15. Alina
15
ALINA
I t takes a lot of coffee the next morning to get me going. A lot. I can’t even peel my eyes open until the second cup.
As promised, I’d just put away my phone last night when there was a knock on the door. I opened it to see two women there, their arms filled with cleaning supplies. “Hello, I’m Paulina,” one of them said, giving me a speculative look. “And you must be Alina.”
Paulina refused to let me help. “Tomas told me to make sure you went straight to bed,” Paulina said with a twinkle in her eyes. “Don’t worry; we’ll handle it.”
So, I did. I even managed four hours of sleep. That’s not enough to face the day ahead, but it’ll have to do. Thankfully, my seven a.m. class doesn’t have any beginners in it. Even better, there are only five people signed up.
I shower, drink another cup of coffee, and head downstairs at a quarter to seven to unlock the front door. Sergio Diaz is already there. “Sorry, Sergio,” I apologize. “Have you been waiting long?”
“I just got here,” he says. “And you’re not late.” He gives me a wide smile. “Congratulations, Ali. What a coup. The moment word gets around, you’re going to be flooded with new members.”
The four cups of coffee haven’t been enough to jumpstart my brain because I have no idea what Sergio is talking about. It’s not my award; Sergio has already congratulated me for that. “What are you talking about?”
“Signing the Asset.” He says it like it’s a title. “I thought the smoothie machine was great, but getting him on board? I saw him fight last night. He went through the other competitors like a machine. Watching him was a masterclass.”
“Sergio, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The Asset,” he repeats. “I saw him here on Monday. I knew he looked familiar, but it wasn’t until I saw him in the ring last night that I realized who he was.”
“Hang on. You’re talking about Tomas? No, he’s not a fighter. He’s an accountant. He teaches at the university.”
“He’s definitely a fighter.” Sergio pulls out his phone. “Look.”
A video starts to play. I see the familiar shape of an octagonal ring, and then two fighters step in. They’re both lean. Cut. One guy in a pair of green shorts has his back to me. Then he moves, and the camera zooms in on his face.
It’s Tomas.
My ears ring with all the things he’s said to me. Fighting is a waste of time. It’s impossible to dry-clean the smell of testosterone out of a woolen suit. All the insults I’ve thrown at him and about him. You faint at the sight of blood. You’ll get a hangnail. He’d probably run for a Band-Aid when he got a paper cut.
He deliberately misled me when we first met, and all week, he’s let me make a fool of myself.
What’s your type?
Someone who can handle themselves in a brawl. Someone who doesn’t think that fighting is a waste of time.
I guess we won’t be having dirty, sweaty sex anytime soon.
Blood pounds in my ears, and I see red. All week long, Tomas Aguilar has been having a laugh at my expense. Very funny. Very funny indeed.
“Can you send me a copy of that video, Sergio?”
My voice must betray some of what I’m feeling. He gives me a curious look. “Is everything okay, Ali?”
“Everything is fine.”
Tomas is going to be here tonight late, after the gym closes. That’s good. Because when I get my hands on him, I’m going to show my smug new partner exactly how funny I think he is.