Going the Distance (15 page)

“Thank you,
Mamá.
Thank you, Diana. Thank you, Lindsey, love of my life.”

She had to snort, the vision was so corny. So corny, yet so damned intoxicating.

Their parting that morning had been hazy. She hadn't heard an alarm, and had no time to panic before Rich woke her saying, “I gotta head out.” She'd mumbled an “Okay,” and he'd kissed her temple and squeezed her knee, adding, “Don't forget your laundry.” Then he'd been gone.

For ten minutes she'd rolled this way and that, stretching, marinating in the sheer pleasure of being wound in Rich Estrada's sheets, in his bed, in his room, surrounded by his smell. Then all too soon she'd been wide-awake and feeling silly. She'd dressed quickly and resisted any urges to snoop. The odds were rock-solid she'd find
something
in his drawers or closet that would burst her happy bubble. The room held practically his entire history, and he wasn't exactly a saint. Plus she didn't
want
her bubble burst. She'd spent too long already trying to know the man through secondhand scraps. The only facts she wanted to learn were the truths he murmured against her skin, brash voice rendered soft by intimacy.

I thought about you while I was away.

I knew we'd be good together, but I hadn't expected...

Expected what? Sadly, she wasn't to know.

As Jenna passed her a fresh cup of coffee, she held on to the mug, not letting Lindsey take it yet.

“So?” Jenna said.

“So?”

She gave her very
Jenna
look. “Don't think I can't tell.”

“Can't tell what?”

She released the cup. “That something's up with you. Something personal that I'd like to hear about.”

Jeez, the woman was like a romance bloodhound. “As my boss, you realize that's a completely inappropriate demand.”

“As your friend, I find I don't really care. Just tell me this—is it Rich?”

Lindsey blinked, way too slow in denying anything. Finally she sighed, busted. “That obvious?”

“You guys have a way of...groping each other with your eyes.”

“Oh, great. And here I thought I was playing it so incredibly cool.”

“Is it serious?”

Was it? Sex-clouded hope was all fine and good, but in reality, he'd be gone in a few months' time. Plus, well... “It's Rich.”

“Is it serious to you?”

She deflected further. “No, no. It's just...he's got this, like, waist to hip to butt ratio, you know?”

Jenna laughed. “That he does.”

“But no, it's not serious. How could it be when he's only home to convalesce?”

“True.” Jenna looked sad, then shrugged it off. Lindsey wished she could shed the melancholy so easily.

“I've been waiting for this,” Jenna said. “Ever since you and Brett broke up, I wondered how long until Rich got his way.”

She blushed. “Maybe I got
my
way.”
Maybe I'd have gotten my way a year ago, if not for your nosy, well-meaning, fling-ruining text message.
“But in any case, it is what it is. Don't get all excited and start giving me your used bridal magazines.”

Jenna laughed. “I'll do my best to resist.”

They settled in to work, but Lindsey couldn't concentrate.

So Jenna thought Lindsey and Rich were obvious. That anybody could see there was something there. And Jenna was trained in these things.

Lindsey tried not to give the idea too much merit. And perhaps wisely so. By eleven-thirty, Rich hadn't stopped by to say hello, and the wait was gnawing on her insides.

Screw it. She'd just have to make first contact herself. It might look eager, but it beat all this waiting.

She took Jenna's lunch order, then headed downstairs. Mercer was on the mats, showing a group of guys some grappling move. She waited until he stood, then caught his eye. “Any requests from the deli?”

“Yeah, please—loaded turkey sub, if you don't mind. Can I pay you later?”

“Sure. Is Rich around?”

“Office.”

She made a beeline, hoping she looked casual, though her heart thudded harder with every step.

The door was wide open and Rich was on the phone, expression full of that easy charm.

“Hazard of the job,” he told the phone. “Sooner than I'd expected, actually. But no official word yet... Yeah, thanks. So, any chance we can see you down here a little more regularly this fall...?” He spotted Lindsey and held up a finger to say,
Hang on a sec.

