Going the Distance (2 page)

Striding down the aisle toward the cage, Higgins was meaty and pink-faced, with a tacky chinstrap beard and a trucker cap that helped explain his fight name. Several men in matching hats and shirts followed.

Jenna clapped politely. Lindsey hated Higgins out of principle, and booed along with the minority as he strutted to Johnny Cash's “I've Been Everywhere, Man.” He stripped to his shorts and entered the ring, warming up as his music faded.

“A-a-a-nd in the black corner, a boxer and kickboxer hailing from Lynn, Massachusetts. Twenty-eight years of age, six feet three inches, two hundred and four pounds, Rich ‘Prince Richard' Estrada!”

Her breath hitched when Rich appeared on-screen. She twisted in her seat to watch him descend. His intro music was a remixed hybrid of hoity-toity chamber music and some infectious Latin hip-hop. He wore black warm-up pants and an open, deep purple sweatshirt lined with ermine fleece, hood cocked. Raising his arms, he welcomed the modest applause, and hisses from the Higgins fans. He dropped his hood with a grand, arrogant gesture and bared his chest, fists thrust triumphantly in the air, his entire body emanating 10,000 watts of pure, blinding smugness.

Mercer trailed him, along with a couple other guys Lindsey recognized from Wilinski's, his corner for the fight. Unlike Higgins, Rich's team didn't have special gear splashed with sponsor logos, just black T-shirts with Wilinski's Fight Academy, Boston,
silk-screened on the front.

“This match will be comprised of three five-minute rounds,”
the announcer confirmed for the fans.

Rich stripped and Mercer shoved a mouth guard between his lips. When one of the guys from Wilinski's slicked his arms and chest with Vaseline, Lindsey suppressed a ridiculous stab of jealousy. He entered the ring to warm up and the lights over the audience went dark as the music faded, setting Lindsey's skin prickling.

The men fought barefoot. Higgins wore loose-fitting kickboxing trunks covered in sponsorship logos. Rich sported far snugger, plainer shorts, ones that hugged his thighs and butt and...other places, and made Lindsey feel funny. Dangerous-funny.

The men hopped and shadowboxed, keeping their muscles primed as the rules were announced. When Rich circled she could see the large tattoo inked between his shoulder blades in black and gray. The dark wingspan of a condor above a shield, framed by draped banners—the Colombian national crest, a snoop through the MMA message boards had told her. He had a mismatched design on the swell of his right shoulder—a circular field showing a river and horizon, an ax, an anchor—the seal of his hometown. There was a third one, a line of black Thai characters that ran down his ribs. Lindsey didn't know what they said, only that he'd trained in Thailand for a year. All indelible reminders of where he'd come from, or perhaps souvenirs of where he'd been. Apt for a man destined to go places.

What must it feel like, being in the spotlight, everyone's eyes on you? Lindsey had always been a supporting player, tagging behind her popular older sisters when she was growing up; a barnacle along for the voyage when she'd uprooted her life to follow Brett. For her past clients, the invisible woman running herself ragged so their big days would go off without a hitch, and for her future clients, the temporary go-between broker, there to facilitate their first dates.

As she watched Rich stretching his neck and shoulders, bathed in those pure white beams...she envied him. She'd never felt like someone whose entrance commanded the room's attention, let alone an entire arena. Lindsey was always in the shadows, never the light, frequently thanked but never applauded.

A blonde ring girl in a spangly bra-top circled the cage, flashing a sign that read Round 1. There was no bell. Instead the official shouted, “Let's go!” and the men met in the center for a second's grudging fist tap before jumping back, circling.

Neither was shy. Both kept their guards up, feet busy. Rich baited his opponent with a couple short jabs, rewarded when Higgins took a swing. Rich dodged it and came back with a kick to Higgins's thigh, then crowded him toward the chain-link.

They traded minor hits, then Higgins escaped and retreated a few paces. Rich stayed on him, still baiting, getting him to toss out defensive jabs, sneaking in a punch here, a kick there when his opponent's guard was open. For a while, the action seemed to slow. Higgins certainly seemed to slow, shifting from foot to foot, red in the face.

