10. Ro
The smell of leather and, well, men hit my nostrils as Brody held open the door to the Put Up Your Ducks fight gym. I breathed in the thick, muggy air, and my heartbeat kicked up a level.
“Where is everybody?” I wasn’t expecting an aerobics class or anything. Still, one or two sweaty boxers would’ve settled the gentle rolling in my gut.
“Odd Duck said we could have the place to ourselves for an hour.”
I wagged my head and chuckled. I’d have a word with the owner. Nicholas “Odd Duck” D’onofrio had no idea he’d opened his gym to an egomaniac and an inappropriately dressed cheerleader for the evening.
Going straight for humor, I turned in a circle as I walked past the giant mural on the wall and the boxing ring. “I see. Worried there’ll be a lineup of adoring fangirls at the door trying to get a peek at you?”
Brody shrugged, lifting a brow. “I could say the same. Although I’ve seen little evidence of hopeful men hanging around. Eve made it sound like you were fighting them off with a pitchfork.”
I scoffed and tucked a stray hair behind my ear. “Remember. Three brothers?”
Brody winced and nodded. “Point taken.”
He glanced over at the mural on the wall and stopped short. He looked back at me before stepping toward one of the little ducks in the painting. Rubber ducks were Nick’s thing. “I just realized. That’s you.” He pointed at a duck holding a row of knitting in its wing. It had on a pair of rollerskates and wore braids.
I grinned. “Sure is. You’ll find a lot of residents here. Having a spot on Nick’s wall is like a badge of honor. You may even get your own picture one day. I can just imagine your duck. He’d have a hockey stick and skates, but I’m not sure there’s enough room on the wall to fit your ego.”
“Damn,” he murmured, raking his eyes over me. “I think hanging out with you will fix that. I’m gonna need to put you through your paces. Iron out your insubordination with a bit of hard work. We wouldn’t want your coach to up and quit now, would we?”
I raised a brow. “I’m ready to work. What did you have in mind?”
“Let’s start with some free weights.” He glanced at my outfit. “Do you wanna change?”
Honestly, yes. I’d had the misguided idea that if my cheer outfit was okay for a dance workout, it would be alright for a gym visit. Then, I saw myself in one of the wall mirrors. I looked ridiculous. I should be grateful nobody else was here. But I didn’t want to show weakness. Brody already thought I needed toughening up. I put on my most breezy voice. “I kind of like the look. Where do you want me?”
His eyes flared with something I hoped was humor. “That’s an interesting question. I think over here.”
Brody led me to a stand of metal dumbbells set next to an enormous mirror. I hung back just long enough to glimpse his thick, sun-kissed neck as he leaned in to check the rack. I ran my hand over the icy surfaces of the nearest weights, desperate for something to cool me off. Ever since he’d sat in the stands at the school and watched me dance, I’d struggled to keep an even body temperature.
Of course, he wasn’t helping. Instead, he ran his eyes over me from bottom to top, lingering at my thighs. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit the intensity of his stare ignited the smallest tingle, low, low down in my belly.
“Your legs look just fine.” Was he okay? His voice had dropped to a gravelly rasp, but as soon as it faded, his smile returned. “We’ll start with your arms.”
He picked up a weight from the rack with a satisfying clunk. The dumbbell looked heavy enough to sink a rowboat. “Two major muscle groups power your arm. The biceps and the triceps.”
With those words, Brody extended his arm, then curled the weight close to his chest. I swallowed. If the colossal mound of tan skin on the inside of his arm was a bicep, then sign me up to buy a dozen. Preferably his.
Then, at the word tricep, he uncurled his arm, bringing the weight behind him like a feather. This time, a smaller bulge kicked under his T-shirt. I pulled the hem of my top away from my neck, allowing my skin to breathe. Was it me, or did Odd Duck need to invest in air conditioning?
“These muscles work in harmony to control your arm’s flexion and extension.”
I chewed on my bottom lip. Flexion, extension, I really didn’t care which. Right now, I was more immersed in fascination, with a healthy dose of satisfaction on the side. I hadn’t seen anything as impressive since Eve sent me one of Henry Cavil’s viral workout videos. Maybe they had the same trainer.
Brody turned in the mirror, repeating the movements with his other arm. “You need to keep your focus on proper form, gradually increase resistance, and most of all, listen to your body.”
