Vicki Essex - In Her Corner

Quinn’s hazel eyes snapped into focus and she straightened. “That’s official?”

“Doctor said he’ll be in recovery for months.”

She left the office in a flutter of silk. Hadrian shook his head and followed her to the bedroom, where she was already pulling on her bra, panties and socks. She cradled her cell phone between her shoulder and cheek.

“Jason. Yeah, it’s me. McAvoy’s out of the UFF anniversary fight. ACL injury. Can you make room?” She paused, casting her speculative gaze on Hadrian. “No, I’m thinking more like a quarter page. Let me see what I can get first. I’ll call you back.”

“Do we really have to do this now?” Hadrian groaned.

She pulled one leg through her jeans. “I have to pay the rent somehow.”

“That wouldn’t be an issue if you just...” He trailed off at her pointed look and raked his fingers through his hair again. For months, he’d been asking Quinn to move in with him and quit her job, but she’d refused. She loved being a sports reporter on the MMA beat, even though it frequently put them on opposite sides of the table. Seeing her scramble back into work mode, so eager to leave their bubble of bliss, made him want to tie her down. Preferably to the bed.

“Stop, stop, stop.” He took her by the wrists as she reached for her T-shirt. “What’s the rush?”

“You don’t want me to interview you topless, do you?” A single, plucked eyebrow arched. “You wouldn’t be altogether there if I did.”

“Hey, I’ve had to wheel and deal with guys running around with their junk hanging out in the locker room. I think I can handle a little boob.”

“‘Little’?” She feigned outrage and placed her hands on her hips, making her chest jut forward. Of course, Hadrian had seen bigger. But he opted for the politically correct response.

“No, perfect.” He tried to give those perfects a squeeze. She evaded him.

“Sorry, babe. Mood’s gone, and I’ve got a story to chase.”

He moaned. “Damn it, I shouldn’t have answered that phone.”

“Told you so.” She grabbed a pen and notepad from her overnight bag then turned on a digital voice recorder. “Okay, so McAvoy’s out of the big tenth anniversary matchup?”

He sighed. He should’ve asked her to go home and change into her reporter’s outfit—the ugly almost ten-year-old burgundy pantsuit and white button-up shirt she’d been wearing to UFF press gigs since she’d started her career. That suit was as effective as a chastity belt.

He tore his eyes from her jeans and bra combo, and turned his back to her, mustering up his public voice. “The word from the McAvoy camp is that Wendell suffered a serious ACL injury and will be in recovery for at least six months.”

“Do you have a replacement in mind?”

“Gimme a break, Quinn, I heard about this exactly thirty seconds ago.”

Lips pursed, she waited.

“Fine. We’re working on finding an appropriate match against Darren Dodge.” He’d be making a lot of calls that weekend. He always had backups for the main event, but he’d already used four of them to fill other holes on the card.

“This is the fifth fighter to drop out of this event. People have said the anniversary is cursed.”

“Off the record, people are idiots.” When Quinn gave him her “be serious” look, he went with the company line. “Injuries happen, and the health and welfare of my fighters is important. A torn ACL is nothing to take lightly.”

“But the last three cancellations—DePolo’s doping scandal, Vasquez’s battery and assault charge against McCaffrey, Brown’s controversial remarks about—”

“I read the news, Quinn.”

She sucked in a lip and plowed on. “These infringements are indicative of something more pervasive and widespread in the UFF. You’ve got bigger prizes, more at stake, and more fighters and gyms competing with each other every day. Is the increasing pressure to perform driving fighters to justify unsportsmanlike behavior?”

Hadrian stared at her, trying to sort out her eye-crossing question. “That’s a lot of ten-dollar words to be throwing around on a Saturday, Quinn. Sounds like you’ve been holding on to that question for a while. When were you planning to spring it on me?”

“Sunday night, probably.” She shrugged. “It’s just business, babe.”

He stuffed down his irritation and the resentment that her answer had tweaked. “I have a deep respect for these fighters,” he said, clearing his throat, “and I put all my confidence in them to behave appropriately. Whatever beef they have with each other, whatever they’re doing to their bodies—legal or otherwise—that’s their deal. I can’t control them every second of every day. They know the rules. They should know how to conduct themselves.”

“But you have to admit, you’ve made the stakes such that the UFF is the only game in town.”

“That’s not true. There are dozens of other leagues—”

“That can barely compete, and you know it. That’s why you’ve been buying them up, isn’t it?”

He threw his hands in the air. “I thought this weekend was supposed to be about having fun.”

She shut off her recorder. “I’m not attacking you, Hadrian. I’m asking a valid question.”

“Yeah, but why the third degree? What story are you working on, exactly?”

“It’s a feature,” she said vaguely. “I’m freelancing it out.”

“About what?”

“I have an idea, but it’s all about research right now. I don’t have a bigger picture yet. Just some ideas. And I won’t say any more until I know exactly what I’m going to write about.”

He set his jaw, eyes slipping back down to her chest. If he didn’t know better, he could have sworn she’d planned the whole topless inquisition. Not that he really minded.

“Will you stay for dinner?” he asked, trying hard to keep hope out of his tone.

“Better not. I have to get to the office, make some calls and see who has the pulse on McAvoy.” She pulled her T-shirt on and grabbed her running shoes. “Besides, you’re going to be preoccupied, too, finding a replacement. If I finish early, maybe I’ll come back, okay?” She gave him a peck on the cheek and left without saying goodbye.

Hadrian sighed. Well, there went his weekend.

CHAPTER FIVE

KYLE WATCHED THROUGH his office windows as Bella shadowboxed, pummeling her invisible opponent with the grace and power of a pro. She had perfect form—Wayne had praised her discipline and skill—and what she lacked in strength she made up for with finesse.

Something she obviously lacked when it came to working with him.

He knew he’d overreacted the other day when she’d tackled him. He’d lain in bed awake—which was no new thing—mad at himself and at her. Of course, it was always dangerous pulling stupid stunts like that. She should’ve known better. But he wasn’t about to admit that the real reason he was so pissed off ran much deeper. No, she’d been in the wrong.

Sometime later, Orville joined her, along with Tito, and they began a few grappling and takedown exercises. He noticed she had no difficulty or awkwardness working with either of the men. Apparently, things only got weird when she worked with him.

And whose fault is that? His self-recriminating thoughts always took his father’s berating tone. Stop trying to put the blame on everyone else. This is all in your stupid head.

He put down his file and rubbed his tired eyes. He had to try harder. He’d been unfair to her, and he was treating her like...well, not kindly, and it was entirely his problem.

The phone rang. Liz rarely transferred calls that weren’t important, so it was with some trepidation that he picked up. “Hello?”