Just when the fight was starting to get a bit boring—
bam.
Rich caught Higgins with a high kick to his ear. It bent the guy over, and Rich got him in the back of the knee and buckled him. Then, chaos.

Rich was on his opponent, pummeling his head and raised arms with punches and elbow strikes, hard enough that Lindsey saw sweat or spittle flying under the lights. The crowd was roaring. She realized she was screaming herself, a stream of hysteria erupting from some well of untapped ferocity.

Mercer stalked the periphery of the cage, shouting and jabbing the air. Lindsey wondered if Jenna was going to get soundly trounced tonight, and if so, she envied her. She could use a sound trouncing herself. Hell, she'd take a spirited dry-humping.

Higgins managed to get his legs around Rich's waist and shift them to their sides, but the effort looked desperate. Rich took a sharp hook to the temple, unfazed.

An air horn blasted to end the round, and Rich was on his feet. Higgins wasn't quite so quick to rise, and Rich wasn't as courteous as some of the earlier fighters—he didn't offer his opponent a hand up. Both made it back to their corners. Through the fence, Lindsey watched Mercer swab Rich's now bleeding temple with some kind of goo, another guy forcing a water bottle to his lips.

Her heart thudded so hard she felt high. She wished she were right there, close enough to smell him and see whatever fearsome energy was shining in his dark eyes.

The ring girl did her prancy thing, then the round began. The men swapped punches and kicks. Lindsey hadn't even taken two breaths and
whack!
A stunningly hard hook from Rich and Higgins went to all fours. Rich followed, ready to grapple, but an official stepped in and forced him away. There seemed to be a short window of time during which everyone waited for Higgins to make it to his feet, but it didn't happen. He dropped his forehead to the mat between his elbows, body shifting uneasily from side to side, and suddenly—

“A stoppage has been called, due to a technical knockout.” The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and boos. Rich was corralled to the center by the ref, and once his opponent was helped to standing—

“The winner—Rich Es-s-strada!”

His arm was raised, and Lindsey shrieked like a banshee. Jenna caught up, looking confused but thrilled, having missed the single punch that had ended the round inside fifteen seconds. The earlier shot Rich had taken must have been worse than it had looked. A thin ribbon of red trailed from his temple down to his jaw. The announcer held the mike between them and asked, “How does it feel, earning your first championship title?”

Between panting breaths, Rich answered, “Overdue.”

“Good fight?”

“If I ever get another match with Higgins, I want a scrap next time, not a slow dance.”

This was met with major heckling from the Trucker fans.

“Any other words?”

He put his hands on his hips, chest still heaving. “Thank you, Merce, all you guys. Thank you,
Mamá.
Thank you, Diana. And thank you, Monty, wherever you wound up.” He gave a little heavenward salute and walked away from the mike.

As Rich stepped down from the raised ring, Mercer greeted him with a beaming smile that seemed to ask, “What took you so long?” They shared a manly, brusque hug before a medical guy tidied Rich's cut. Rich led the way back up the aisle, his corner following. Lindsey's gaze caught on his back muscles, gleaming under the stark spotlight.

“Wow,” she said, relaxing back in her seat.

“If only all fights were that efficient.” Jenna frowned. “Except that would mean every fight ended with someone getting really badly hurt.”

“Still. What a way to kick off your career.” In a few months, Lindsey could be shelling out a small fortune to watch Rich fight on pay-per-view. The thought was enlivening, except...

Something soured her stomach. Rich wouldn't be around much longer. Mercer had said he needed new guys to fight, more opponents in his weight class and at his level. He'd be off to a training camp, who knew where.

She'd miss Rich's ego-stroking flirtation, but it had been nice while it lasted. Exciting, without any messy romantic fallout. A crush. Someone to get secretly nervous about seeing, to put on eyeshadow for, without actually having to do any of the work of an actual relationship. Then again, also without getting to enjoy any of the perks, such as three rounds with Rich's body in the ring better known as her bed.

As if she'd have had the first clue what to do with him if she got the chance.

With Delante's and Rich's victories secured, the final two matches were stress-free. By the time the main event was wrapped, Lindsey had officially caught the MMA bug. Swearwords she'd never uttered aloud had come streaming from her mouth unbidden, and she'd hopped to her feet so many times it was a wonder she hadn't broken a heel or twisted her ankle.

