The punching bag bumped me, and I thumped my fists together. I needed to shake her off. Mario Peretti was a whirlwind fighter. I needed a clear head. He jumped fast between strategies, and I had to keep moving, watching what was coming. I never saw Kya Allen coming. I had pursued her at the nightclub, thinking I had the upper hand. Now, she deflected every attempt I made to focus. As I circled the black punching bag, all I saw was her little black dress.
She had still struck me as prim and proper when I saw her walk past the bouncer and into the nightclub. Gone was the crisp work shirt and pencil skirt. It must have been in her walk, the way she held her head so high. The Country Club Princess slumming it amongst athletes most people still confused with cage fighters.
I was going to look my fill and be done with her. Kya was slender, but curvy, with a sway to her hips when she walked that I'm sure she never noticed. Many men did. There were taller women, flashier dresses, longer legs, and more skin on display, but when Kya Allen walked by, heads turned. I liked that. She had an unidentifiable quality that made men take a second look.
Some people call it class. Kev called it a challenge. Kya was the kind of woman that had enough confidence she could make anyone work for her attention. She had mine and I enjoyed every minute of it. Then, I saw that clean-cut, khaki-wearing guy buy her a drink.
I had gone up to the bar before I knew what to say. So, I let my reputation talk for me with some terrible line about wanting her on my arm. I had been shocked when it worked, when her arm slid through mine. That was it – only shock. Maybe attraction. Maybe a bit of heartburn from too much steak at dinner. She did not notice and I swept her through the nightclub, still seeing heads turn.
I could have been done with her then. She admitted she wanted me to sign an endorsement deal. I should have dropped her, like all the other money-grubbers that sniffed around my hard work. Instead, she made me laugh and I asked her to dance. It was more of a challenge and her green eyes lit up. Kya did not turn away from a challenge.
I gave up on the punching bag. Kya dancing, her copper curls thrown back, was all I could see. She had moved everything– her fingertips dancing up to the lights, down the swaying hypnotic plunge of her hips, to her small feet in red snakeskin heels. And, the feeling of her tight waist in my hands. I flexed my fingers inside my gloves.
How did I let her get to me?
"You gotta shake her off, whoever she is." My coach, Aldous Antoine, crossed his arms over his barrel chest. "There's only one way to get a woman out of your workout."
"I already ran this morning," I said.
"I'm talking circuits. Sit-ups, lunges, push-ups, high kicks. Thirty each. Then, run in place for two minutes. Go," Aldous said.
I swore at him, but dropped to the floor and counted the sit-ups out loud. Aldous watched his watch, and I knew if my pace slackened, he would increase my running time. It was a nasty workout, more punishment than training. Though, if anyone knew how to get a fighter in the right mindset, it was Aldous.
The first circuit finished, and I ran in place.
"Get your knees higher. Don't make me add burpees," Aldous said.
I would have talked back, but the circuits started to work. The heart-pumping, full body movements made it hard to think about anything else. No snappy comebacks, no pretty women in tight black dresses. I groaned out loud.
Aldous lifted one eyebrow. "She in there good, huh? Well, then what you need is a sparring partner."
My coach flagged down one of his friends at the far end of the gym. The silver-haired man nodded and brought over a young fighter.
"You part of the touring school?" I asked.
"Yeah. I can fight," the kid said.
"You can fight or you hand out fliers at the fights?" I asked.
The young man scowled and his ears burned red. By the time we got in the ring, he was ready to give me all he had. He bounced around more than moved his feet. I rolled my eyes at Aldous.
"This sparring or a middle school dance, sweetheart?" I asked.
The kid lunged forward with an off-balance right hook. I tapped him on the back with a sidekick as he went by, and he stumbled hard.
"I'm not the one who was sucking face at the nightclub last night," the kid said. "Though, I guess I can't blame you, that girl looked tasty."
I sent one kick to his sternum and when he stepped back, I kicked his other knee. He bent forward and a quick chop broke his nose. "That's no way to talk about a lady. Next time, watch your mouth or more than blood is gonna end up in it."
I grabbed a towel, mopped my face, and the back of my neck. Aldous jumped in with the kid's coach. They helped the kid up so they could assess the damage. I knew from experience that Aldous would set the broken nose himself. I stepped out of the ring.
A nondescript man nodded at me from the far corner of the gym. Medium height, medium brown hair, brown eyes, but there was something direct in his stare, something disconcerting. I stalked over and he flicked a business card into my hand.
"Matt Smith. We've met before," he said.
"Sure. What are you selling, Matt Smith? You some kind of reporter?" I asked.
"No, not a reporter." Matt Smith's expression never changed. He seemed used to not being recognized and just waited.