But the conversation seemed likely to go on, so she skirted the desk and on a notepad scribbled,
“
Anything from the deli?
”

Their fingers brushed as he took the pen and replied with “Roast beef on onion roll, thx.” He muttered a few
uh-huhs
as he found his wallet and handed Lindsey a twenty, with a little look and nod that said,
That's for yours, too.
She left the office feeling as if the bill was a diamond engagement ring, something obscenely precious clasped in her clammy hand.

When she got back a half hour later, Rich had escaped the office and was loitering by the water cooler on his crutches, a fresh patch of sweat darkening his T-shirt.

But he wasn't talking to one of the usual guys—not a guy, even.

The mystery woman was built as if she'd been cut out of marble, rolled-over drawstring shorts hugging her slim hips, athletic bra doing nothing to hide her improbable abs. She was milk-pale, with freckles on her arms and flushed face, long red hair held back by a bandanna. Rich said something and she laughed, nearly doubling over. She smacked his arm, then grabbed a gym bag from beside the wall, and Rich led her across to the lounge. She disappeared inside, presumably to change, since there wasn't a women's locker room. Not yet.

Lindsey's stomach gave a queasy gurgle. She'd rounded third base with Rich in that room, and a petty bit of her didn't want another woman stripping down in there.

Don't be one of those girls,
she scolded herself.
He's not even your boyfriend. Get a grip.
She took a deep breath, willing the heat surely reddening her face to go away. Rich spotted her as she approached.

“Hey, perfect timing!” He took the foil-wrapped sandwich she handed him. “Thanks a bunch. This morning's been nothing but nonstop chaos.”

“Who's that you were talking to?” Lindsey asked oh so casually. “Your first official female recruit?”

“No, no. That's Steph Healy. She fights as Penny Healy?”

Name recognition dawned. “Oh, I've heard of her. I didn't know what she looked like.” In truth, the draw of MMA for Lindsey was 90-plus percent male-physique-based—specifically Rich's physique. She hadn't paid much attention to the few women's matches she'd come across. “She doesn't look like a Penny.”
She looks like an assassin.

“I think it's an old nickname, and not one she's especially fond of. I met her in Vancouver. We worked out together the week before the tournament there. She can sprint a mile in five twenty, if you can believe that.” He made a face, clearly impressed.

“Does she have a match coming up around here, or...?”

Rich shook his head. “Mercer talked her into consulting for us, about the best way to make this place coed. And she had a week free, so she agreed to come up and check out what we've got going on.”

“I see.”

“She's retiring from the circuit soon.”

“She looks a bit young to be retiring.”

“She's sick of the road. Ready to settle down and start teaching. Mercer thinks he's nearly convinced her to take a job as our full-time jujitsu trainer. But it's kind of a task, seducing her away from whatever better offers she's probably got.”

Seducing her how, exactly?

“It'll be more attractive to women if we have an established female fighter on hand.”

“So were you auditioning her or something? You're all sweaty.” She'd seen that face flushed from exertion under quite different circumstances, and arousal momentarily trumped any jealousy she felt.

“Just messing around. She's from a completely martial-arts background, unlike most of us. She wanted to try her hand at a bit of old-school Golden Gloves–style sparring. She's not bad.”

“Oh, cool.” Yeah, super. Attractive, semi-famous female ass-kicker hanging around the gym running five-minute miles in a sports bra. Lindsey felt herself drifting deeper into the background, the shadows, just like always. Then she remembered the photo shoot invitation.
Bring it on.

“You don't think that'll be distracting for the guys?”

Rich shrugged. “Good for everyone to get used to working with distractions.”

“Yeah, I guess it would be.”

“Not a worry for me, anyhow,” Rich added. “I won't go near Irish girls. They're nuts, every last one of them.”

Lindsey's hope perked back up from its defeated heap. “That's a bit racist.”

“Trust me, they're crazy. Add that to the fact that the girl fights?” He shook his head, looking terrified by the thought. “No, thank you. Call me a chauvinist, but I like women with fewer bruises than me. Ones who'll let me wear the pants.”

