Big Boxer by Cassie Mint

Three

Beck

Ipush up on my hands and feet, bending slowly into downward dog on my yoga mat. My phone is propped against the coffee table, the throaty woman on my app telling me in an infuriatingly calm voice to breaaaaathe… and hoooold. Soft, quiet music floats from the speakers, and a ridiculously bendy person demonstrates on the screen.

Okay, I’m breathing. I’m holding. I’m shaking worse than Mrs Valenka’s yappy dog, and jeez, I thought yoga was supposed to be relaxing?

“Ow,” I wheeze to the empty room. “Please god, hurry up.”

My calves are on fire. The messy topknot I dragged my hair into has slipped to one side, stray curls escaping to dangle over the mat. For the millionth time, I feel like a fraud—here I am, writing about the country’s top athletes, and I can barely keep up with a yoga app. I mean, who am I to judge?

What would Lucas Scott say if he could see me now?

The hard rap against my front door makes me jump, and I wobble before I crash to one side. My coffee table skids over the rug, this morning’s coffee mug rattling. My phone tips face down on the floor, the yoga woman still talking but muffled.

And exhaaale…she says, as peaceful as ever.

I roll onto my knees, scowling at the door. I don’t know if I’m more annoyed to be interrupted, or more relieved that it’s over. But I flip my phone over and pause the app before pushing to my feet with a groan.

It’s mid morning on a Tuesday. I’m only off work because I’ve covered so many evening events lately. And the only person who ever knocks on my door is Mrs Valenka—and she sure as hell doesn’t knock like that.

Thudding. Summoning. Like some demonic creature, calling me to some terrible fate.

I glance down at my outfit as I cross to the door: pink yoga leggings and a baggy white crop top. I sure hope my demon visitor isn’t fancy. Especially since my apartment is tiny and sparse, filled with second hand furniture and straggly houseplants.

The peephole is high on the door, and I have to push up onto my toes to squint through. There, glowering in the hall outside my apartment, is Lucas Scott.

“Oh my god,” I mumble, palms pressing harder against the wood. My breath mists over the varnish.

He huffs. “I can hear you.” His deep voice drifts through the door.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

My palms grow clammy, and I swallow hard.

“What do you want?” I call, as if I haven’t had this exact fantasy a thousand times before. Except, in my daydreams, Lucas Scott has come to profess his love, or to sweep me away on a boxing world tour, or—when I’m too lazy to come up with a good story line—to pretend to fix my shower. In my head, he’s always broody but happy to see me.

ThisLucas is pissed. He’s scowling and tense, his tendons standing out in his forearms and neck.

And I’m not an idiot. I won’t open the door for an angry stranger.

Not even one who stars in my fantasies.

“I want to talk about your article.”

Oh god, he read that? But of course he did—why else would he be here? Why else would Lucas Scott, world-famous boxer, even know I’m alive?

For a crazy second there, I thought maybe he remembered me from the audience. That he felt the same connection, and tracked me down to ask me out.

But stuff like that doesn’t happen in real life. Not to curvy girls, and sure as hell not to me. I chew on my bottom lip, trying to remember exactly what I wrote, but really, there’s no need. It’s all right there in the headline: Is Lucas Scott past his prime?

I glance down at the deadbolt. The door’s locked, though who am I kidding? This flimsy piece of wood wouldn’t stop Lucas Scott. Not if he really wanted to come in.

“Let’s talk like this,” I offer, staring at him so hard through the peephole my eyes go dry. He looks different in the daytime, away from the spotlights and smoke of the ring.

For starters, he’s wearing a shirt. A black polo with an embroidered logo for some kind of gym, black chest hairs visible at his collar. Dark gray sweatpants hug his big thighs—now my mouth is dry too—and his jaw is stubbled. Guess he shaves for the fights.

Lucas Scott crosses his arms over his chest, muscles bulging so much I can practically hear them creak. He frowns at the peephole like he can see me. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

I’d bet him a hundred bucks that he doesn’t.

“You’re a lot braver online.” His words rumble out of him.

And what the hell is that supposed to mean? “It’s not cowardly to not open the door to a strange man, Mr Scott,” I call. He grunts, head tilting like he takes my point. “How did you even find out where I live?”

He rolls his eyes, and I’m glad I can see him. Most of what he says is silent. “Your staff photo was taken outside this building. You should probably change that, Miss Winters. All I had to do was ask around in the lobby.”

“And someone told you my apartment number?” It comes out in an outraged squeak. I clear my throat, cheeks flaming. God, I’m glad this peephole is one way. I really do need to change that photo. “They shouldn’t have done that.”

“No,” he agrees. “They shouldn’t have. But I can be charming.”

That’s… kind of hard to imagine right now. The Lucas Scott glowering outside my door is not charming. He’s angry, and he wants me to know it. He’s carved from pissed off stone.

But that smirk he gave me right before his fight with O’Roarke…

Yeah. I guess he could charm a girl.

“I’m not opening the door.”

Lucas gusts out a heavy sigh, and drops his arms. He leans one hand against my door frame, and speaks into the peephole like he’s holding my gaze.

“Forget it. You want to hide away in there? That’s fine. It’s your home and your business—you’re right about that. But I need to know. So at least answer this: your article. Saying I’m tired of it all. How could you tell?”

* * *

…How could I tell?

The floorboards creak as I shift my weight. Is he really asking me that? Does he really want to know?