I”d rather listen to Brody”s body in that tight white T and gray track pants. But I had to admit his knowledge of muscles and movement gave me faith that I wasn’t about to pull an arm or break a ligament.
He continued to work his muscles, and I shamelessly stood and admired him. The man in front of me wasn’t the playful Brody I remembered growing up. This man oozed focus. Intensity. Faint lines appeared on his forehead as he studied his body in the mirror.
The Brody I knew would’ve pulled my pigtails or chucked me under the chin by now. Would probably have dropped a dumbbell on my foot just to get a laugh.
“Okay, your turn,” Brody said, breaking the spell and laying the weights he’d used on the rack. He picked up a far lighter set. “We’ll start with triceps. You’re going to need those. For elbowing.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Roller derby isn’t a non-contact sport. You’ll face some pretty tough competition, and you need to rough-in with the best.”
“Like you, you mean?” Even one minute of watching Brody Flockhart on the ice told how tough he was. An impenetrable wall of a man. No amount of pushing weights would give me shoulders or arms like his.
He grinned and rubbed his chin. “If you were built like me, you wouldn’t look so cute in that outfit.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. Damn silly idea of mine not to bring a change of clothes.
Brody sat me down on the edge of an abs board, its plastic sticking to the back of my bare legs. He handed me a lighter set of weights, and under his guidance, I attempted to recreate the tricep exercise. No matter how I tried, though, I couldn’t lift the dumbbell behind me. Instead, my arm wobbled and shook like the San Andreas fault on a bad day.
“I need lighter weights,” I said, dropping them on the floor beside me.
“Those are the lightest ones.”
A quick scan of the rack confirmed his statement. “Is there anything else I can use? A water bottle or maybe a couple of cans of soup?”
He grinned and reached behind the rack, bringing out a thick, green elastic band like they used for PT. “You can try this, but really, I wasn’t sure we’d have to resort to using overgrown hair ties.” He was joking, of course, wasn’t he?
Brody took up position behind me, standing and straddling the bench. He had my complete focus in the mirror. When he passed me the band, I gripped one end near my shoulder and the opposite end with my other hand. Then, I replicated his motion by kicking my arm out behind me.
I completed three extensions. As long as I concentrated, it wasn’t tricky. Or at least I thought it wasn’t. But then Brody stretched out his shoulder, bringing one solid arm down and across his body. My eyes followed his movement, and my breath skittered in my chest. His hips were about twelve inches from the back of my head. Thanks to basic anatomical organization, that meant so was his…
Holy crap! What kind of thought was that? Had I suddenly turned into some sort of gym pervert? Why was I even thinking about his package? I let out a slow breath, timing it with the extension of my arm. I needed to look professional or, at the very least, competent.
But damn him, Brody wouldn’t play along. Satisfied he’d sufficiently stretched his shoulder, he brought both arms over his head, bending backward to extend his spine. His hips moved even closer, and I widened my eyes in the mirror as the bottom of his T-shirt inched above his waistband. A fine line of golden hair and the first set of his abs peeked out from underneath.
I hissed a breath in through my teeth, and at the sound, our eyes met in the mirror. Fire immediately lit my cheeks, and one corner of his lips peaked. The smirk on his face and the realization that he knew I was ogling him brought on a sudden loss of muscle control. With a gasp, I let go of the band, landing a fast elbow directly into his groin.
With a dull “Oof,” Brody crumpled over like a controlled explosion had collapsed his insides.
“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry!” I squealed, dropping the band and jumping to my feet. By now, he’d sat on the bench, doubled over and groaning. “Can I help?” I mean, I could offer to rub it better, but it probably wasn’t the best suggestion, considering we were alone, and I was already struggling to control my still-raging crush on him.
“No!” His voice was a rasp. “I need to lie flat.” I stepped out of the way, and he reclined backward on the bench, pale-faced and with his hands cupping his groin
I cast my eyes around the gym, looking for an oxygen tank or ice. A hydration station stood in the corner. “I’ll get you some water,” I said, sprinting to the cooler. I pushed down on the pump, filling a paper cup. Satisfied I’d got as much as possible, I raced back to Brody. He lay out like a corpse on the bench, hands above his head.
