Owen hovers at the bar. “What’s she like?” He looks down at me. “The new one.”
I grind through a few more reps and slam the bar back onto the rack.
What’s she like? Hot, cute, and full of attitude. Her eyes are the color of dark chocolate, sultry and exotic, the complete opposite of her bubblegum-blonde good looks. Getting lost in those eyes would be easy, but there was something else there. Even with her sexy librarian glasses, I could see it. The disconnect in her gaze, like she was talking to a wall rather than a human being. If I had to guess, I’d say she carries a lot of shit on those perfectly toned shoulders.
I shrug. “Cool, I guess. Seems smarter than the last one, that’s for sure.”
I shake my arms out and prepare for my second set.
“Good. Maybe she’ll help Gibbs pull his head out of his ass. He’s becoming a media slut. That shit that went down with Jonah gave him a freakin’ hard-on with all the national coverage it brought.” Rex drops his weights and rounds the leg press machine.
“Yeah, I heard about that. Sucks for ‘The Assassin’ and his wife.” Mason sits on a bench across from mine, his eyebrows pinched together. “What’s he doing with the media?”
Owen clears his throat. “He’s less about the sport and more about the attention. Letting bitches backstage before a fight, joint promotions with the female team. Shit, yesterday he had a film crew in here talking about taping our training sessions for a reality show.”
Mason’s eyes grow wide, and he shakes his head. “None of that sounds bad.”
I finish my second set, sit up with my elbows on my knees, and face him. “It ain’t good. A fighter needs focus. His head needs to be clear, not filled with the complications that unnecessary attention brings. Not messed up about how he’s being portrayed on some piece of shit TV show.” I lean in closer to Baywatch. “You here to fight or are you here to get your damn face on TV with the Kardashians?”
He nods. “Here to fight.”
“Damn straight you are.”
“But hanging with the Kardashians doesn’t sound too bad either.”
I scrub my face with my hands. This guy has got to be kidding. I’m a motherf**king jiu-jitsu black belt. The Brazilian founders of the sport are probably shittin’ their gi’s at the direction the sport is taking.
MMA, going to Hollywood in a shit can.
Choosing to ignore Baywatch’s stupid comment, I set up the weights to do some dead lifts. My first day back to training after some well-deserved time off, I’m hitting it hard. Fight night will be here shortly, and there’s no way I’ll be satisfied with anything other than a win.
“Dude, hold up. I’ll spot you,” Owen calls from across the room.
“I’m good.” I squat low and find my footing. Counting three quick breaths, I throw my weight under the bar, and push the 450 pounds to my chest. I drop it and repeat, three, four, five—.
A sharp pain twists in my back. Motherfuck. I drop the heavy bar to the mat and bend over, hands on my knees, wheezing through the pain.
“You all right, man?” Rex is the closest to me, and I’m grateful everyone else is far enough away that they don’t seem to notice my doubled-over pain-fold.
I grind my teeth and stand straight. “Yeah, man.”
What was I thinking, taking that much weight after two weeks off? I grab my water bottle and head to the treadmill, hoping to walk this shit off. Every step is torture, rocketing pain from my lower back to my ass.
Well, shit. So much for starting the New Year strong.
Layla
Irritating prick.
He thought I was a stripper. Maybe things are different in Vegas, but where I come from, assuming a woman dances nak*d for money is not a compliment. And the way he smiled—like he could see right through to my soul, and found it hilarious. Who does that?
After wandering around and asking for directions, I’m finally in the right place. I walk down a hallway lined with empty executive offices. At the end of the hallway there’s a reception area with an empty desk and a closed door with a gold plaque.
Mr. Taylor Gibbs, CEO
I smooth my dress and straighten my shoulders. The morning threw me a few speed bumps in the form of Blake Daniels, but all is not lost. Pushing past my most recent upset, I focus on my original plan.
Confidence. Even if it’s fake.
Eyes closed, I take a deep breath.
New year. New career. New life—what is that? The sound of an angry voice filters out from behind the door.
I step back, afraid to knock and interrupt, or worse, have the anger turned on me. The words are garbled, but the voices are definitely male. I contemplate going back down to the lobby and waiting, but my morning detour has made me late, and that’s a horrible first impression. I decide to sit at the desk, which I’m sure is mine, and wait it out there so I can pop in as soon as they’re done.
Aggressive murmurs continue for a few more minutes until finally the door swings open. I jump up from my chair and smile.
Two men come out of the office. They don’t see me at first, so I take quick inventory. They’re both average height, but whereas one of them is nicely dressed in a collared shirt and slacks, the other looks scruffy. His wiry salt and pepper hair is disheveled and a little too long, and his Hawaiian shirt and cargo pants look like they could use an ironing.
The cleaner of the two must catch sight of me from the corner of his eye. He jerks his head to face me, and I see a tinge of anger in his expression before he wipes it away. “Oh, hey.” His eyes dart to the clock on the wall.
