She chose a skirt for today, and a pink shirt with a unicorn on the front. She stands and steps into fight stance – left foot forward, right foot back, shoulder-width apart, and her adorable little fists held up in front of her face; she’s been watching us, absorbing information.
I crook a finger and bring her to my lap until she drops down with a heavy thud, then I run my hands through her long hair and work it up into a high ponytail. I thought to grab a hair tie before getting out of the car, so I fish it out of my pocket and secure her hair to keep it out of her eyes.
I boost her out of my lap, push to my feet, then grab her new gloves and hold one open for her to shove her hand into.
“One.” I concentrate on my work, fasten the Velcro, study her beautiful eyes that watch me work, then I open the second glove and repeat. “Two. When you’re a world champion fighter and super badass, I want you to tell them how Uncle Bry gave you your first gloves.”
She giggles.
“Don’t forget,” I playfully snap. “This is important. You’re my legacy, baby girl. I need to get at least a mention in your autobiography.”
Maddi
Public Relations
The Rollin On Gym is a shed in the industrial side of town, sandwiched between other sheds. The parking lot is gravel, and the glass-cutting business next door boasts a beat-up panel van parked outside, while men in work boots and navy-blue pants sit half in, half out of the van and eat sandwiches.
The guys are all older than me – forties or so – and most have Band-Aids on their fingers. I guess working with glass comes with its risks.
Seeing this place, the ugly van, the gravel ground that crunches beneath my heels, and the fact the world-famous gym is just a shed… it’s surprising, I guess. That’s not to say that gyms aren’t allowed to be sheds. I’m certain many are. I’m just surprised this gym is a shed.
And more than that, I’m surprised I never knew this.
Leaning back into my Audi, I snatch up the folders I prepared yesterday at the office – er, before I assaulted Bryan Kincaid’s testicles at the tracks. Then I stand tall again and fix my skirt. My eyes are shielded from the sun with a pair of wide sunglasses, my hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
I cast a fast glance around the parking lot, and don’t see the Chevrolet Camaro I spent so long studying last night, so with a new surge of confidence, I release a deep breath and lift my chin so I can do what I came here to do.
If Bryan was here, I’d still go inside. I’d probably just take a second longer to prepare.
Closing the car door and shoving my keys into my little purse, I turn toward the front doors and head inside with the expectation that the air-conditioning will cool me off. But there’s no cool air to be found. No climate control. No fresh air. Just the sounds of shouting, of fists thudding against bodies. Of heckling, wrestling, and cussing. There’s the smell of deodorant, of some kind of antibacterial cleaner that leans toward pine. And beneath all that… ball sweat.
I don’t mean to be a socialite princess. I swear I don’t mean to be a brat. But ball sweat isn’t something I know. As a result, my top lip curls back, and that’s the face that the first person who walks into the reception area sees.
Ten feet tall, broad like a double wide, roguish with his chocolate brown eyes… He’s not Bryan Kincaid, but he looks a hell of a lot like him.
And I’m standing here with a curled lip. “Uh…”
He’s surprised for a moment, startled by my appearance, but then his eyes flick along my body, my outfit – clearly corporate – and he keeps walking with a chuckle.
He moves behind the short desk and ducks low. A second later, he comes up with a bottle of chilled water. Then a second. “Thirsty?”
“Uh…” I clear my throat. “No thank you.”
Shrugging, he tosses the spare back beneath the desk, then leans on the top and studies my face. “Can I help you?”
“You’re Bobby Kincaid?”
His lips quirk up. Dammit, it’s the same smile his son wears. “Yes I am. You don’t look like a typical fight fan. I mean…” He pushes off the desk and stands tall. “That’s not to say you can’t be. Hell knows, my wife used to dress like you for work.” He pauses. Tilts his head. “You an accountant?”
“Er… no.” I juggle my stack of folders and extend a hand for him to shake. “I’m in public relations, Mr. Kincaid.”
He takes my hand and gives it a fast pump. “Just call me Bobby. ‘Mr. Kincaid’ sounds like I’m paying bail again.”
“Uh… okay.” I laugh. “You do that a lot?”
“My fair share. How can I help you, Miss PR?”
“Oh, shoot! Sorry. My name is Madilyn, and I work for Monaco Auto. I’m head of marketing and public relations there, and I was hoping I could speak to someone here about a collaboration.”
His eyes narrow to dangerous slits as he casts a fresh gaze along my body. “It’s Sunday, Madilyn. Your office usually open on Sundays?”
“No, sir.” I readjust my files and stand tall under his scrutiny. “Um… I understand this is a cold call. That usually means the asker is the one that would benefit. That often means the askee…”
He points at himself.
I nod. “Suspicion is understandable. Nobody likes a cold call. But what I have to discuss, well, I hope it would be mutually beneficial. We could both make money, get a little press, join two thriving businesses, and pray that it works out.”
He leans against that desk again, his bulging shoulders and wide chest puffed full of blood and adrenaline, and from the sweat sitting on his brow, in his hair, I suspect he was training before he walked out here.
He might be Bryan’s dad, and maybe he’s twice my age, but he’s not old, and he’s not out of the game.
“So, you thought your company, who sells…” He pauses. “Tires?”
“We manufacture car parts, Mr—” I clear my throat. “Bobby. Tires, rims, exhaust systems, steering wheels, all of that cool stuff. I was hoping to speak with the Stacked Deck team.”
“Oh…” He tilts his head a little and grins. “So you’re not looking to work with the gym. Just the tournament?”
“I mean… are they not one and the same?”
He shakes his head. “They are very, very different.” Then he laughs. “You’re gonna wanna talk to the foursome.”
My eyes pop wide. “Hmm?”
He steps around the desk and waves me along to follow. “Evie, Ben, Mac, and Bean. They are Stacked Deck. We’re just their minions. This gym is just somewhere they decided they could train without paying for gym space.”
“Oh… uh… okay.”
I practically run to keep up. My heart pounds in my throat, it threatens to choke me, because I met Bobby Kincaid, and without so much as a police check or a business card exchange, he leads me inside the gym until we stop at a doorway, and I get a view of two women fighting.
And it’s not like giggling jabs and pillow fights. It’s Marvel-movie-style slamming fists, it’s flying feet, spurting spit, and snapped jaws when one of them gets through the other’s shielding fists.