“Are you coming to the after party?” Jenna asked, organizing her purse. “Nothing glamorous, but free drinks once the press stuff is done. Merce and I could give you a lift later.”

“Count me in. I could stand a little VIP treatment.” It wasn't every day she'd get a chance to mingle in this strange, feral world.

If she'd known she'd be going to an after party, she'd have dressed up a bit more. It was chilly for early fall and she'd worn jeans. Nice ones, with a cute top, but watching jacked, angry men attack each other had her feeling exceptionally feminine, and she wished she'd dressed to reflect that.

Jenna had a pass to get them behind the scenes, and they followed the noise and activity to the threshold of a boardroom past the lockers. A long table was set up at the far end of the room with microphones, and the fighters sat behind it, all showered and dressed, answering questions for the small cluster of press people. Rich had changed into a suit, and Lindsey could make out the white bandage someone had applied to his temple.

Most of the questions were for the bigger-name guys from the final matches. But when one reporter asked Rich how he felt about his “lucky punch,” he smirked and replied, “If this was archery, you wouldn't be asking about my lucky bull's-eye.”

When the meeting disbanded, Lindsey and Jenna followed the crowd. They ended up in a fancy area for the corporate types who had box seats and season tickets, and the open bar was swamped. They spotted Mercer loading stuff onto a dolly, presumably to be taken back to Wilinski's. Jenna hugged her boyfriend, and Mercer's return embrace looked eager and possessive, making Lindsey a touch envious. She hadn't felt the pleasant dig of strong male fingers at her back in ages.

The couple broke apart, and Lindsey clapped Mercer's arm in congratulations. “Happy, I trust?”

He laughed. “There's an understatement.”

“What do you think—was it a lucky punch?”

“Rich doesn't need luck. He hits like a truck.”

“Do you wish he'd gotten a chance to show what else he can do?”

Mercer shook his head. “Nah. Rich has that thing—that thing people love to hate. He'll be even more of a draw if fans are dying for his win to be proven a fluke.”

“Where is he?”

“Being courted by managers, same as Delante. I need to get over there myself, keep an eye on the kid. You girls should get some drinks—I'm driving.”

Lindsey and Jenna hit the bar, then wound up loitering in the concourse with a small group of guys who trained at Wilinski's. They spent some time getting to know their mysterious, violent neighbors and trying to follow the postfight gossip.

A bit later Jenna disappeared in search of Mercer, and Lindsey was starting to feel the hour, her adrenaline waning. She took a seat on a radiator, letting her heels drop to the floor, and checked her phone for the first time in hours.

One text, from Brett.
What time are you home tonight?
It was from a couple of hours ago, and he was probably already in bed. The subtext read, “You're going to wake me up, aren't you? I need my beauty sleep. I'm a powerful lawyer.”

Okay, that was a bitchy interpretation, but she had the spirit of it pegged.

She tapped out,
Not sure. Late.
and shut the thing off. Suddenly wiped, she was tempted to contradict the message and head for the subway. Who knew how long Mercer would need to stay?

Then her mood shifted, weariness gone in a breath as silly, glittery excitement burst inside her like confetti.

She had a second to register Rich's haughty, blinding smile before he was swarmed by a dozen well-wishers and autograph-seeking kids, Lindsey's view blocked. Thank goodness, too. The drinks had her feeling loose, and she could use a minute to pull herself together.

Rich was a ridiculously good-looking man. Scary-sexy with his shirt off, and devastating in a suit. His gorgeous, masculine face, dark eyes and shoulder-length black hair had earned him his fight nickname. Broad shoulders and chest, slim waist, then those hips and that butt and those thighs and...ooh, tremble. His shape seemed made-up, like the heroes in those comic books Brett used to care so much about.

Rich could've easily skewed toward being
too
perfect, except for that accent, peppered with swearwords and strong enough to strip the wax out of your ears. It all worked great as a swaggering ring persona, but his over-the-topness wasn't an act, Lindsey didn't think, and that was enough to keep smart girls from getting any reckless romantic notions about the man. Though it didn't keep her body from wanting his.