Going the Distance (11 page)

She knew what he meant to her. A stranger in many ways, yet this man affected her as none had before.

He pulled out his phone and opened an app. “I'll get us a cab.”

She tugged on her top and smoothed her hair. “Good idea.”

She'd spent the past couple years compartmentalizing emotions where she and Brett were concerned—surely she could do the same with Rich. She wasn't some sloppy romantic, not the way Jenna was. Her heart was her commodity to guard and offer, not some external entity that a man like Rich could seize when it suited him and return when he was done, tender and smudged with bruises.

He found himself a clean shirt from the locker room, and they made their way upstairs, standing side by side in the balmy August night.

Lindsey didn't know how she felt anymore. A little embarrassed, still thoroughly smitten. And sleeping in her new bed, in her new room, with Rich lying somewhere beneath her...

She wasn't going to be making sense of this tangle anytime soon. Not as long as that body was within ten miles of hers. To say nothing of ten feet.

8

R
ICH
ROSE
EARLY
, not rested enough but eager to start his day—to get his mind focused and his body lost in the endless to-dos of training.

He started the coffee and woke his sister, then kissed her goodbye at the curb outside Wilinski's at five-thirty.

Time for work. Time to get his thoughts off Lindsey—her body and her smell, her soft skin under his palms, her voice in the dark of the gym.

He'd needed last night. Needed the release and simplicity of sex, and a chance to feel like a man again, after the way his injury had castrated him. A hit of the crowd's admiration shining up from those blue eyes.

Sex was great. Lindsey was great. She was special, even—too special to treat like some fuck-buddy from the office upstairs, even if that was all
he
was to her. But special or not, she didn't fit into his plans. She couldn't stay lodged in his brain like a splinter, niggling at him night and day. Maybe in some alternative universe where Rich had only himself to worry about, or an imaginary future when his sister and mother were secure and he was free to start some new family... But that wasn't the reality he lived in.

In reality, he was sidelined for months and earning a fraction of what he had been. His focus had to be singular, homed in on his recovery and nothing else.

With twenty minutes before the gym was due to open, he poked through the computer system. Scaring up members and hunting down dues had been Mercer's arena since Monty's passing, but after fifteen-plus years in this basement, Rich knew his way around the books. He pulled up the file where Mercer tracked their active membership, pleased to find it had gone up a healthy fraction since he'd last looked. He jotted new names, then slid open the filing cabinet by his foot and flipped through the applications.

Every form had a slot for referrals and goals, where new members were asked what brought them to Wilinski's and what they hoped to get out of training, be it a pro career or simply a good workout. Rich pulled the newest members' files, and laughed aloud when the very first one confirmed his egotistical suspicions.

Written in the referrals space was “Want to train where Estrada does.
”

Others mentioned him, too. The happy, queasy feeling in his middle didn't have much to do with arrogance, he realized. It was
pride,
to be staring at proof that he was giving back, even as an absentee. Always in the background these past ten months had been the guilt—he'd kept his mother and sister foremost on his mind, but this place was family, too. It lifted a weight to believe he'd done good, after all. He might be the most half-assed trainer the gym had ever boasted, but he was attracting new members, even if he wasn't mentoring any.

At six he propped the doors open, and the mood carried him through the morning sessions. He couldn't do much more than hop around, holding targets and shouting orders, but he did it with more energy than he usually mustered this early in the morning.

At one o'clock he spotted Maya coming down the steps from the foyer. Mercer was holed up in the office, meeting with the web designer he'd hired to haul the gym into the twenty-first century. Rich couldn't tackle much of the tidying up on crutches, so the girl was welcome to the cash. Though she looked less than enthused to be here.

Rich swung himself toward the entrance to meet her. “Glad to see your smiling face.”

“I wasn't smiling.”

“And I wasn't serious. But I'm still happy to see you. I got a disgusting job to get done and you're just the woman to help me.”

“Great.” She wrinkled her nose. “I'll never get used to how nasty this place smells.”

“Oh. Did no one tell you? It's a boxing gym.”

She rolled her eyes. Ah, the charms of youth. “Not much of a gym.”

