J. Salsbury - Fighting to Forgive

“Mom?” Her voice trembles.

She studies my face, searching, when a cool, wet drop slides down my cheek. Dammit. “I’m okay.” I wipe it away and force a shaky smile.

“Why are you crying?” There’s a pleading in her voice, but I can’t tell her how bad things really were. I have to keep that a secret.

I dab my cheek with my napkin. “I’m just tired. I haven’t had a real job since I was fifteen.” A weak laugh falls from my lips. “It’s exhausting.”

Elle glares at me then slams her palms on the table. “I’m going to bed.” The metallic scrape of her chair against the linoleum grates in my ears. She stomps off to her room and slams the door.

I’ve lost her. And I want her back. But I don’t have a clue how to do that.

You’re a horrible mother.

For once, the voice in my head makes sense. So I answer, first internally, and then aloud. “I know.”

It’s the end of my first week working at the UFL Training Center, and I’ve been catching on quickly. I’ve impressed Mr. Gibbs by implementing a new filing system that is easy to use and puts all the paperwork in actual drawers. Something that, from what I can tell, Taylor hasn’t done in the last ten years.

He’s off site all day for various meetings. A list of things to do sits on my desk. I pick it up, ready to end the week strong, and start at number one.

New promotional t-shirts need to be handed out to the fighters. A big box sits next to my desk—that must be them. I rummage through and see that they’re bundled in plastic. Each bundle contains three shirts and has a fighter’s initials scribbled on it in Sharpie.

“Easy enough,” I say and check off number one with a gratifying swipe of my pen.

Dropping my list on the desk, I stare at the box, grateful it’s on a dolly. That’ll make moving the box in heels much easier and a little more graceful. The instructions say that the shirts need to go into their drop-boxes, but I don’t know where those are.

I pick up the phone and make a quick call to Vanessa at the reception desk. She’s warmed up to me in the last few days, in that she no longer scowls at me when I walk past her every morning. She just flat-out ignores me.

With the phone pinched between my ear and my shoulder, I read my to-do list one more time to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Nope. Nothing about the location of the drop-boxes.

“What is it?” Vanessa says, her attitude proving the multi-line phone system gave me away.

“Good morning, Vanessa. How’s your day going?”

The silence on the phone grows thick. Okaaay.

“I have to put some things into the drop-boxes? Can you tell me where those are?”

She exhales hard, making sure to communicate her irritation. “Locker room.”

No. They can’t be there. That would mean I’d have to go inside where all the guys are showering and changing and… wait a second.

“Yeah, right. Look, I know you’re busy, so am I. If you could just tell me where the boxes are—”

“Locker. Room.” Click.

Did she hang up on me? “Hello?” No reply. I hang up the phone. “What a bitch.”

I study the shirt bundles, chewing my nails, contemplating. What’s the worst that can happen? Sticking my head into the guy’s locker room for a quick peek won’t hurt anyone. If she’s lying, I’ll find help elsewhere. If not, I guess I’ll owe Miss Crabby Pants a thank you.

“I have to do my job.” Groaning, I wrestle the dolly around and drag it down the hallway. It’s still early, and I’m hoping I can get in and out of the locker room before the guys break from training to shower.

It’s quiet in the main training room. Huh, maybe they’re taking the morning off. I take a chance and scurry to the locker room door. With my back to the two-way door, I start to push through when a thought stops me. I don’t know the proper etiquette for a woman in a men’s locker room. Even if there’s only one guy inside, I should let him know I’m there. Is there a code? Something I can yell as I walk in that announces a woman’s presence? What would that be? Beaver in the wood shop? Eww, no. There’s got to be something. Estrogen intruder?

Oh, whatever.

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.