Clay closed his eyes, letting the hot water hit his face, trying to will away the stress and tension. He hated the buildup before a fight. Living out of hotels. The media blitz. Cameras shoved in his face for training. They thought they were getting a feel of his life as an MMA fighter; what they were actually seeing was a staged show that Clay was an unwilling participant in.
Clay bitched and moaned through the whole process every single time. His coaches yelled, and Clay ignored them. Promoters cried about sponsors and fans while Clay did a pretty good job of not hearing them. His agent took lots and lots of antacid.
Clay didn’t want to talk to people. He certainly didn’t want to give interviews. He remained steadfast in his determination to be as uncooperative as possible, because this was a fight, not a circus, and the day he started willingly being a clown, he’d quit.
Then Wyatt would come along and somehow talk him into doing a few interviews and nudge him into doing a training camp promo. Clay would give martial arts tips and talk about past fights for the cameras because that seemed moderately worthwhile when you considered the art of Mixed Martial Arts. He’d sign autographs and pose for pictures because it wasn’t the fans’ fault he was naturally an asshole.
Wyatt would push and Clay would eventually play along just to shut him up, because his yapping could really get on Clay’s nerves. That was past fights, where Clay would watch the promotional footage later and realize he’d ended up being a slave to the machine and he’d be disappointed in himself. If there was one small comfort in getting dumped a week before his trip to Las Vegas, it was that no one could accuse him of being a clown this time.
His team gave up the first day they arrived, because the reality was, they were lucky Clay was there to participate in the fight in the first place. Getting him to be a clown for the masses was the least of their concerns. Their angle on Clay’s bad attitude changed from bitching at him to get with the program to coaxing and begging him to pull himself together long enough to win. At the very least, they hoped he wouldn’t get destroyed by Wellings, who wasn’t just hamming it up for the cameras but also looked pretty damn vicious in training.
Everyone, including his own team, was expecting Clay to lose, and Clay couldn’t find it in himself to give a fuck about it. He wasn’t going to get crushed like they feared. Over twenty years of intense martial arts training was hard to forget. His fighting responses were deeply ingrained. He could fight on autopilot—training with Wyatt since middle school insured that—he just couldn’t go the distance.
The fight tomorrow was an issue; Clay knew it on some level. Instead he found himself thinking of Melody as the hot water beat against his face. He knew something was up. He didn’t believe she’d just walked away from what they shared for nothing. She was working harder than before. In the days since she pushed him away, she’d started to lose weight. The dark circles under her eyes were more than exhaustion. Fear and desperation showed on her face, and Clay was frantic because there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
He turned off the shower and leaned past the curtain to grab a towel. They had him in one of those outrageously opulent hotel rooms Las Vegas did so well. With marble floors and gold fixtures and way too much space. The bathroom was enormous, with a huge Jacuzzi tub and a separate shower. Melody would have enjoyed this fancy room if she’d agreed to come with him.
* * * *
“Mel.”
Melody turned, eyes wide, a fork held halfway to her mouth. She glanced around Clay to the front of the diner, obviously making sure no one saw him come into her workspace. “What’re ya doing back here?”
“I know you take a break after the lunch rush to grab a bite,” Clay admitted, feeling his cheeks heat over being so obvious about watching her. He rubbed at the back of his neck, looking away from her. “I just…I’m glad you’re eating. It looks like you’re losing weight.”
Melody laughed cynically. “I can afford to lose a few pounds.”
“Don’t say that.” Clay frowned, letting his gaze roam over her. He’d given her space because she’d asked for it, but the separation was killing him. “I miss you, Mel.”
Melody squeezed her eyes shut and took a shuddering breath. She bit her lip rather than reply. The pain was written all over her face, sharp and tangible enough to convince Clay staying away wasn’t the right card to play. He stepped into her personal space. The magnetic pulse that drew them together flared to life, ricocheting fierce and electric between them. The hair on Clay’s arms actually stood on end. It felt like taking his first drink of water after days in the desert. He reached out and grabbed her hand because he needed the connection.