“It's got showers and rings and shit to hit. That's all you need in a gym. Anything more'll make you soft.” A lie, kind of. Rich had experienced some of the nicest MMA camps in the country this past year, and Wilinski's could stand a few more of their amenities. But in essence, he meant what he said. If fancy gyms made the best fighters, the UFC would be packed with nothing but rich guys who could afford to start at the top, and that simply wasn't the case.

“So what do I have to do?”

“Tuesdays are quiet, and we're overdue for a hardcore scrub-down. You're gonna help me lift these mats, one section at a time, then we're disinfecting everything. Top, bottom, floor, everything.”

“That's sounds terrible.”

He smiled. “Oh, it is.”

Rich shifted everyone to a different section of the floor, and Maya took his orders, filling a couple buckets with diluted antiseptic solution. It wasn't glamorous, but it felt good to get on his knees and just scrub, foot forgotten. It reminded him of being a kid. His parents couldn't afford the membership, but his mom had begged her way into some deal with Monty Wilinski, so Rich got to train at a discount if he helped with this stuff on the weekends. It was humbling then, but now, not so much. This place had done so much for him, scouring this floor felt oddly like a penance.

Maya was less Zen about the task. Her face was red within a minute and she insisted the solution was giving her a rash.

“I'm counting how many times you complain,” Rich said. “When I get to five, you're finishing on your own.”

That shut her up.

Miserable as she was...there was something there. That willful gleam in her eye that told Rich she might hate every second of this job, but she wouldn't quit until these mats were as fresh as the day they'd been delivered. He fought for money, she cleaned for it. And though neither pursuit was pretty, both stuck at their duties for more than just a check.

The time came to turn the mats over, and Rich couldn't hazard the task one-legged—Maya was on her own. They were connected in sections, each weighing at least eighty pounds, and a flexible, slick eighty pounds at that. They twisted when she attempted to flip them, fell back on her or slipped from her hands. But she didn't bitch. She didn't quit, not even when some of the guys working out laughed, watching as the mats flopped back on her for the umpteenth time. There was hate in her eyes, but she channeled it away from a tantrum and into an ugly strain of determination. Rich wouldn't have expected he and Maya Tuttle had anything in common aside from a home state and an attitude problem, but there it was—that grudgelike persistence, that screw-you streak that came out when someone expected them to quit.

He liked this kid.

Once the mats were done and the gym smelled more bleachy than usual, he rattled off a fresh list of tasks. “And don't drag your feet just because you're paid by the hour. I got my eye on you.”

Maya set to the jobs with a mighty sigh, scuffing toward the spent water cooler jugs, literally dragging one foot. Rich shook his head with a smile.

The afternoon sessions were winding down right as Maya wrapped her final chore. Rich stopped by the equipment closet, then approached her, hand behind his back. “Good work. Got a reward for you.”

She wiped her sweaty brow with a forearm. “Oh, goodie. Do I get to clean the toilets with a toothbrush?”

He tossed a pair of gloves at her chest and she caught them.

“I have to disinfect these, too?”

“Nope. You gotta put those on.”

“This is a reward how?”

“Free lesson with a bona fide celebrity fighter.”

Her expression was deeply unimpressed and Rich shot her a withering look. “You're still on the clock. Humor me.”

She tugged the gloves on and fastened the straps, squeezing her fists open and closed. “How many other people have worn these?”

“You don't wanna know. C'mere.” He led her to the heavy bags. “Your sister's no slouch, so I got some faith in you.”

“I don't. I've never hit anything before.” She eyed the bag, nerves seeming to overshadow the petulant brat act.

“Just give it a whack. With whichever's your dominant hand.”

The limpest, saddest jab.

“Come
on,
that was pathetic. Hit it hard. Pretend it's my face.”

“Oh, yeah, like my sister would ever forgive me for that.”

Rich ignored the remark, as well as the hot jolt of satisfaction it gave him. He'd done too well today at avoiding thoughts of Lindsey to relapse now.

“Hit it.”

This time, she did. Not an elegant punch—absolutely no technique, but a good thump. “Not bad. Knock that stance open, right foot in front. Keep some bounce in your legs. Good. Now hit it again with a cross.”

“A what?”

“With your left. Keep punching till I tell you.”

She did. Lazily at first, though after a dozen hits and a couple directives from Rich, she got into it. The strikes landed harder and louder, and that mean glint had returned to her eyes.

