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He made a rude noise. “I’m sixty-seven years old with a brain that’s been pounded around more boxing rings than you’ve had hot dinners. You need better than an old slugger, Jimmy.”
Before she could respond, they heard the roar of the crowd from out in the auditorium and the sound of the bell ringing.
“Okay. That’s me,” she said. “I’m up.”
Suddenly she felt dizzy and out of breath. Careful not to show it too much, she took a handful of deep breaths.
She was going to get hurt out there today. She knew what that felt like—she’d trained in Tae Kwon Do for nearly ten years and had plenty of boxing sparring rounds more recently; she knew what it was to take a hit. But this was the first time she was going to be facing someone who wanted to mow her down, knock her out, annihilate her.
She was still trying to get her head straight when her grandfather pulled her around to face him. He held her by both gloves and looked her steadily in the eye. She stared into his watery blue gaze, forcing herself to focus, to be hard, to think of only one thing: winning.
“Okay,” he said with a sharp nod after a few long seconds. “You’ll do. Go take her apart.”
The towel still on her shoulders, Jamie followed him out of the change room.
COOPER SAT BACK in his seat and checked the messages on his cell. Around him, the sound of the crowd filled the auditorium. It was a full house, and the atmosphere was charged with energy.
Despite himself, he could feel his heart starting to hammer against his chest. He’d probably never be able to be around boxing and not have the same visceral, instinctive reaction. He was a fighter. Even if he never stood in the ring again, he would always be a fighter, and the roar of the crowd would always lift him and fire him as it did now.
A journalist he knew walked past. Cooper shifted in his seat, made a show of checking the fight bill. He’d been fielding back pats since he arrived, and he’d just spent a solid ten minutes signing autographs. He might only be the former heavyweight champion of the world, but everyone still wanted to bask in his glow. He wondered how many months it would take before people failed to recognize him. Not long, was his guess. There would be a new contender soon, someone else the public and the media would fall in love with.
It couldn’t happen soon enough for him; the mass attention wasn’t a part of the sport that he’d miss very much. He’d never quite come to terms with the loss of privacy that came hand-in-hand with fame.
He saw from the fight bill that there were still another two ‘exhibition’ bouts to be endured before the real action began and the young fighter he was here to scout was scheduled to fight. As was becoming more and more usual, the exhibition matches were both women’s bouts, part of the sport’s attempts to lift the profile of women’s boxing and build a following.
He considered going outside to grab a drink or make a phone call, tossing up the relative risks of being hit up for more autographs against the boredom of watching fights he wasn’t interested in.
Then he saw her.
She made her way toward the ring with the inward-focus common to all fighters before a bout. She had a large white towel draped over her shoulders, but her long, strong legs were bare beneath the loose satin of her red-and-white trunks.
Jamie. Realizing he had no idea what her last name was, he scanned the fight bill. His finger found the names: Jamie Holloway vs. Maree Jovavich.
Jamie Holloway. Right.
He studied the old man walking in front of her. Was this her trainer? Surely not. But even from a distance he could see the old guy was a former bruiser—there was no hiding the damage years in the ring did to brow, ears and nose. Where the hell had she dug him up from?
He switched his attention back to her, leaning forward as she climbed into the ring. She flipped the towel off her shoulders. Man, she was in good shape. The ring lights caught the ripples of her belly muscles. The defined, firm muscles of her thighs glistened with oil. She wore a chest guard, but beneath the bulk of it he could discern the swell of her breasts, full and generous. Her arms were strong-looking but not too bulky—she was good poster-girl material for the boxing association, a contender who still looked like a woman. The crowd was going to love her if she could actually fight.
She wore her dark hair braided tightly back against her skull in small plaits to keep it out of the way. Her face was shiny where her trainer had greased her brow and cheekbones with Vaseline to help deflect blows. Her gaze was hard and flat as she waited.
He sat back in his chair. She’d been serious about fighting, then, that day at Ray’s. He crossed his arms over his chest and wondered if her talent matched her attitude.
Her opponent, Maree Jovavich, climbed into the ring. Shorter, broader, bigger, she looked like she wasn’t going any-where fast, no matter how nicely anyone asked. He bet himself she had a hard head, too, the way she scanned the ring, marking out her territory.
He felt a stirring of interest despite himself. This might actually be a good match.
He watched Jamie Holloway as the MC announced the fighters and ran through their stats. Jovavich had ten wins under her belt to one loss. Jamie was untried, but she had two inches on the other woman in height and at twenty-seven was two years younger.
The whole time the MC went through his spiel, Jamie didn’t take her eyes off her opponent, letting the other woman know she planned to wipe the floor with her. Cooper grinned, giving her full points for style. Psyching the other guy out was an important part of the game.
As the MC exited the ring, the referee called both fighters to the center of the canvas. He’d be saying the same thing referees always said, about wanting a good, clean fight, and how he was going to signal when he wanted them to break or stop fighting. Both women nodded. The referee waited for them to tap gloves and move back to their corners. Then he signaled that the round was ready to begin.
