Zach snorted, which she took to mean, Yeah, okay sure, whatever you say. Except the sarcastic version.
“He’s letting the other guy get him,” Zach said quietly, as if puzzling it out himself. “You can tell, he’s dropping his guard a little sometimes.”
“How do you even know what . . . never mind.” The more she talked, the more she was tempted to look up again. And the bell rang for round two, leaving Zach preoccupied and her wanting to crawl in a hole until it was over.
How did Marianne and Reagan do this every day? How did they listen to the boxing gloves hitting flesh, the grunts and groans and the blood, and not go home with scars on their hearts? She’d cry daily if she had to witness such a violent sport on repeat.
When the third round’s bell rang, there was a blessed moment of relief from both the crowd’s noise and the sound of the male aggression while the winner was tallied.
Peeking from between her fingers, she found Graham kneeling in his corner, swishing water in his mouth before—ick—spitting it into a bucket held up by Coach Cartwright.
After conferring for a moment with the judges—three men who sat at a folding table off to the side—the referee called both men back to the center, paused for a moment, then lifted Graham’s still-gloved hand in the air victoriously.
Well, of course he won, Kara thought as she surged to her feet and clapped like a wild woman. Of course. There was never a doubt in her mind
Except when she’d covered her face for two out of three rounds.
Zach hopped onto the bleacher beside her and screamed out loud, waving his arm and jumping so much her shoulder felt like it was going to fall off when he grabbed onto her for balance.
“Zach, there’s no way he can see you. Stop, or you’ll fall!”
The jumping ceased, but the yelling and waving didn’t. Kara rolled her eyes, but then when she looked back at the ring, she found herself looking directly into Graham’s eyes. Against the odds, he’d found her in the crowd, and was staring intently at her, as if she were his next opponent. And he wouldn’t go so easy on her.
Except the battle wouldn’t be a violent one. Graham’s war would be a sexual one. A fight of the body and heart.
At this point, Kara figured her odds of winning the battle were about as high as Graham’s boxing opponent’s.
That was to say, nil.
CHAPTER
7
Graham sank down on the bench in the locker room, letting Brad and Greg yank off his gloves and unwrap the tape from his knuckles and wrists. “Anything besides water around here?”
“What, like a flask? Save it for after the match,” Greg suggested.
“I mean like a sports drink, you idiot,” he growled.
“Water,” Brad encouraged, grabbing a bottle from the table against the wall and plunking it down on the bench beside him. “Fill ’er up. It’s best right now. You can grab something later, after you’ve rehydrated.”
“Sweating bullets thanks to the shitty A/C in this place.” He settled against the locker and wiped a hand over his brow. “It’s affecting my sense of smell, too. Everything smells like something burning.”
Greg looked at Brad, and he could sense they were silently wondering if he’d gotten hit in the head more than normal. When Brad leaned down to inspect his pupils, he shoved at his friend’s shoulder. “Get out of my face. If anyone’s giving me a checkup, it’s gonna be your hot girlfriend.”
Brad kicked him in the calf. “The asshole’s fine.”
“No, I think smelling burning stuff is a sign of a concussion.” Looking uncommonly serious, Greg looked toward the door that led to the outer gym. “I’m not trying to be an ass, but if you’re smelling something burning, I’m worried.”
“You guys don’t smell it? I thought it was the A/C working overboard to keep up with the number of bodies in there.” Two of which had been Kara and Zach. Spotting them in the crowd had made the moment of victory a thousand times sweeter. Though Kara had appeared a bit pale, Zach looked like he’d never been happier. That she’d given him the chance to come watch, even when he should have been grounded, made Graham’s day.
“Actually, I sort of smell it now, too.” Sitting up straighter, Brad scrunched his brown and turned a full circle on the bench. “It smells . . . okay, yeah, he’s not concussed. Something smells like it’s burning. Coming from the vent?”
Greg shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t smell anything.”
“Maybe we should call maintenance. Something might have blown a fuse, or some motor burned out in the HVAC.” Graham stood, shaking his legs out a little. “I’m gonna get dressed, watch the last match and then head straight home. I need some—No.” He froze as the odor grew stronger. “It’s in here. Start looking in lockers.”