Lindsey immediately imagined Rich letting said pants drop to the floor.

“I like wearing pants,” she said, glancing down at her trousers.

“And they look lovely.”

Not as lovely as I'll look on the cover of a magazine.
How might they style her? She'd insist on a skirt, at the very least. And very girly shoes. Shoes she'd never dare attempt actually walking in. Shoes she'd leave on should the cover inspire Rich to toss her onto the nearest flat surface and have his way with her pantslessness.

He looked suddenly uncomfortable, toying with the foil on his sandwich. “I, uh, got some interesting news today.”

“What kind of news?”

“I can't say too much about it until some ink dries, but go with me for a coffee after the lunchtime rush and I'll let you in on the gist.”

She considered her schedule. “I'm flexible between two and three.”

“Perfect. Meet me in the foyer at two-fifteen.”

After a couple of restless hours, she did, and they walked a few blocks to a coffee shop. She was torn—excited for this date, if that's what it was, but nervous about what his cagey tone might mean.

“Tell me what you want and I'll carry everything over,” she offered.

He scanned the chalkboard above the counter. “Uh, the thing that's got foam, but less foam than the really foamy thing?”

“A latte?”

“With low-fat milk. No sugar.”

Lindsey placed their orders and carried them to the window table Rich had snagged. The afternoon sun was bright, lighting up his eyes. His irises were so dark they often looked black, but the sunlight revealed a rainbow of warm browns.

“Thanks.” He reached for his wallet but she waved it away.

“My treat. Thanks for lunch.” Oh, goodness, this all sounded so...couple-ish. “So what's this big news?”

He stirred his latte, eyes on the task. “My manager called. The guys up top want me to fight Vicente Farreira.”

“Whoa.”

“You know who he is?”

“Yeah, I've seen his name around. He used to be a huge deal, right? Where'd he go?”

“Nasty injury, plus he lost his title, so maybe a bit of a sulking spell. His camp's real secretive. But apparently he hates my guts, and he's dying for a chance to break my face and steal my belt.”

“Wow. And you're going to do it?”

“Can't pass up a big-deal fight like that. Second billing. And if I can manage to win, no way my next match won't be the main event.”

“Oh, my. That's, like, crazy-exciting. Should we be horrible employees and buy a bottle of champagne on the way back?”

He laughed. “My drinking days are numbered. The fight's scheduled for the last week of November.”

“Damn, that's soon.”

“No kidding. They want me back in California on Wednesday to start training.”

A dull, psychic thump knocked Lindsey in the head.

Rich kept talking, something about Farreira and Brazilian jujitsu and needing to buckle down, but she caught only every fifth word.

Wednesday.

She'd known he'd be gone eventually...but she'd thought she might not have to actually accept that until the fall.

He drained his cup. “I better get back. Your sister's got the day off, which means ol' peg-leg has that much more grunt work to do.”

Lindsey finished her drink, knowing she'd regret the caffeine. Her nerves were already buzzing, a million panicky ants marching through her veins. God help whatever advice she gave her three-thirty client.

As they left, the August heat and sunshine enveloped Lindsey in a warmth she barely felt. They made their way back toward Chinatown, and too shaken to muster a proper conversation, she lobbed a hundred questions at Rich about the match,
mmm-hmm
ing to keep him talking, keep her attention off the pain in her chest...though that was no use.

If you didn't have those crutches,
she wanted to ask,
would you be holding my hand?
She'd never find out now. By the time he ditched them, he'd already have been gone a month. If any girl got her hand held as she strolled down a sidewalk with Rich Estrada—or down a hotel corridor en route to his room, for that matter—it wouldn't be Lindsey.

Panic rose with every step. Scared she might wind up crying, she decided to make a run for it.

She interrupted his dissection of Vicente Farreira's stand-up game. “Crap—I forgot I needed to swing by the drugstore. I'll see you around later?”

He nodded. “Hey, thanks for coming out. I'm glad I got to tell you. I would've exploded, trying to keep that all to myself.”