I made it to his side okay but got totally distracted by his abs again, tripping on the dumbbells I’d left on the floor.
Like a slo-mo sequence from a movie, the entire contents of the cup took flight, landing all over him. As soon as it hit, the liquid soaked into the fabric of his top, rendering it transparent in milliseconds.
“Oh hell, I’m so sorry,” I lied, my hands hovering over the now clearly outlined grooves that made up his armor-plated stomach. Would it be a bad time to ask for an explanation of the workings of the abdominal muscles? At least he’d forgotten about the accidental elbowing in all the chaos.
Brody groaned and pushed up to sit. “Don’t worry,” he ground out before looking down to check the damage. “It could happen to anyone.” With a quick shake of his head, he took the bottom of his T-shirt and peeled it off over his head.
I swear my eyeballs nearly popped out and landed on the floor. A million women would pay a fortune to swap places with me. The words “Instagram” and “Live” crossed my mind, but I dismissed them as tacky and exploitative.
His T-shirt was off now, and although I’d seen him shirtless before, the low light of the gym did crazy things to the planes of his chest. A furnace lit in my face, and my mouth hung open. He bundled up his sodden T-shirt in one giant hand and tossed it to the floor.
“A few women have wanted me to lose some clothes in my time, but they just came out and asked, Ro.” He winked, and I swallowed. Hard. Brody stood and stepped back over the bench, pulling up at the weights rack again. “Now that you have me almost naked, let’s work on your biceps.”
There was no awkwardness in his face. No nervous tic in his cheek or clamped jaw. He was just going to carry on, half wet, half naked, and so very close to me. I took a breath, the gentlest hint of mint and lemon mingling in my nose. The scent woke me from my stupor. I hadn’t uttered a word for about thirty seconds. He’d think I was a nitwit or that his superior muscle definition had dazzled away all my good sense. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“Okay, let’s get to it,” I said with a whole lot of optimism I didn’t feel. With a half-hearted smile, I took the weight Brody offered me.
“Your biceps can carry a heavier load than your triceps,” he said.
How about the burden of guilt? I’d blatantly ogled a man in obvious pain. That sort of behavior wouldn’t get me into heaven.
I held the weight in one hand and brought it to my chest, just like he’d done. Fine, my wrist may have wobbled a little at the top, but when he stepped in behind to assist me, there was no way I’d refuse his help.
His warm fingers gripped the outside of my arm, taking a little of the weight, and our eyes met in the mirror. Mine were wide and feverish, and I tried so hard not to look at his body. Brody’s were cool, calm, and just a little too mischievous for my liking. The heat pulsed off his skin, and it took herculean strength not to lean back into him.
“Keep your elbow at your waist.” His lips were just inches from my ear, and his breath tickled down the side of my neck, sending a scatter of goosebumps down my arm. His hand closed over my arm, guiding my movement in the mirror. “It’s all about having the correct form. The discipline.”
With his enormous chest at my back and his breath on my shoulder, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the correct form. The two of us moved together in the mirror and the tiniest of smirks returned to his lips. I let out a shuddering breath and I swear they curled a little more. I only hoped he’d think the tremble in my arm was because of a lack of exercise. But as our eyes met again, his face clouded, suddenly serious.
“Ro,” he whispered before the rude ring of a cell phone shattered the tension in the air. He didn’t answer it at first, but when the shrill tone became impossible to ignore, he rolled his eyes and let go of my arm, stepping away.
Brody dug his hand into his pocket, bringing out his phone. He looked at the screen, a crease fixing on his brow. “I have to take this.”
“Oh, don’t worry, go ahead. I’ll just be over here, pumping iron.” The grin on my face and the cheery pitch of my voice clashed with the stiffness in my body.
With a nod, Brody turned away. He headed over to the boxing ring in the center of the room. Every step, every ripple of muscle under his skin, reflected in the mirror in front of me. He leaned against the ropes, and I wished I’d applied myself more in Girl Scouts. I couldn’t precisely recall there being a badge for lipreading. His mouth moved and thanks to great acoustics, I caught most of his words.
“Alex. What’s up? Did you hear something?” The scowl grew on Brody’s brow. “Okay, sure. Want to meet?”