“Let that back heel come up. Don't force it—let it come up naturally. Better. Get that left fist up next to your face.” He adjusted her guard. “Keep that there or I'll whack you in the ear.”

“I like Mercer better,” she huffed between punches.

“Now switch feet, and show me your right.”

She shifted her stance and Rich circled to her other side. He flicked her unguarded ear and she swore, dutifully raising her fist.

“Cross. Cross cross cross until I say stop.”

Damn, this girl was good. Rich whistled across the gym. “Hey, Merce.”

Mercer's brows rose. He gave the departing web designer a final handshake and wandered over. Three members tailed him, intrigued by the novelty of a teenage girl doing anything in Wilinski's aside from waiting for her boyfriend to finish his workout.

“Check this out,” Rich said, nodding at Maya.

She shot the new witnesses to her torture a glare, but the annoyance only seemed to sharpen her focus.
This girl would move a mountain just to spite somebody.
Rich's kind of student.

“That's not bad,” Mercer allowed. “What kind of jab's she got?”

“What's a jab?” Maya asked Rich.

“Hit it with your front fist.”

She tried a few, quickly finding her power, then tossed in a cross.

“She's got a combo!” teased one of the members.

Rich flicked her ear and she swore again.

“Oh, she's clearly yours,” Mercer said. “What'd you teach her first? Crosses or cusses?”

“She came standard with those. Switch your stance. Check out this left.”

A couple more guys wandered over, drawn first by the oddity, but kept rapt by the undeniable fact that the girl could hit.

Maya was red in the face, winded and possibly mortified, but no way was she quitting before he let her. Stubborn as he'd been at that age. And still was.

“Okay, okay, break.”

She stared Rich right in the eye and gave the bag a final, resonant whack before dropping her arms. Her eyes said what her lips didn't.
I hate you.

“Grab some water. I wanna see if you can kick at all.”

He watched a dozen R-rated retorts pass over her face before she stalked to the water cooler.

Mercer laughed. “Dude, she wants to murder you.”

Rich grinned. “Ain't it beautiful?”

“Girl can hit, though. If she actually enjoys this, I'd love to break Steph in on her next week.”

Rich shook his head, smile deepening. “This one's all mine.”

* * *

L
INDSEY
LOOKED
UP
from her email as Jenna entered the office, surprised to find it was pushing four. Maya had said she was working downstairs for only a couple hours, but they must have found some extra tasks to keep her occupied. Fine by Lindsey. She'd tackled a ton of paperwork with the office all to herself, and staved off distracting memories of what had happened the night before, one floor down. Mostly.

“Hey, boss. How was your PR thing?”

Jenna had been out since lunchtime, a meeting for a publicity opportunity. There was something weird about her face. Her mouth was twitchy, expression stiff.

Lindsey frowned. “Are you suppressing good news or awful news?”

“I'm not— Well, fine. I am.” Jenna dropped her charade and grinned. “It's good news.”

“You're already engaged, so... Oh, crap, are you pregnant?”

Jenna made an exasperated noise and set down her briefcase. “It's good news for you, and for the business.”

Lindsey sat straighter, intrigued. “Really? What?”

“Well...”

“Spit it out, you're killing me.”

“Here.” Jenna opened her case and pulled out a copy of a slick Boston arts and culture magazine. “You've read this before, right?”

“I've seen them around.”

“They called a couple of weeks ago. They're doing their yearly feature on Boston's most eligible bachelorettes. They wanted to know if I could recommend any of our clients.”

“Oh, that
is
cool. Who were you thinking of? Oh! What's-her-name! That woman who started the combination tattoo parlor and bakery. She's hilarious.”

“Not her. But they did love my recommendation—so much so, they want her to be the woman featured on the cover as the lead story.”

“Wow, excellent. So who?”

Jenna bit her lip. “You.”

Lindsey blinked. Then frowned. “I'm not a client.”

“No, but you're single. And you're awesome. And you're a matchmaker
and
a former wedding planner. They loved the idea of an independent, single woman, so comfortable helping others find their happily-ever-after. Plus you'd look great on a newsstand. What do you think?”

“I think...I think I don't know.”

It was at once thrilling and terrifying. Lindsey wasn't desperate to settle down, but her breakup was recent enough that she wasn't exactly wearing her bachelorette status as a badge of honor.