Chapter 2 - Joanna
I'm still shaking.
My hands won't stop trembling as I dip the mop back into the bucket, the water already turning pink from all the blood I've cleaned up tonight. The chemical smell of the disinfectant burns my nose, but I barely notice. My heart's racing so hard I can feel it in my throat.
I press the mop against the concrete, scrubbing at a stubborn stain that's probably been here for weeks.
Months, maybe. The physical work helps. Gives me something to focus on besides the lingering feeling of that man's fingers digging into my arm.
Besides the way Danny Cross appeared out of nowhere like some kind of avenging angel.
Except angels don't look like that.
I risk a glance toward his corner.
He's still there. Standing completely still, arms crossed over his massive chest, head slightly bowed.
Decompressing, I've heard people call it.
After every fight, he goes to that same spot and stays there for at least twenty minutes.
Everyone knows not to approach him. Everyone knows to give Bruiser his space.
But he'd approached me.
I force my eyes back to the floor. Keep cleaning.
This is just a job. He was just being decent.
That's all. Men like Danny Cross don't notice girls like me.
Why would they? I'm nobody. A single mom who cleans up blood and sweat for minimum wage, who goes home smelling like disinfectant and violence, who's too tired to remember the last time she felt pretty.
And he's... him.
God, how could anyone not notice him?
I'd noticed him my very first night here.
Impossible not to. He's enormous. Not just tall but wide, built like he was carved out of solid granite.
Short dark hair that makes his eyes even more intense.
That nose that's been broken so many times it's almost abstract.
Tattoos covering every visible inch of skin below his jaw.
He looks dangerous because he is dangerous.
I've seen what he does in that pit. Seen the way he fights like something primal and unstoppable.
Men twice his skill level crumble under his fists.
He doesn't dance around or show off. He just..
. destroys. Methodically. Efficiently. Like violence is a language he speaks fluently and everyone else is still learning the alphabet.
It should terrify me.
It does terrify me.
But there's something else there too. Something I noticed in those brief moments when he stood between me and that creep.
The way he'd asked if I was okay. The way he'd stepped back immediately when he saw I was scared.
Given me space. Like he was aware of exactly how intimidating he was and was trying to make himself smaller.
As if a man like that could ever be small.
I move to the next section of floor, dragging the bucket with me. My arms ache. Everything aches. I've been on my feet for five hours straight, and I still have another hour of cleaning before I can clock out and go home to Daisy.
My chest hurts with the usual cocktail of love and guilt.
She's asleep right now, curled up in Mrs. Patricia's guest room with her favorite stuffed rabbit.
She'll wake up tomorrow morning and ask me if I had fun at work, because at three years old she doesn't understand that Mommy's "work" involves mopping up blood in an underground fighting ring.
I tell her I clean a gym. Which is technically true. Just... not the whole truth. One day she'll be old enough to ask harder questions, and I'll have to figure out what to tell her. But not yet. Not for a while.
I'm scrubbing at another stain when I feel it, that prickling awareness that comes from being watched.
I straighten slowly, risking another glance toward the corner.
Danny's looking right at me.
Our eyes meet for maybe two seconds before I jerk my gaze away, my face flooding with heat. My heart's doing that stupid thing again, beating too fast, too hard.
I focus on the mop with an intensity that's probably excessive for literal floor cleaning. Dip, wring, scrub. Dip, wring, scrub. Don't look at him again. Don't be weird about this.
The other two cleaners, Marcus and Pete, are working on the bleachers, wiping down seats and picking up trash. They're talking quietly to each other, laughing about something. Normal. Easy.
I envy them that. The ease.
I've never been easy. Not even before Daisy, before her father left, before I became a single mom scrambling to survive. I've always been the quiet one. The one who fades into the background. The one boys looked past in high school to get to my prettier, thinner, more confident friends.
I'd made peace with that a long time ago.
Mostly.
My arm throbs where that guy grabbed me. It'll probably bruise. I'll have to wear long sleeves for a few days so Daisy doesn't ask questions.
*"You work here, right? You know how to have a good time."*
My stomach twists. I hate that I froze. Hate that I didn't just walk away the second he started talking to me. But I'd been trained my whole life to be polite, to not make a scene, to smile and deflect and hope the guy gets the hint.
They never get the hint.
Not until someone like Danny makes them.
I chance another look.
He's not watching me anymore. His eyes are closed now, head tilted back slightly, jaw clenched. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look even more severe. There's fresh blood on his knuckles, dripping onto the floor I just cleaned.
He'd asked what my name was.
I'd known who he was, obviously. Everyone who works here knows the fighters. Knows their names, their records, their reputations. Bruiser's reputation is simple: undefeated except for one loss to Rampage, and absolutely brutal in the ring.
But no one had ever mentioned that he'd defend a nobody cleaner from some drunk asshole. That he'd use that rough voice. That he'd step back when he saw fear in my eyes.
"You good over there, Joanna?"
I jump, nearly dropping the mop. Marcus is standing a few feet away, a trash bag in one hand, concern on his weathered face.
"I'm fine," I say quickly. "Why?"
"Saw that guy hassling you earlier. Saw Bruiser handle it." He glances toward Danny's corner, then back to me. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. Really. He just... he wouldn't leave me alone. But it's fine now."
Marcus nods slowly. "Bruiser's a good guy. Don't let the rep fool you. Man's got a code."
"A code?"
"Doesn't hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it. Respects the workers here. Hell, he knocked out some asshole a few months back for grabbing one of the ring girls." He shrugs. "Like I said. Code."
I digest that. Try to square it with the image of Danny beating a man unconscious in the pit less than an hour ago.
"Thanks, Marcus," I say.
"Anytime, kid."
He heads back to the bleachers, and I return to cleaning. But my mind won't settle.
A code.
I think about the way Danny had materialized behind that guy. The low, dangerous tone of his voice. *She said no.* Like those three words were law, and anyone who broke them would pay for it.
I think about his hands. The way blood had dripped from his split knuckles onto the concrete. The way he'd dismissed my offer to help like it was nothing. Like pain was just part of his daily routine.
*I've had worse.*
Of course he has. Ten years in prison, I'd heard someone say once. For nearly killing a man. I don't know the details, and I'm not sure I want to. All I know is that Danny Cross is exactly the kind of man I should stay far, far away from.
Dangerous. Violent. Complicated.
Everything I don't need in my life right now.
I have Daisy to think about. A daughter who needs stability, safety, and consistency. Not some... whatever this feeling is. This stupid, inconvenient flutter in my chest every time I look at him.
I'm being ridiculous anyway. He pushed me away. *No.* That's what he'd said when I'd offered to help with his hands. Short. Harsh. Final.
A man like him would never notice a chubby single mom who smells like bleach and barely scrapes by.
I'm almost done with the floor when I feel it again, that awareness.
This time I don't look.
I keep my head down, my movements steady, my expression neutral. Just cleaning. Just doing my job. Just trying to get through the night so I can go home and crawl into bed next to my baby girl and forget that Danny Cross exists.
Except I won't forget. I know I won't. Because even now, with my eyes firmly on the bloodstained concrete, I can feel the weight of his gaze hovering over me.
And God help me, I don't entirely hate it.