I shove the rest of the way through the door and shimmy my box in with me. The smell of spice and dirty socks mixes to numb my good sense. “Fire in the hole!” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. Stupid.
A short hallway opens up to a huge room lined with lockers. And my worst fear comes to life. Three fighters. Two shirtless, one in nothing but a small, white towel.
I try to avert my eyes, to blink, to do anything, but I fail. Miserably.
“Layla, what’s up, girl?” Owen smiles in my direction.
I concentrate on his face, hoping to direct my thoughts away from his enormous chest. My weak eyes are no match for the glory of his naked torso, and my mouth goes dry as I openly gawk. So this is what it feels like to be a guy.
“Owen, hi. I’m here… with my box.”
A short laugh from Caleb and I’m stuck on his naked torso. Freakin’ hell. What do they feed these guys? Look away, Layla. My gaze slides to my feet.
Someone clears his throat. “Your box, huh?”
Annnd, I’m back to Caleb’s chest. I nod, trying to force my eyes to his face. I succeed for the most part.
“Well, come on in.” Owen gives me his back while he fishes around in his locker for something. Probably a shirt. It’s then that I decide to petition Mr. Gibbs to have a strict no-shirt policy in the training center.
“You coming to the show tonight, Layla?” Rex, the one in the towel, has his head down, and I take a moment to appreciate his artwork. Not his body. Nope. Not at all.
His arms are covered in tattoos from his wrist to his neck. His chest and ribs also have ink, but I don’t take time to study them. I’m distracted by the silvery glint coming from each one of his well-formed pecs. Nipple piercings.
A gasp escapes from my throat. His eyes meet mine, and heat rises in my cheeks. I look away and walk to the opposite end of the room with my dolly.
Rex laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
I run my hand along my head, smoothing loose hairs back into my ponytail. “Yes. I’ll be there.”
“Sweet.” I hear the metal clank of a locker door opening.
Is he putting clothes on? Eyes forward. Don’t peek.
Staring at a wall of cubby-like boxes, I try hard to ignore the conversations behind me and focus on my task. I will not turn around.
Each box has a gold nameplate with a fighter’s name on it. The t-shirts only have initials. This will take my higher functioning brain. Focus.
One by one, I read a fighter’s name and match it with the appropriate packaged shirts. Eventually, the three guys filter out of the room, giving their versions of goodbye until I’m finally alone without distraction.
I hear the door behind me open occasionally, but I keep my back turned to avoid any uncomfortable conversation about my being in a man-only zone.
“T.B.” I search the cubbies until I find Trent Barker.
Shirts in. Next.
J.S. for Jonah Slade. Easy. Next.
The shirts get distributed quickly, and I relax knowing I’ll be out of there soon. Halfway through my task, I grab the next bundle.
“B.D.” I suppress a growl.
Thank goodness my interaction with Blake Daniels has been minimal my first week here. I stick to my desk, and he sticks to the training room. The few times I’ve seen him, we both do a great job ignoring each other.
“B.D., B.D., B.D….” Where is his name? I squat down, making sure to squeeze my knees together and turn to the side to avoid splitting my pencil skirt. His name isn’t down here either. “B.D.” I stand back up, my thighs quivering with the effort. Monday I’m wearing pants.
“That’s me, Mouse.”
I squeal and jump. The deep voice is so close to my ear, his hot breath tickles my skin.
Whirling around, I scowl. “You scared the shit out of me.”
The side of his mouth lifts. “Oh, now you’re back to street talkin’, huh?”
“Street talk… what?”
He puts his hands on his hips. “When I found you in the lobby you were street talkin’, then in front of Taylor you were all business. Surprised I got you back, Mouse. Thought I’d lost you to uptight corporate ass-kissing.”
I gasp, loud. “I do not ass-kiss.”
“The fuck you don’t.”
“You’re…”
“What?” He steps in close, his deep green eyes locked on mine.
I shake away the foggy feeling his proximity brings. “Crude.”
His lips twitch. “Crude?” Narrowing his eyes, he tilts his head. “You kiss your husband with that mouth?”
Recoiling from his question, I regain my composure as best I can and scowl. “I don’t have a husband. Not that that’s any of your business.”
His expression softens. “No husband?”
I’m not going to repeat myself.
I shove his t-shirt bundle into his chest, not at all noticing how incredibly hard it is. “Here. These are yours, B.D.”