The clock ticked on the wall. Or was it my heart? I lowered the weight to my thigh, straining to hear while attempting to look as if I was adjusting my discipline, flexion, or something.
“Okay. I’m still in Tuft Swallow.” He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that had my toes curling inside my sneakers. “I know, right? I wouldn’t trust your sat nav. Okay. I’ll see you then. Look forward to it.”
The faintest smile passed over his lips as he hung up the call, and after a long beat, he turned back, strolling over as if he wasn’t half naked and drop-dead devastating. Our eyes met in the mirror, and by the time he made it to my side, mine were as wide as dinner plates.
“I’ll take that.” Brody lifted the weight out of my hand, putting it back on the rack. He narrowed his eyes as if mulling something over. “Can you box?”
I mean, probably. I’d got into a fight once, in grade school, when someone picked on Eve. I’d landed a few skin scratches. Pulled some hair. Did that count? “I think I can handle myself.”
“Okay, then. Let’s spar.”
The mischievous grin on his face made my teeth grind. “Brody, you’re about twice the size of me.”
He moved toward the ring, and I trailed him like a stray puppy. “Don’t think you can take me, Small Fry?”
We reached the ring, and Brody examined a pile of old boxing gloves. They were much bigger than I expected. I’d followed him willingly, but now that the moment had arrived, the thought of being whacked in the face by leather oven gloves had lost its appeal.
I chewed the inside of my cheek. “I don’t want to break my nose. I quite like it.”
Brody’s eyebrows shot up. “Hey, don’t worry. I’m really careful. I’ll make sure it’s a clean break.” My mouth dropped open, and he chuckled. “Ro. I’ll be catching your punches, not throwing them.”
He handed me a pair of large red gloves, and I slipped them on, their soft lining a little damp. I tried not to think about who’d last used them. I could always bleach my hands when I got home. He picked up a couple of black catching pads and pulled apart the ropes lining the ring, ushering me inside. Brody sucked in a breath as he climbed up behind me. It was only a small step. Either his leg was acting up, or he had a delayed reaction to me, almost spearing him in the genitals.
In the ring, any notion of becoming Rocky Balboa or Muhammad Ali deserted me. Instead, in the harsh overhead light, I felt ridiculous. I wore a cheerleader’s outfit and had on a pair of oversized mittens. Brody swaggered over to me in the center, lifting his arms and bringing his thick catching pads to eye level. I’d hoped to hide behind the bank of black foam, but being taller than me, I could still see the smug curl of his lips over the top.
“Jab,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“Jab. Turn into the pad and punch straight out in front.” To make his point, Brody demonstrated. His stomach muscles rippled under his tanned skin. I hoped I wasn’t dribbling.
I followed suit, hitting the catching mitt with a soft thump. I swear Brody growled. “Harder.”
“What?”
“Do it again, but this time like you mean it.”
I sucked in my lips and hit him again. Twice. I was a little offended he thought my efforts were sub-par. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to send you back to your team with a black eye and a groin injury.”
Brody huffed a laugh, moving his feet like a real boxer, his sneakers scuffing against the surface under our feet. “You won’t hurt me, Small Fry. Like you said. I’m about twice your size.”
A flare of fire sparked in my gut. Arrogant asshole. But he had a point. It was like one of the kids from Stranger Things going up against The Rock. But as requested, I punched him harder. Three times. Still, that self-satisfied smile stayed on his lips.
“Who was that on the phone?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.
“Huh?”
I punched. Harder. “An adoring fan?”
Another punch. “One more heart trampled on by Flock the Feckless?”
This time, I followed my jab up with a second in quick succession. His eyes widened for a beat before I landed a third blow. I grinned. Who knew hitting lumps of foam could be so enjoyable? Or was it Brody I was trying to pummel?
I rounded on him again, stepping right into my jab this time. “Flock the fuck boy back in town?”
Brody’s jaw tightened behind his pads, and his brows drew together. “What? No.”
I jabbed again, moving him backward with every punch. I was enjoying hitting him a little too much. Did that make me some kind of psychopath?
“It was a journalist,” he gritted out.
“Coming to see you in Tuft Swallow? Nobody comes here.” I gave him a right hook this time, throwing my weight behind it.
Under the impact, Brody shuffled back a little.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?”