The bell echoed around the stadium. The crowd yelled as the two women zeroed in on each other like heat-seeking missiles.
Jamie wasn’t shy—she took the fight straight to her opponent with a jab, followed by a left cross before dancing away from the other woman’s fists. They were both good, powerful hits, and he could see Jovavich reassess Jamie as she shook off the blows and circled in again.
A flurry of punches followed, with both women landing good hits. But Cooper frowned as he began to register a worrying trend in Jamie’s form as the round progressed.
The longer a fight went, the less a fighter thought and the more she fell back on instinct and habit—he knew, because he’d been there a million times. And it soon became clear that Jamie had some bad habits. For some inexplicable reason, she kept hesitating when the other woman was open, and her footwork was off. Instead of maintaining her stance and shuffling in and out, always moving, always weaving, she seemed to forget herself and lift her feet, almost as though she was going to kick the other woman or lunge toward her. The first time he saw it, he frowned. The fifth time, he swore under his breath.
“What are you doing, man?” he muttered as Jamie took hit after hit, the price for those hesitations and that poor footwork.
He could see the writing on the wall by the end of the first round, but he had to sit through all five of them and watch Jamie get pummeled around the ring before it was over. She took every hit and came back for more, even though it was clear to everyone that there was no way she was going to win unless she scored a lucky shot and knocked the other woman out.
By the time he was shaking his head in grudging admiration of her sheer pigheadedness, the final bell rang and Jovavich was declared the unanimous winner on points.
Cooper watched Jamie’s old trainer tend to her in her corner, taking her mouthpiece, mopping at her face, checking her for cuts and bruises. He was saying something to her, but she was shaking her head vigorously, her gloved fists thumping down onto her thighs as she emphasized her point. Finally, the old man gave up and simply held the ropes open so she could exit the ring.
The crowd was still cheering Jovavich as Jamie made her way to the change rooms. She didn’t slouch or slink away from her defeat. She held her head high, staring out into the crowd as she passed, daring them to pass judgment on her loss.
He couldn’t look away, even if he’d wanted to.
Then their eyes met across the sea of people, and he saw her burning defiance and determination.
She’d be back. Even as part of him admired her chutzpah, the fighter in him regretted the lessons she was going to have to learn the hard way until she broke her bad habits—or they broke her.
Not your problem, man, he told himself. She’s nothing to you.
He watched her all the way to the change room.
WHY DID he have to be there? Jamie slammed an uppercut into the long bag two days later. She punched again, throwing all her weight behind it.
Better yet, why did I have to notice that he was there? She kneed the bag, then followed up with a roundhouse kick that sent it rocking on its heavy chain.
Of all the people she could have locked gazes with in that huge auditorium, it had to be Cooper Fitzgerald. What were the odds? Too high for her to calculate. And yet she’d stared straight into his deep blue eyes as she walked away from the first defeat of her professional boxing career.
“Remind me to never let you get near me with one of those kicks,” Ray said.
He was working the speedball behind her in his lavishly equipped home gym, the rhythmic thudding of his punches a constant in the background.
Her years of Tae Kwon Do had given her the leg strength, speed and accuracy to ensure that her kicks were a force to be reckoned with. She’d been club champion for six years and state champion for two before she’d dropped out to start training for the boxing ring six months ago, following her grandfather’s heart attack. She thought wistfully of the days when she was at the top of the food chain in her chosen sport, rather than the bottom. From where she was sitting right now, they seemed a long way off.
“Let’s take a break,” Ray said, hitting the speedball one last time. “You need to give yourself some recovery time after that fight.”
Jamie kept her focus on the bag, slamming another combination into it—cross, jab, cross, hook, cross, jab. She was sweating bullets and her face ached from the bruises she’d scored in her fight but she wasn’t even close to being ready to stop.
“Not yet,” she panted.
Ray shook his head.
“You are the most stubborn person I know,” he said.
It was the same thing her grandfather had said to her after the fight. He’d been upset by her loss, angry that she’d ignored his advice and gone into the ring before he thought she was prepared. But she couldn’t back down. She was doing this for him, to reclaim his reputation.
Since it wasn’t too hot a day yet, they’d pushed the folding doors that formed one wall of the gym all the way open, and Ray sauntered straight out to where a sun lounger waited beside the pool. She watched him stretch out, momentarily toying with the idea of joining him and taking a break. But she had more work to do.
She hit the bag with another round of punches then, just for fun, some kicks. There was nothing like the buzz she got from the power of a great roundhouse kick slamming into the bag.
She wiped sweat from her brow and caught her breath. Turning, she leaned her back against the heavy long bag and opened her mouth to start giving Ray shit for having less stamina than a girl. And promptly shut it again when she registered who was standing beside the pool talking to him.
Cooper Fitzgerald.
Just like last time, she felt instantly at a disadvantage as she took in his designer denim jeans and crisp white linen shirt. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, and his hair looked as though it had been cut by one of those fancy hairstylists to the stars. He looked like a million bucks, while she was covered in sweat and bruises.