Is Lucas Scott saying I got it right?

“I, um.” My words are hoarse. I clear my throat, but it doesn’t help. “I’ve been watching you for years. The difference lately was obvious.”

“No, it wasn’t.” He steps closer to the door, agitated. I jerk back, before I remember there’s a slab of wood between us. “Not to anyone else. The guys I train with didn’t even notice. No one did, not until you pointed it out. And now I’m screwed—pushed onto the back foot. They’re talking about retirement,” he spits the word. “So how could you tell?”

“I don’t know,” I snap, flustered now. I never wanted to cause him trouble, but this is my work. “I guess I’m good at my job. Shocking, right?”

He grunts, annoyed too, and then we’re silent. Glaring at each other through the door, jaws clenched and eyes sparking. For a crazy second, I wish there was nothing between us right now. That I could feel the full force of his angry gaze raking over me, heating my body like a trail of wildfire.

My hand drops down, fingers tracing the deadbolt. Tracing, but not moving.

“I’m not sorry,” I call. Jeez, why am I baiting him? A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I mean, I’m—I’m sorry it’s caused you trouble. I’m not happy about that. But I have to do my job right, Mr Scott. I have to be objective. I can’t have favorites.”

There’s a beat.

His scowl deepens.

Did I really just say that? My stomach sinks.

“Favorites?” he repeats. He steps right up to the door. This close, I can see the flecks of darker blue in his ice chip eyes. Can see his sooty eyelashes and the glint of silver in the stubble on his chin. He’s still pissed at me, still rigid and annoyed, but there’s something else there now too. Something molten churning in his gaze. “Am I your favorite, Beck? Do you ruin the careers of all your favorites?”

Beck.

Hearing my first name in his gravelly voice sends a ripple down my spine. My toes curl against the floorboards, and I slam the deadbolt back and yank the door open, fixing him with a glare.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Mr Scott.”

“Lucas,” he says, prowling forward. I fall back automatically, shuffling deeper into my living room. The boxer kicks my door shut behind him, and then we’re alone, facing each other down. His eyes rove over my white crop top, a strip of bare skin visible at my waist; my pink leggings, clinging to my ample thighs; all the way down to my bare feet with my purple-painted toes.

Pale eyes flick back up to mine.

If another man burst into my apartment like that, I’d scream the building down. I’d run at him, brandishing a floor lamp.

But this is Lucas Scott. The man I’ve watched for years. I’m not scared, I’m just…

So. Freaking. Turned on.There’s a coil of heat, winding tighter and tighter in my belly.

And I’m irritated. That’s still true. Both of us are, and we square off with matching scowls and tense shoulders.

“I can’t believe you just pushed in here.”

He jerks his head to the side, like he’s nudging off a fly. An irritant. Then ignores my statement completely, and says: “I’m not past my prime.”

Seriously? I roll my eyes, and a little thrill zips through me at his answering growl. “The only place you can prove that is the ring.”

It’s not strictly true. I have lots of ideas for other ways he could prove it—it’s hard not to when he’s squaring off with me, so vibrant and grumpy and handsome in the sunlight filtering through my window. But I won’t voice those ideas, not for a million dollars.

A girl’s got to have some pride.

“I won the fight against O’Roarke.” Lucas steps forward, and my chin tips back to hold his gaze. God, he’s massive. I didn’t really appreciate how big he is until now, feeling the twinge in my neck. “I win every fight. That’s not enough proof for you?”

It’s a fair question. Clearly, it was enough for everyone else—until my article came out, anyway. And now everyone’s doubting. Trying to get him to retire, when that was never what I was suggesting. I just wanted the Lucas Scott magic back.

A car horn wails somewhere down on the street.

For the first time, I feel a pinch of regret.

I raise my palms in surrender. “You’ll win your next fights too. We both know that. And everyone else will forget this and move on. They’ll say you’ve still got it after all, and I was wrong.”

He grunts, mollified, and it’s almost sweet. Like he just wanted to hear my confidence in him. Wanted to hear me say he’ll win.

“But you won’t forget it.” Lucas watches me intently.

I shrug. “No. I’ll still be waiting for that Lucas Scott spark.”

When he swallows, it shifts the column of his throat. He comes forward again, half a step.

“You’ve been watching me for a long time,” he says quietly. The floorboards creak under his weight, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne. Something fresh and minty. Something delicious, like a fresh spring breeze.

“Um. Yeah, I have. It’s my job.”

“Watching me closer than anyone.” Another half step.

I try not to think about that freaking poster. I’ve done some pretty shameless things while watching that poster.

“Maybe,” I squeak. “I don’t know.”

And the sensation of Lucas Scott, famous heavyweight champion, inching towards me in my apartment—it must be how hedgehogs feel when they freeze on the highway in front of a truck. Everything is slowed down but unstoppable. Fated, somehow. And when he raises one hand, I brace for impact.

Not for pain—for a full body shiver. It rolls through me as his fingertips graze my throat, lighting up my nerves, and that heat pulses heavy in my belly.

His pale eyes narrow.

My heartbeat thumps in my ears.

“I could show you that spark right now,” he grits out. Like the words pain him. Like he’s pissed with himself for even offering, but he can’t help it. Can’t resist.

My lips part on an exhale. My tongue darts out, wetting my lip. He’s still touching me, and I haven’t had this daydream, this version where he hates me but also wants me, but I guess I must like it, because I tell him…

“Oh-okay.”