“I don’t like talking or hearing myself speak either, but you make me want to talk.” I frown at him. “I don’t even know why I offered to spar when I don’t know anything about you.”
He sighs and leans on the ropes as we both climb into the ring.
Sending him a wary look, I drop down on the edge of the ring and slide my legs under the ropes to let them hang to the side. I won’t gain much, sparring with this guy. I know for a fact he’ll spar like a pro. I’ll gain more from talking—I’d gain information.
And I’m intensely curious.
He sits beside me reluctantly. He’s tall and strong and wide-shouldered. A person shouldn’t occupy more space than their body actually occupies—but this one person does. I’ve never felt a presence as strongly as I do his.
I’m uncomfortable, too acutely conscious of this male, extremely attractive person sitting warmly next to me, his body so hot from the exercise and exuding such powerful warmth and energy, I feel the strangest urge to edge away.
I don’t though.
I stand my ground, or rather, park my ass on it, and try to act chill.
“What’s your name? Is it Cage?” I ask him.
He seems to consider the question as he looks at me, almost as if he’s deciding whether to tell me.
“Maverick,” he finally says, frowning a little and staring out at the room as he seems to consider some complicated puzzle.
“Maverick? Like Top Gun?”
“Minus a Goose.” He grins and it’s irresistible. I can’t help a feeling of losing hold of myself.
“So what’s your story?”
He’s quiet. As if there’s no story to tell, and there’s no way there’s no story behind those steel eyes.
“You from around here?” he asks me instead, leaning back to look at me. I get a squeeze somewhere. I don’t even know where it’s at, it’s so alien. I clear my throat and try to use the same tone I’d use when talking to my girlfriends.
“I’m traveling for the summer. For the season. With my cousin.” I don’t tell him that I’m trying to push myself, trying to better myself, even trying to find myself. “Are you fighting?” I ask him.
“Not yet.”
“But you will?”
“Yeah, I will.”
“You’re good?”
“We’ll see.” He bites the Velcro wrap of the glove around his wrist and then pulls it off with the opposite elbow, and when he does the same with the other glove, I notice his hands, long-fingered and strong. His knuckles are impossibly bruised.
“I need a coach for the Underground to accept me,” he says.
“So get one.”
“They’re booked. They suspect I’m not good at taking direction.”
“You’re a bit of a rebel, Maverick? Who would’ve guessed???” I grin.
He almost smiles back at me.
His muscular arms are bare and flex again as he sets his gloves aside and reaches out to remove mine.
“So get a coach who doesn’t coach.”
He laughs. A pleasant laugh that surprises me. When he tugs off each glove, I wrap my arms around my midriff. “I’m serious.”
“Someone to just sit in my corner?” he asks.
“I guess.”
“You available?”
Oh.
Is he serious?
I don’t know a lot about him—Maverick, god, I love his name—but even when Maverick is near, I want him nearer.
There’s a low hum in my body now and it’s impossible to shake off.
I shake my head ruefully. “No, I can’t go to the fights.”
“You travel for the season but don’t go to the fights.”
Now he’s teasing me. And it’s making me smile.
“Because I’m working. I don’t get to go on a soul-searching vacation without earning my keep for it too.”
“If I get into the Underground, will you come watch me fight?”
“Can’t, I’m working.”
Something like hope dies in his eyes. He clenches his jaw. “Yeah.”
“You can try Oz.”
“What?”
“Not what. Who,” I specify. “Oz Molino. He’s retired. I heard . . . nobody wanted to use him ’cause he just sits there, drinking or hungover. His wife left him.”
He nods then. “I’ll look him up.”
We run out of things to say. I’m reluctant to leave because, with him, it feels as if I’ve known his voice and him for more than the few days it’s actually been. I like this feeling so much but I can’t even determine its source.
His gaze feels so probing all of a sudden; he looks at me as if he’s been waiting for me for a long time. I feel like I too have been waiting for him for a long time.
It makes no sense. It’s just a look, and just a feeling.
You never know what really lies under a look and you can’t apply reason to every feeling. But it’s all there. Tangible, palpable. As though there’s a string between us, one end in him, and the other end in me.
As we settle into a long silence, there’s a shuffle behind us. We glance simultaneously over our shoulders to realize the ring is being taken.
“Oh, drat,” I say, mock-scowling at him. “I’m going to have to show off my awful sparring abilities some other time.”
I’m not sure, but I think I detect a flash of disappointment in Maverick’s eyes.
Unexpected warmth floods me to the marrow of my bones.