J. Salsbury - Fighting to Forgive

A moment of uncomfortable silence passes between us as I wait to be introduced to the man in the Hawaiian shirt.

“Hi, I’m Michael Xavier,” the man says. He slicks back his hair with one hand while offering his other.

“Yes, Z is our new doctor on staff. He’ll be treating the athletes and working with the trainers.” Mr. Gibbs explains how the last doctor left to practice family medicine in Arizona and how Doc Z is taking his place.

This guy is a doctor? Well that’s probably what the fight was about. He clearly needs a more professional look, or at least a cleaner one.

“The two of you will be working together from time to time. If I’m not available, he’s instructed to report to you.”

To me? The cool air from the room burns my eyes. I’m not blinking. “I’m not qualified to—”

“Don’t sweat it.” He claps the doctor on the back. “He’ll do all the work. You just sign the dotted line.”

“I uh—”

“It was nice to meet you Miss—”

My eyes return to the greasy doctor. “Layla.”

“Layla. See you around.” Doc Z turns and walks away.

“All right.” Mr. Gibbs claps his hands. “I don’t have anyone to train you, so I’m afraid this will be a-learn-as-you-go situation.” His bright blue eyes sparkle against his tan skin. Judging by the gray hair in his sideburns, I’d guess he’s in his fifties, and although he’s a little short, I’d think most women would consider him attractive.

“That’d be great.”

“Come on. I’ll show you the main training space.” He motions for me to follow him into the warehouse-style room that I walked through earlier.

The sound of rap music and men’s voices fill the air. Now that I’m not on a frantic search, I notice the smell of sweat and spice. Not a bad sweat smell, just one that reminds me I’m surrounded by men. Padded bags, equipment, and mats line the large space, and in the middle, sitting like a crown jewel, is an enormous octagon.

“Left is the men’s locker room and medical facilities, right is the ladies locker room.” He points down a hallway. “Random offices and meeting rooms.”

Motioning for me to follow, he heads toward a set of double doors. “And in here we have a state-of-the-art weight training facility.”

The rumble of deep voices and rock music sounds from behind the set of doors. He swings it open and walks through with me on his heels. I’m caught up in the tour when my eyes land on the figure of a man. The sight of him makes me freeze in place.

Dammit. It’s him. Blake’s standing there with a couple of guys. I couldn’t describe the other guys because my eyes are glued to Blake’s bare arms. I thought they looked superb beneath his long sleeves, but uncovered—I can’t swallow. He looks better than real, like a weight training Ken doll, all hard lines and sinewy curves. His shoulder cuts flow with an elegant masculinity down to his biceps and triceps, which are bulging and glistening with sweat.

His eyes meet mine in the mirror. Even at this distance, I’m sucked into the deep green nirvana of his stare. My heart rate speeds up, and a slow, steady smile curls his perfect lips.

Everything about you screams easy.

The voice in my head slashes through the spell. Blinking to clear the haze, I curse the debilitating abuse that haunts me still.

“…available to you as well.” Mr. Gibbs stands smiling at me, and I register what was apparently the tail end of a longer sentence.

“Excuse me?”

He narrows his eyes at me, and I stand a bit taller, hoping he doesn’t mistake my drifting away for a moment as incompetence.

“The gym. It’s available to you as well.” He raises his eyebrows. “Do you work out?”

“Sure.” In my old life, working out was the only way I could work off my anxiety. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“Great. Let’s move on to—”

“I see you found our little mouse.”

My skin flames at the nearness of his voice, and my stomach tumbles.

“Ah, perfect. Blake Daniels, I’d like you to meet Lay—”

“We’ve met.” His eyes are locked on mine, and my glasses slide down what feels like the entire length of my face. I wiggle my nose to get them back into place. He smiles, his gaze bouncing back and forth from my eyes to my lips.

I glare at Blake, quickly remembering that he may be the best-looking man I’ve ever seen, but he’s still a jackass. “Yes, Mr. Daniels was very helpful this morning.” Not.

He dips his chin and rubs the back of his neck. Is he embarrassed? Well, maybe this guy has a heart after all.

“Looks like you found your way okay,” he says, motioning to Gibbs, who is talking to a good-looking guy with dark skin and arms bigger than my waist.

“No thanks to you,” I whisper and bite down hard to keep from calling him a dick.

“Owen, Rex, and Mason, this is my new assistant, Mrs. Layla Moorehead.”

“Layla.” I correct him, and then shake hands with the guys, mentally running their stats.

Owen Miller, MMA champion on the National circuit, retired fighter, current trainer. Rex T-Rex Carter, kickboxing champion and former Olympian, known for his superhuman leg strength. And the UFL’s most recent acquisition, Mason “Mayhem” Mahoney, all-state college wrestler and jiu-jitsu red belt.

“It’s nice to meet you all. I’m…”

Blake’s still standing in the same spot, and his eyes spear me with a glare. I cringe beneath its weight and forget what I was going to say. What’s his problem?

“Layla will be your contact for all things when I’m unavailable.”

I’m grateful for Mr. Gibbs’s interruption, but I can’t drag my eyes away from what looks to be a seething Blake.

“She’ll be taking on more responsibility than Heidi did.”

Suddenly I remember what I was going to say. “I’m looking forward to the opportunity—”

“Shit, you already got the job.” Blake’s comment makes the guys chuckle. “This ain’t an interview.”

His sudden change in personality makes me fidget. He’s not teasing, he’s pissed. As I drop my gaze to the floor, a stubborn piece of hair falls into my face. I smooth it back and hope to hide my embarrassment. “Of course.” Be confident. I lift my head and straighten my shoulders. “You’re right. I apologize—”

“Apologize?” Blake looks at me, and I don’t miss the flash of disappointment in his eyes.

What did I do wrong? And why on earth do I care what this guy thinks? He’s the worst kind a jerk. Cocky, arrogant, and condescending. I glare at him, and he meets my eyes with an unwavering scowl. Staring at each other, we lock into a battle that I refuse to lose.

“I’m going to get Layla started, so I’ll see you guys at the meeting later this afternoon,” Gibbs says.

Blake’s gaze moves away from me.

Ha. I win. I exhale a deep, gratifying sigh and remind myself that sticking my tongue out does not scream professionalism.

The guys mumble their goodbyes, and I follow Mr. Gibbs from the weight room, grateful to be free from the stifling presence of Blake Daniels.

“Wish I could tell you things will get better, but they won’t. Professional fighters aren’t the warmest bunch. Sooner you get used to it, the better.”

I smile and choose not to share that I just out-intimidated one of those fighters in a staring contest. Oh great, now I’m thinking like an eight-year-old.

“Nothing they can throw will surprise me.” Asshole jerks are my forté.

My eyes ache as I read through what feels like the eight millionth document to be filed. It’s been a long day of organizing paperwork, the perfect way to detox from my hectic morning.