He was a great-looking guy. The kind Hollywood would recruit for action movies to get the best of both worlds—someone who could do all of his own action scenes and still have the hot hero look that would make women flock to the theaters.
Next she clicked on the training schedule. There had to be a women’s class. She’d taken Boxerfit aerobics once at a gym in LA—it hadn’t been bad. But there were no women specific classes listed. Weird. There was just the same breakdown on each day of the schedule: cardio, conditioning, strength, grappling, boxing, jujitsu . . . The classes ran from nine to nine each day, seven days a week.
Wow, these guys were hard core.
Clicking on the fighters’ page, she scanned the profiles. Scrolling, she saw only men. Did they even train women at Punisher Athletics? At the bottom of the list she saw two female names. Two out of thirty. Obviously the sport hadn’t caught on with women as much as she’d thought. Or was it just that Punisher Athletics wasn’t eager to train the female sex?
Well, either way, it didn’t matter. Clicking back on the photo of Tyson, she smiled and took a sip of her coffee. “Hello, new trainer.”
* * *
Few people could get away with telling Tyson Reed what to do, but the man across from him could tell him to jump from the Eiffel Tower replica on the Las Vegas strip and he would do it without hesitation. So when his father, Alan “The Steel Fist” Reed, a legend in the fighting world, suggested adding gymnastics to his pre-fight training, it was met with an immediate “Yes, sir.”
“There’s a trainer at Champions Gymnastics. Her name is Melinda, she’s expecting you to call her,” his father said, putting the hand pads away in their designated spot on the wooden shelf against the gym wall. Tyson kept the gym organized and clean and so did everyone else.
He nodded, still fighting to catch his breath after the intense circuit that was only the beginning of his workouts that day. Now there would be another one added to his already grueling schedule. That was fine with him. “I’ll call her today.” He’d heard of other fighters taking gymnastics to help with their flexibility and focus, and he wasn’t opposed to trying anything that might give him an edge over his opponent. He was constantly learning, adapting, finding new ways to become the best. When other fighters were just catching on to a new technique, he’d already mastered it and learned how to defend against it. Constant training and staying one step ahead was the only way to keep winning.
“After you eat, you’re with Clyde for Muay Thai, then conditioning with Ken. I’ll be back later today for sparring.”
At sixty years old, his father was still the best sparring partner Tyson was lucky enough to train with. A boxing champion and a legend in the sport, his father had given up training new fighters five years before, but he continued to coach his son.
An honor Tyson didn’t take lightly. “Yes, sir. When do you leave for Japan?” His father was going to check out a new competitor currently fighting in one of the Japanese MMA leagues to see if he might consider coming to Vegas to join their training camp. A strong camp, comprised of the best athletes in the sport, benefited everyone.
“I leave tomorrow morning. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. At least a few days, maybe a week.”
“You’re sure you don’t want me to go?”
“You have the fight of your career in less than two months. Focus on that.” Alan patted Tyson’s shoulder as he removed his running shoes and put on his sandals.
Tyson nodded.
“All right, I’ll see you later. Call Melinda.”
As his father left the gym, Dane Hardy, one of Tyson’s senior trainers and fighters, grinned at him from inside the octagon, where he was shadowboxing and warming up.
“What?” He knew what, but he wanted to see if the guy had the balls to say it.
He didn’t. “Not a thing, man,” Dane said, climbing down from the cage and heading toward the front desk.
Tyson knew his father’s latest suggestion of gymnastics would sound lame to the other guys. As much respect as they had for his dad, they all knew he’d become a little punch drunk over the years. Decades of concussions and head trauma had resulted in symptoms similar to Parkinson’s disease—tremors, slow movement at times, and muscle stiffness, all things that seemed to disappear when Alan was sparring. But he trusted the older man’s judgment and if his father thought he needed extra flexibility and balance work, he’d do it. He’d only lost one fight his entire career. His father’s guidance hadn’t steered him wrong yet.
Dane handed him a bottle of water and a towel. “But I do have to ask: What’s he going to have you do next? Cheerleading?”
The guy couldn’t resist. “If it means keeping the belt.” He took a swig of his water. “Tell me again—where’s your championship belt?”
The guy grumbled something unintelligible as the front door opened.
“That’s what I thought,” Tyson said as he turned.
His grin evaporated as a tall, thin, blonde woman walked into the gym. Her six-inch heels and her red lips meant she had to be lost and looking for directions. Tyson turned away and began restocking the mini-fridge with water bottles. Let the other guys fight over who would help her. Still, he was aware of the sound of her heels approaching on the gym floor.
“Hi, can I help you with something?”
What a surprise. Dane was the first to jump on it. The man had a permanent hard-on for tall, thin blondes . . . hell, so did most men. At one point, he too had been partial. Now, he wasn’t so stupid. The hotter they were, the farther away he stayed. And by the look of this one, several miles wouldn’t be safe enough.
“Are you Tyson Reed?” Smooth and deep, her voice wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Neither was the fact that she was asking for him.
“Today, I wish I was, but no . . . the guy you are looking for is that man right there,” Dane said.
“Couldn’t have said I’m not here?” Tyson mumbled as Dane stepped behind the desk and reached for another bottle of water.
“I could have, and you could get me on a fight card sometime this decade . . .” the fighter said, making a crude hand gesture as he went back to his training.
“Nice,” the blonde said with a frown.
“If that offended you, you better leave now before someone lets an f-bomb slide.” He rested his hands on the counter and waited for the sales pitch he was ready to shut down. These training gear companies really knew how to sell their products. Hot women with absolutely no knowledge about fighting but could flirt their way to a “yes” passed through his gym on a weekly basis, pushing everything from hand wraps to nearly illegal supplements.
“Okay, let’s start again,” she said, relaxing her shoulders and lifting her Tiffany diamond–encrusted sunglasses from her eyes and sliding them up over her hair.
The dark brown eyes weren’t what he’d have put his money on either. Wasn’t it normally blonde hair, blue eyes?
“I’m Parker Hamilton.”
Was that supposed to mean something to him? He waited.
So did she, a confused frown appearing on her face the longer the silence continued.
He didn’t have time for this. “Well, great chat.” Turning, he resumed stocking his shelves with supplements, making sure the labels all perfectly lined up and faced outward.
“You don’t know who I am?” she said.
Oh shit. He turned and lowered his voice, not wanting the other guys to hear. “Look, I’m not proud to say this, but there’s been more than one tall blonde in my bed, so forgive me if in my no doubt drunken state, you were passed off as a fantastic dream.”
Her mouth dropped. “You arrogant asshole.”
“What? I said ‘fantastic.’” What did she want from him?