Damn, he’s going to know I’m late.
“You must be Mrs. Moore—”
“Miss.” I hold out my hand. “Layla’s fine. It’s nice to meet you. Mr. Gibbs, right?”
He shakes my hand and smiles. “Yes, and thanks for being on time. I apologize for not meeting you in the lobby.” Shifting on his feet, he clears his throat. “Last minute meeting.”
A moment of uncomfortable silence passes between us as I wait to be introduced to the man in the Hawaiian shirt.
“Hi, I’m Michael Xavier,” the man says. He slicks back his hair with one hand while offering his other.
“Yes, Z is our new doctor on staff. He’ll be treating the athletes and working with the trainers.” Mr. Gibbs explains how the last doctor left to practice family medicine in Arizona and how Doc Z is taking his place.
This guy is a doctor? Well that’s probably what the fight was about. He clearly needs a more professional look, or at least a cleaner one.
“The two of you will be working together from time to time. If I’m not available, he’s instructed to report to you.”
To me? The cool air from the room burns my eyes. I’m not blinking. “I’m not qualified to—”
“Don’t sweat it.” He claps the doctor on the back. “He’ll do all the work. You just sign the dotted line.”
“I uh—”
“It was nice to meet you Miss—”
My eyes return to the greasy doctor. “Layla.”
“Layla. See you around.” Doc Z turns and walks away.
“All right.” Mr. Gibbs claps his hands. “I don’t have anyone to train you, so I’m afraid this will be a-learn-as-you-go situation.” His bright blue eyes sparkle against his tan skin. Judging by the gray hair in his sideburns, I’d guess he’s in his fifties, and although he’s a little short, I’d think most women would consider him attractive.
“That’d be great.”
“Come on. I’ll show you the main training space.” He motions for me to follow him into the warehouse-style room that I walked through earlier.
The sound of rap music and men’s voices fill the air. Now that I’m not on a frantic search, I notice the smell of sweat and spice. Not a bad sweat smell, just one that reminds me I’m surrounded by men. Padded bags, equipment, and mats line the large space, and in the middle, sitting like a crown jewel, is an enormous octagon.
“Left is the men’s locker room and medical facilities, right is the ladies locker room.” He points down a hallway. “Random offices and meeting rooms.”
Motioning for me to follow, he heads toward a set of double doors. “And in here we have a state-of-the-art weight training facility.”
The rumble of deep voices and rock music sounds from behind the set of doors. He swings it open and walks through with me on his heels. I’m caught up in the tour when my eyes land on the figure of a man. The sight of him makes me freeze in place.
Dammit. It’s him. Blake’s standing there with a couple of guys. I couldn’t describe the other guys because my eyes are glued to Blake’s bare arms. I thought they looked superb beneath his long sleeves, but uncovered—I can’t swallow. He looks better than real, like a weight training Ken doll, all hard lines and sinewy curves. His shoulder cuts flow with an elegant masculinity down to his biceps and triceps, which are bulging and glistening with sweat.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror. Even at this distance, I’m sucked into the deep green nirvana of his stare. My heart rate speeds up, and a slow, steady smile curls his perfect lips.
Everything about you screams easy.
The voice in my head slashes through the spell. Blinking to clear the haze, I curse the debilitating abuse that haunts me still.
“…available to you as well.” Mr. Gibbs stands smiling at me, and I register what was apparently the tail end of a longer sentence.
“Excuse me?”
He narrows his eyes at me, and I stand a bit taller, hoping he doesn’t mistake my drifting away for a moment as incompetence.
“The gym. It’s available to you as well.” He raises his eyebrows. “Do you work out?”
“Sure.” In my old life, working out was the only way I could work off my anxiety. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Great. Let’s move on to—”
“I see you found our little mouse.”
My skin flames at the nearness of his voice, and my stomach tumbles.
“Ah, perfect. Blake Daniels, I’d like you to meet Lay—”
“We’ve met.” His eyes are locked on mine, and my glasses slide down what feels like the entire length of my face. I wiggle my nose to get them back into place. He smiles, his gaze bouncing back and forth from my eyes to my lips.
I glare at Blake, quickly remembering that he may be the best-looking man I’ve ever seen, but he’s still a jackass. “Yes, Mr. Daniels was very helpful this morning.” Not.
He dips his chin and rubs the back of his neck. Is he embarrassed? Well, maybe this guy has a heart after all.
“Looks like you found your way okay,” he says, motioning to Gibbs, who is talking to a good-looking guy with dark skin and arms bigger than my waist.
“No thanks to you,” I whisper and bite down hard to keep from calling him a dick.
“Owen, Rex, and Mason, this is my new assistant, Mrs. Layla Moorehead.”
“Layla.” I correct him, and then shake hands with the guys, mentally running their stats.