Right in front of me?

“Okay. I’ll . . . see you. I guess. Teach me how to remove the first glove with both on?”

I walk over to get him to show me, but oh. Mistake. He smells delicious. Of sweat and guy. Like he just took a shower and now with the heat of his body, his soap and shampoo smell strongest.

I inhale deeply, looking at his face to see him staring at me.

God, did he notice?

For a moment there, I think I see heat in his eyes.

He speaks then, his voice low. “Use your teeth on the Velcro. Tuck the glove under your other arm and pull your hand free.”

I try it, tightening the glove under my arm as I pull, and manage to succeed. “Oh. Neat trick.”

I go hang up the gloves and hear him start punching again as I leave. I step out of the gym and look inside, but the windows are frosted, blocking him from view.

EIGHT

COMPULSIONS

Reese

I once read that external inconsistencies create compulsive actions. Performing the same action and getting different results, a positive and a nil or a negative, causes people to more compulsively perform the acts in search of another positive.

This must be why I’m compulsively spending time at the gym. At the Tates’ home there’s a pool, tennis court, sports court, and home gym. But have I used any of that? No. I keep telling Brooke it’s because of the sun, but the truth is, I have an odd compulsion every morning to go to the gym.

And look for him. At the door, waiting for me. Inside by the speed bag, the heavy bag, the ring. But nothing.

Today, I’ve run five miles. I’ve sweated buckets and need to leave for Racer in ten minutes, but I compulsively wait at a side bench, drinking a sports drink, wondering if I will never ever see him again.

Wondering why the thought makes me so sad. Like I lost something.

I’m finishing my drink when a tall fighter with a shiny shaved head and a chest of bloated muscles comes over. “Hey.”

I smile and pull out my phone in the hope he goes away.

“I’m Trenton.”

He seems to expect a reaction.

“Twister,” he adds finally.

Once again, I smile dismissively but worry I’m being rude, so I end up offering, “Reese.”

“Reese, I like it. How come I’ve never seen you before?” he asks, stepping forward.

He starts telling me he thinks I look Southern and that he lives here and fights in the Underground, and I’m nodding, which seems to encourage him, and he fills me in on how many years he’s been training when I feel a prick on the back of my neck, and then I feel something—someone—sit down right next to me.

A pair of jeans, a black crew-neck T-shirt, and a whole lot of Maverick Cage.

I try to ignore the feeling of his thigh against mine. His shoulder against mine. It’s impossible to concentrate on the conversation now. How can this guy sit here, without saying anything at all, and grab my attention more than all the noise? His quiet, his presence, and the way he’s staring at Trenton with a frown makes a bubble pop in my stomach.

Trenton’s voice trails off, his eyes flaring a little in annoyance when he spots Maverick, who’s taller, with a more compact body, but more intimidating than you’d imagine.

“We haven’t met,” Trenton says flatly.

“No,” Maverick says, just as flat.

“I’m Trenton,” the guy says proudly.

I don’t hear an answer. I steal a look at Maverick’s profile and he just sits there with a look that clearly emits the message Get lost. He’s staring unabashedly at the guy.

The guy narrows his eyes, but Maverick keeps staring him down, even when he’s sitting and the other guy is standing.

“Yeah, right. Well, nice to meet you,” he tells me in a tone that says he’s actually not so happy that we met, and he turns around and carries his balloonlike muscles to the other end of the gym.

Maverick is looking at me, and I’m such a coward, I can’t seem to find the courage to look at him just yet. I’m still . . . processing him. So near.

He doesn’t say a word to me, but I can feel him. He’s all I feel. Everywhere.

And I wonder if he can feel me. If he’s aware of me, even if in only a fraction of the way that I am aware of him. I turn and catch him staring, and the impulse to look away and pretend I just hadn’t checked him out is acute. But I don’t, so I stubbornly hold his gaze. Forever passes, and neither of us looks away. What is he thinking? And is it true the one who looks away submits?

“Where are you staying?” I ask in an extreme effort to sound casual.

“Just across the street.” He gestures to the hotel at the corner, and I nod. He leans closer, so it feels like we’re alone in a bubble, him and me. “You?”

“At my cousin’s house.”

Why do we want to know where the other is staying? Living? Sleeping?

I asked because I selfishly wanted to picture him, because wondering where he is and what he’s doing is driving me out of my mind. Maybe, once I know, my mind will stop with these constant thoughts about him already.

We stare at each other a little longer, almost as if we haven’t ever seen each other before. His eyes seem starved for my face. I feel starved, but not for food, or anything else. For something I can’t name. And I have never wanted before.

He ducks his head closer to me, his voice dropping an octave. “During a fight . . . you can gauge someone’s next move by looking at his eyes,” he says softly.

“We’re not fighting.”

“No. We’re not.” He looks at me, so deep I feel found.

But I’m not found. Because his eyes are watching me as if he’s trying to figure me out.

“Maybe your opponent’s move depends on your move,” I say, voice getting raw. Ask me out. Or to the park. Or just tell me maybe, during the season, I’ll see you again. We leave in three days and I get the sense I might never see him again.

“Just any move?” he asks with a teasing note in his voice.

“Not any move.”

“You know, Reese”—he leans forward on his elbows, his shoulders straining the shirt covering those muscular shoulders as he looks sideways at me—“I’ve got moves,” he cockily informs me.

“You’ve got limited moves and they all relate to punching. So I don’t believe you.”