With a sport.
It’s freaking impossible to follow in Mary’s footsteps when what I really want is nothing Mary has.
What I really want is to go into the gym today, and kick some ass.
I get out of the car, grab my gym bag, and head inside.
The smell of sweat and men hits me, as it does everyday, when I walk in for my three-hour session. The family thinks I’m at a gym working out–you know, stair steppers and ellipticals, grabbing a smoothie and taking a cardio class with twenty other women wanting to get bikini-ready.
I don’t own a bikini. I prefer shorts and tank tops, a pair of gloves. I come to the gym to condition. To prepare. I come to the gym to fight.
But Dad doesn’t need to know that. No one in the family does.
“Hey, JoJo,” my coach, Kit, greets me as I pass his office, headed to the locker room. “You ready, girl? Today’s gonna be a beast.”
It’s Wednesday. Wednesdays are always my hardest, longest day. Kit always lines me up a grappling partner mid-week, and I both love it and hate it. Up until a month ago, I was just here helping as a personal trainer and fighting in amateur bouts. But Kit thinks I can do this—really do this. So I’ve stepped away from doing anything besides training for my first professional fight.
I don’t know if his belief in me is warranted ... but I’ll take it.
And I figure that if he takes me seriously as a fighter, I can take myself seriously, too.
Which is why I consider myself distraction-free. I have only two priorities: my gym and my family. Anything else is in the way.
In the locker room I take off my white jeans and sandals, and change into my workout gear. Before locking my stuff up, I check my phone and see I have some texts.
My best friend from college, Lucy.
Lucy: Hey chica, I’m so bored. Let’s do lunch. Pleaseeee.
Lucy: Don’t ignore me. I know you’re at the gym. I’ll come there if you don’t say yes.
Me: I’ve gotta work out till two.
My thumbs hover, knowing I’m a lame friend. Not wanting to be that person. I can make an effort.
Me: Maybe tonight?
Lucy: Will you go out, out? Like heels and a dress?
Me: How about Netflix?
Lucy: No. You are so boring. I mean a for real night out.
Lucy thinks I’m crazy. Thinks I am totally missing the opportunity to enjoy my twenties, in Vegas. But the truth is, I haven’t been out since a few months ago, when she convinced me to go out with her and a group of her work friends.
That night was a disaster. I thought I was brave enough, rebellious enough, to go to an all-male strip show at the Spades Royalle ... but I started blushing one routine in. I left to enjoy Lemon Drops in the bar until my friends finished watching the men get down to their tighty-whiteys or whatever it is they wear on stage.
Truth is, I’ve never seen a man naked and didn’t particularly want my first time to be at the show Stripped. Even if that hottie McQueen, who works out here at Kit’s Gym, danced in the show.
I swear, every time I walk into the gym I’m overwhelmed with half-naked men around me. Ripped arms, chiseled abs. It’s impossible not to feel at least a little bit of longing when I show up here among all these guys—guys who look at me with as much desire as I look at them.
But I always resist the temptation. It would be so easy to give into one of my fantasies. Sex in the shower after getting all sweaty from a workout. Sex in the boxing ring after a man has pinned me to the ground. Hand wraps binding me up, tied to chair....
Whew. I’m getting all hot just thinking about it—which isn’t new. I’m the only person who’s ever in the women’s locker room, and I’ve pleasured myself plenty of times in the shower stall, alone, after a workout.
Endorphins are for real.
My phone buzzes. Oops. I was so caught up in my fantasies I forgot about Lucy. And, momentarily, about the conversation with my dad. God, maybe I need more distractions, because the idea of marrying a creeper like Grotto makes me want to die. Being able to forget about it for a few minutes was a gift.
Lucy: So tonight?!?!?
Me: Fine. But I choose the place.
She responds with a string on nonsensical emojis and I smile despite myself, then toss the phone in the locker and slam the door shut.
I may have agreed to heels tonight, but right now I need to go throw some punches to get my mind out of the gutter, and off the threat of an arranged marriage.
Chapter Two
McQueen
Kit’s Gym is my second home. I come here most evenings, around five or so—mostly because I wake up around noon and my evening show isn’t until nine p.m.
But I have tonight off, which is why I’m here early—eleven a.m.—and as soon as I walk through the door of the gym I’m reminded there’s a different crew here earlier in the day.