? Sunday school?

  “Damn, gorgeous. It’s been a while.” Mike flirtatious voice that makes my skin crawl. “Can I get a hug?” he asks.

  She looks at him a minute and hesitates.

  “Come on, Louise,” Mike pleads. “I promise not to cop a feel.”

  “Just so you know,” she warns, “copping a feel comes with a swift kick to the balls.”

  Yeah, that’s my girl. The thought of Lucky Mike on the business end of her kicks makes me smile.

  “No worries here.” Mike raises his arms in mock defense. “I know all about those lethal kicks.”

  He does? How?

  She smiles and stretches her arms out. Mike steps toward her embrace, clinging to her body like Velcro. Resting his chin on her shoulder, he snatches a good look at her ass.

  My blood starts to boil.

  Wait until I get that son of a bitch in the ring. And what the fuck is her problem? How could she fall for his horny high school moves?

  “Damn, it’s good to see you. How the hell are you?” Mike asks.

  Fuck dude, stop gushing already.

  Sweet Lou pulls away from him. “Good. I’m good, Michael.”

  It pisses me off that she calls him Michael. It smacks of a prior history… Has he slept with Louise?

  The thought sends an adrenaline spike through me.

  It would give props to his nickname. Mike’s known as ‘Lucky’ because of his prowess with women. I study their body language. Not only has Mike not let go of her arm after that fake-friendly hug, he’s leaning in like an abandoned barn eager to keel over.

  It makes me seethe.

  “Macy was up this weekend,” Mike says. “She told us you enrolled in school or some crazy shit like that?”

  “Crazy is her word,
not mine.” Louise shrugs. “Yeah, it’s true. I start next week.”

  “Well, good luck with that.” He nods toward the gym without taking his eyes off her. “So what are you doing here?”

  “I teach taekwondo and kickboxing,” she replies.

  Her stance looks pretty neutral toward him. Or is it a little too neutral?

  “Nice,” Mike replies.

  Can’t she tell he couldn’t care less? Keep your eyes off her breasts, asshole.

  “How about you?” she asks.

  “Doing MMA,” he swaggers. “Trying to go pro.”

  Trying…well that’s the first above-board thing he’s said so far.

  “I heard something about that.” She nods. “What happened? Commercial real estate not your thing?”

  “I’ve got time for that later. MMA comes with a limited window.”

  His aggressive confidence leaves him. Good.

  “That’s true,” she agrees. “Got a sponsor?”

  “Not yet.” Mike squirms.

  “Got a coach?” Louise presses.

  She’s not one to be played.

  “Terence Rodgers.”

  “He’s a good guy. Very knowledgeable,” she says.

  “You think?”

  Fucking poser. As if Rodgers’ reputation is news to Mike.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Louise replies.

  Fuck. She’s talking shop with Lucky Mike? Hello? Top ranked contender here. I can tell her all she wants to know and then some.

  “Go Rodgers.” Mike pumps his fist in the air.

  “Speaking of going….” Louise nods toward the street and steps away from Mike.

  About damn time.

  Mike picks up on her cue. “Hey, are you headed to the El?”

  No. Fucking. Way.

  I’ve been out here in the cold for almost an hour so I could ask to walk her to the El. Mike is not beating me to it.

  They can’t see me from where they are on the path that leads to the sidewalk, so I open the door and let it go. It slams back into its jamb with a loud clank. Sweet Lou’s head jolts up and she looks back toward me as I make my way down to the street.

  “Hey, Madman, how the hell are you?” Lucky Mike calls out, friendly and easy-going. Damn his playa charm.