What else was there? She’d just described his life for the last twelve years. “That’s all I need.”
“What about a girlfriend?”
“You mean, what about a distraction? A headache? A pain in the ass? Someone to sit around and watch late-night television with while getting fat and lazy?” Nope. Not for him. Regular relationships didn’t work with his lifestyle. He’d seen too many fighters fall into that trap. Eventually, they got married and had kids and fighting wasn’t the most important thing anymore, so they started to lose. Then he’d also watched the same relationships fall apart over time, leaving the former fighters with nothing. He refused to go out that way.
Beside him, Parker was laughing. “No. What I meant was someone you could wrap your arms around, that would hug you back instead of the training dummy you make out with all the time . . . someone you could share a dozen eggs and a protein shake with at the end of the day . . .”
He felt his face curl into a grin.
“Someone to talk to besides that cactus plant in your office that really could use some water, by the way . . .”
Plants couldn’t argue or cause him any grief, he thought with a smile. One of the few living objects in his life these days that didn’t seem to have only one purpose—to piss him off.
“And someone to have mind-blowing sex with every night,” she continued.
His smile vanished as his gaze met hers—the look in them easy to read. He’d had trouble erasing that same look from his mind on the drive home from the club the night before. Well, if she really insisted on playing this game . . . He could give her something to think about as well. He took a step closer. “Who says I’m not already giving mind-blowing sex every night?”
Her mouth dropped and for once she had no snappy retort.
Satisfied, he took the cart from her and headed toward the checkout counter.
* * *
“See you tomorrow,” Tyson called to Walker as he left the gym a little past nine that evening, the last one, other than himself and Parker, to leave.
Parker guzzled a bottle of water and waved to him. Sitting on the mat inside the cage where Tyson had been showing her various jujitsu moves all day, she glanced up at him. “What’s next?”
“We call it a night,” he said, removing his training gloves.
“But I thought we were . . .”
“We’ve done enough for today,” he said, not looking at her.
Great. They were back to this again. After their awkward shopping trip that morning, the training had started off rough with his reluctance to touch her . . . then her failing attempts to steady her pounding heart and focus her thoughts when he finally did lie on top of her on the mat to show her the moves required by her script. But after a few hours, they’d gotten into a rhythm. They’d both seemed to put aside the persistent, unyielding tension that existed between them and she’d learned a lot. More from him that day than she had from Dane in almost two weeks. Tyson was a champion fighter for good reason. The surprise was his sudden willingness and dedication to making sure she learned everything she needed to.
Now. in the silence of the empty gym, the air around them was once again strained.
She stood, her legs feeling stiff. “Well, do you mind if I stick around for a bit and use the speed bag? My coordination is still way off and there’s a scene that requires me to do it,” she said, hoping he’d offer to teach her whatever technique he used on the bag. She’d been mesmerized more than once watching the lightning-speed unbreakable rhythm he achieved.
“I actually need to do my own training now and I prefer the gym quiet and empty.”
He’d been working with her all day. She would let him train in peace. Clearly, he didn’t want her sticking around.
“Okay.” She picked up her discarded training gloves and started toward the cage door.
She heard him sigh behind her. “Parker, it’s fine. The speed bag is all yours.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“Thanks.”
A few minutes later, her annoyance rose as the stupid, odd-shaped bag continued to fly in all directions, except where she needed it. She’d hit it, it would come back toward her, but when she hit it again, it went to either side or bounced back a third time far too quickly for her to get it again.
Why was this so hard? The other guys had no problem with it. There had to be a trick to it. She refused to believe she was that incompetent. She took a deep breath and started again. Two hits, three hits . . . okay . . . she was getting it . . . then gone—bouncing everywhere again.
“Damn,” she muttered. She had to figure this out. It was the opening, iconic scene in the movie. If she couldn’t get this part right, she was screwed.
“Square off.” Tyson’s voice behind her made her jump. She hadn’t heard him come closer.
“What?” She looked at her feet in fighting stance—the right slightly ahead of the left.
“Your fighting stance won’t work with the speed bag. Fix your feet,” he said.
She did.
“Open your hands while you’re learning and use your fingers to hit the bag instead of your fists.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re hitting too hard and too fast before you get the rhythm figured out. Start slowly.”
Her pulse raced in her wrists at the words—too hard, too fast, start slowly. Oh my fucking God.
He moved toward the bag and demonstrated. “The rhythm is easy to figure out if you pay attention. The bag will rebound three times for every hit. When you hit it, it will go forward, back, forward again and that’s when you hit again when it comes back to you.”
She watched as he hit the bag . . . counted the rebounds, then hit the bag again.
So there was a trick. She offered him a grateful smile as he moved away from the bag. “Thank you. That helps.”
“Sorry you weren’t taught this before. Dane’s a great coach and awesome fighter, but he’s been doing this shit so long, he forgets that new fighters need to be shown the basics—things he takes for granted because he can do them in his sleep.”
She nodded.
“Go ahead and try,” he said, standing back and folding his arms.
He was going to watch? “You can go back to your training. I’ll keep working on what you taught me.”
“Go ahead.”
His simple, quiet authority made her knees weak. “Okay.” She did as he instructed, squared off with the bag, opened her hands, hit, counted, hit again, and repeated the motion several times . . . it worked. She knew it didn’t look graceful and effortless like when he did it, but she’d work on that. At least she knew what she was doing now. She stopped and beamed at him. “It works.”
He laughed and the sound caught her off guard—so rich and deep and smooth. “Of course it works. I’d never lead you astray.”
Their eyes met and held for too long. The silence of the empty gym was deafening as she struggled to figure out what was going on behind his.
He looked away and she released a breath. “I think I’ll head out now. I can work on this again tomorrow . . . thank you again.” She picked up her training gloves and water bottle and turned to leave.
But his hand caught her wrist and a second later he was swinging her around to face him, closing the gap between them. He released her wrist and grabbed her hips with both hands, pulling her roughly toward him. “Why is it that you’re the last thing I need right now, but the only fucking thing I want?” he growled.
Oh God.
His grip tightened and his thumbs bit into her flesh at her waist. Her breath caught under his intense stare and she swallowed hard. Suddenly, being this close to him, alone with him, wanting him, seemed like a terrible idea. He was right. She was the last thing he needed right now, and another broken heart was the last thing she wanted. “Tyson, I . . .”