She pushed herself away from the bag and turned her back on both men. She didn’t care that he was here. He didn’t matter. And it didn’t matter that he’d seen her lose the other night.
Concentrating on her combinations with renewed determination, she attacked the bag some more, trying to keep all of her grandfather’s advice top of mind: keep your guard hand up; shuffle forward, never step; snap your punches, don’t push them; punch through your opponent, not into her.
After four minutes of hard work, she paused again.
He was still there, she could sense him. Damn him. Why didn’t he get his business with Ray over with and leave?
Sucking much-needed air into her lungs, she began to rain kicks on the bag—a snap kick from the knee, then another thundering roundhouse and a spinning back kick that sent the bag swinging.
“That’s some kick you’ve got there.”
She ignored him. Asshole.
“What style do you do, Tae Kwon Do? Maui Thai?”
She kneed the bag and followed up with some elbow work.
“Tae Kwon Do. State champion three years in a row, right, Jimmy?” Ray answered for her.
She spun another kick into the bag. “Two years,” she corrected.
“You’re good,” Cooper said.
Because she was out of breath and gasping for a drink, she stopped and tugged one of her gloves off so she could grab the water bottle.
“Thanks. Coming from you, it means so much,” she said.
He lifted an eyebrow at her sarcasm and, even though he was wearing those dark sunglasses, she could feel his gaze slide over her body. She felt a ridiculous, completely unwelcome surge of awareness and covered by throwing back her head and gulping water.
“How are you pulling up after your fight?” he asked.
She swallowed then brushed at the sweat beading her forehead. She knew exactly how she looked: red in the face, shiny with exertion, hair stuck to her forehead and neck. She was also sporting one badly bruised eye, a swollen lip and numerous bruises across her belly and ribs.
“I’m fine,” she said. She didn’t want to talk about the fight.
“You found yourself a trainer yet?”
“What is this, twenty questions?” she asked, reaching for her towel.
“Just wondering if you’ve got someone other than that old man to tell you where you’re going wrong,” he said.
Jamie’s hands curled into the towel. If he had any idea who her grandfather was, he’d know how stupid he sounded right now. But telling him would open a can of worms she wasn’t ready to deal with yet. She was going to face the boxing world down one day—but it would be on her terms, on her schedule.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about me,” she said. “I’ll get sick of this boxing thing soon enough and go back to my needlework and cookie-baking like a good Stepford wife.”
Flashing him a saccharine smile, she slung the towel around her neck and strode over to her gym bag.
She tossed her workout gloves inside and hoisted the bag onto her shoulder. Ignoring Cooper, she kissed Ray on the cheek as she passed by.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.
Then she headed for the house, her stride long, her head high, every muscle in her body signaling to Cooper Fitzgerald that he could go hang, thank you very much, as far as she was concerned.
COOPER SLID HIS sunglasses up onto his head, the better to watch Jamie Holloway stalk away from him.
He was still coming to terms with the way his body had reacted to seeing her again at close range. The tight black shorts and form-hugging crop top she’d been wearing left precious little to the imagination, especially when soaked in sweat from a good, hard workout. She had a sizzling body—all firm muscle, with high, full breasts. His body had gone to red alert the moment he’d recognized her, then she’d turned around and a visceral stab of emotion had ripped through him when he’d registered her bruised and battered face. He was still trying to work out exactly what that emotion had been. Protectiveness? Anger? Frustration?
As her rounded, muscular butt disappeared into the house, he turned to Ray, a frown on his face.
“Who is the old guy, anyway?” he asked.
“Her grandfather. He did a bit of fighting in his time,” Ray explained vaguely.
Cooper swore. “You’re kidding me? She’s got her grandfather giving her advice in the ring? No wonder Jovavich ate her for breakfast.”
“She wants it. She’ll learn. Losing that fight is burning her up. It won’t happen a second time,” Ray said.
Cooper gave the other man a frustrated look. “I saw the fight, okay? She’s a long way off being ready to go pro. She’s got bad habits—and now I can see why. She’s used to fighting with her feet as well as her fists.”
“I had to be in Melbourne and I couldn’t make the fight. What happened?”
Cooper slid his sunglasses back onto his face. “She wasn’t ready. Someone ought to tell her that.”
Ray spread his hands wide. “You think I want her in that ring in the first place? I felt freakin’ sick when I saw her face this morning.”
You and me both.
“Yeah, well,” Cooper said, suddenly aware that he was wasting way too much time on a dead-end subject that had nothing to do with him. “I wanted to talk to you about your training schedule for next week.”
He sat beside Ray as he began to outline the new training regime he’d come up with, a plan designed to build stamina and capitalize on Ray’s speed in the ring. They talked for half an hour or so before Cooper checked his watch.
“I’ve got to be someplace else, but I’ll see you at the gym tomorrow, yeah?” he asked as he stood.