One corner of his lips peaked. “Why do you care so much?”
“I don’t,” I lied. Of course, I wanted to know who he’d spoken to. The person on the phone made him frown.
Another of my hits connected, edging him further back toward the ropes.
He sucked in a breath between his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “Doesn’t seem that way to me. Perhaps you’re a little more interested in my life than you care to admit.”
Shit, was I that obvious? He had it right, though. I wanted to know about his life. His thoughts on the polar ice caps melting. Who would win the Super Bowl? And most of all, how he’d felt after the kiss we’d shared. I wrinkled my nose and punched the pads, surprising myself at the jolt when the shots landed.
Again, Brody shuffled back. “Breathe,” he ground out.
I scowled.
“You’re holding your breath. You’ll tire that way.”
I hit even harder to prove him wrong, stumbling a little as we connected. Brody’s back was almost at the ropes, and I glanced down at my feet.
“Eyes on me, Ro.”
The grind in his voice, the gravelly sound, had me following his order, and when I found his blue eyes, they blazed with fire. Something licked in my gut. An odd mix of ire and irrational desire. I drew my lips together. “You always wanted my eyes on you.”
We were so close now Brody was almost trapped against the ropes. “And you were always happy to oblige.” He threw me a lopsided smile.
Damn, I hated it when he was right. I quickly delivered three jabs, stepping into him, driving him back, the thwack of leather hitting leather. As I unleashed a fourth, he grinned and dropped his catching pads to the floor. Brody wrapped a hand around my redundant wrist. At the gentle pressure, my temper flared, and I drew my other arm back for one final blow, catching pad or not. I didn’t connect, though. In a move faster than The Flash could manage, Brody caught my other wrist, stopping my glove in front of his face.
“So violent, Rowena. So much pent-up aggression.” His voice was lower. Even more gravelly than before. Guttural. But there was no threat on his face. He enjoyed goading me. I bit my lip hard, and his eyes flashed before he brought my gloved hand down and twisted us both around, pressing me against the ropes, one hand behind my back and my chest hard against his.
I sucked in oxygen. I was pinned against his solid pecs. Our bodies fit together perfectly. An ache filled my ribs.
“I told you to breathe.” His words were at my ear, his voice playful, low, and lilting.
Unable to resist, I lifted my chin. I was greeted by his unreasonably high cheekbones, a hint of stubble, and the slight cleft in his jaw. I wanted to kiss it. Wanted to kiss all of him. Taste him again. Nobody had a right to be this handsome or make my heart hammer so hard.
Our lips hovered inches away, and a sudden urge to close the gap gripped me. To stand on my tiptoes and bring my mouth to his. Blood screamed in my ears at the thought, and I parted my lips. Brody saw the movement, and his eyes darkened as if someone had pulled a hood over them.
As we stood there against the ropes, hearts beating together, quick breaths matching each other, he stared hard at my lips. Finally, he spoke, his breath grazing against the skin of my cheek.
“Ro. About that night…”
I swear my heart did a round of double dutch as his eyes met mine.
“It’s just that…”
Before he could finish, a door slammed somewhere behind us. A rough voice filled the heated air. “Okay, kids. Playtime’s over.” I let out a shuddering breath. Odd Duck was the nicest MMA fighter in the country.
Brody didn’t flinch, though. Didn’t move a muscle. He still had his gaze locked onto mine. My body screamed to be closer to his. My brain screamed to know what he’d been about to say. Was he about to say it should never have happened? He’d be right. But pressed up against him now, I’d give anything for a repeat performance.
“I need to shut the place up.” Odd Duck’s voice was more insistent now, more pressing. He strolled into my field of vision, hands on hips and wagging his head slowly. “Look, I don’t know what sort of kinky shit I’ve walked in on, but I have to close up. I’ve got a date.”
Brody’s eyebrow cocked. “Not with you, I hope, Small Fry,” he murmured.
I bit my lip and shook my head. With a hint of a smile, Brody relaxed his grip, and I stepped away, my brain spinning.
“Then I’ll get you home. I think one of us has punched above our weight tonight, anyway.”
With a flourish like a royal courtier, he held the ropes open for me to exit. As I leaned down to step through the gap, he gave me his big, sexy, damn irritating Brody Flockhart grin, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he meant him or me?