Big Boxer by Cassie Mint

Five

Beck

It’s normal to have teenage crushes, right? To see a man in a movie, or on TV, or at a sports game, or whatever, and kind of… latch on. To daydream about him. To imagine meeting him some day.

Now I’m no expert, but I don’t think it’s normal for your teenage crush to hold you against a wall and bury his face between your legs. That seems unlikely. Shocking, even. So can I be blamed for my brain short-circuiting for a second there?

Lucas Scott stomped out of my apartment like I insulted his mother. He acted like I slapped him, not like I… like I…

Like I fell apart in his arms. Like his touch rearranged pieces of me, somehow, deep inside. Like I was ten seconds away from saying screw the no-sex rule, I wanted him to be my first. First, and preferably last. The only man to ever touch me.

And isn’t that humiliating? Lucas was proving a point, nothing more, and here I am getting all moon-eyed over him. Reading into something that wasn’t there.

Wishful thinking. That’s what crushes bring you.

Wishful thinking and torn yoga leggings.

My apartment feels smaller now that he’s been in it. More cramped and cluttered. I bend down and roll my yoga mat with a sigh. I still have a whole afternoon off, and now I have to fill it somehow without going mad, without rattling around this tiny apartment like a half-crazed pea in a can.

How?

How am I supposed to just go about my day?

How am I supposed to recover from that?

I pluck at the frayed edges of my yoga leggings. The hole he ripped, right over my core, a cool breeze wafting against my bare skin.

“Well,” I announce to the empty room. I fold my arms over my chest, and pretend I’m not shaking. “I guess that’s that.”

It’s a little better once I’ve showered.

And better again once I’m dressed, everything properly covered again by my black shorts and loose teal sweater. I tear into a raisin bran muffin in my tiny kitchen, as starved as though I just got back from some epic journey through the wilds.

I guess it was sort of like that.

A journey through Lucas Scott’s wild side.

I wait for the hard knot in my stomach to ease, to go away, but hours later when I’m curled on my sofa watching Netflix on my laptop, it’s still there. Anxiety. Or guilt, maybe, and regret. For hurting Lucas Scott’s feelings.

Because he was hurt, wasn’t he? Maybe he wasn’t just out to prove something. Maybe… maybe I messed up.

My legs tremble as I pad into my bedroom. It’s like muscle memory for the way he turned me to jelly.

I find it folded up in my bedside cabinet drawer: the poster that used to hang on my teenage bedroom wall. The creases are faded white, the corners curling with age, but I smooth it out on my bedspread with gentle fingertips.

He’s younger in the photo. In his late twenties, I guess, with that cocky smirk that young boxers often have, his shocking blue eyes staring at the camera in challenge. Lucas Scott is less battered on this poster, his nose broken fewer times, but my mind drifts to the older version. My version.

I like present day Lucas Scott better. His hair is threaded with silver at the temples, but it looks good on him. Makes my belly flip. And he’s less cocky, but more confident.

Or he was, until I took him off guard. Showed him the door, right after he made me come so hard my ears rang.

Crap.

I fold the poster slowly, certain now. I screwed up. I was a jerk. And maybe Lucas wasn’t quite real to me, but he’s a man, not a daydream. He’s flesh and blood, with feelings.

I flop onto my mattress, mouth twisted in a grimace.

It’s no good. I need to make this right.

* * *

Two days later, I stand on the sidewalk outside Lucas Scott’s boxing gym. It wasn’t hard to find the address; nothing like his sleuthing to find me. But it still took me two days to build up the courage to come.

“Okay.” I mutter to myself as I hover, staring at the door. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.” Cars rumble past on the street behind me, and distant smacks and thumps float through the gym windows.

It’s so masculine. All sweat and grunts and monochrome. Fast, angry bass pounding from the gym’s speakers, punctuated by sharp yells and the occasional whistle.

My flippy skirt and draping white sweater feel extra dainty and ridiculous, but I came here from work. What was I supposed to do, detour home and throw on a pair of baggy sweatpants?

…And now I’m lying to myself. I picked this skirt out for Lucas this morning, biting hard on my lip as I frowned at myself in the mirror. I wanted him to see me like this; wanted him to look at me with molten heat again.

“You going in?” A rough voice jerks me from my thoughts. A man in his fifties stands at the door, one hand gripping the handle, watching me with a raised eyebrow.

“Um.” I wet my lip. Nothing else for it. “Yeah, I am. Yes.”

The man turns, pulling the door open, but I don’t miss the shit-eating grin that flashes over his face. He thinks I don’t belong here. That if I go in, they’ll eat me alive. And normally, that might put a girl off, but I deal with that crappy attitude non-stop as a sports writer.

It’s almost comforting. It’s definitely familiar.

So I smile at him sweetly as I stride inside.

The gym is open plan: a cavernous room with thick pillars and four boxing rings—one in each corner. Music blasts from a stack of speakers against one wall, and there’s a desk by the door with a blond guy in a black polo tapping away at a keyboard. He shoots me a quick smile—way more welcoming than the old guy—then clicks at his screen.

“Be right with you.”

“Sure,” I murmur. It’s good. I need a chance to get my bearings.

I’ve known for years that Lucas Scott owns a training gym, and okay, I’ve stalked the photos a few times online. Pictured myself coming here one day and accidentally-on-purpose meeting him. I didn’t, obviously, because I’m not insane, but I’ve stared at photos of this room plenty of times.

It’s light. Clean and airy. The people milling around seem friendly but committed—wholly focused on their training, like a boxing boot camp with their matching black polos. It’s mostly men, but there are a few women too, including two sparring in the center for a small crowd.

I watch, dazed, as one pulls her arm back, muscles flexing, the sheen of her sweat glistening in the overhead lights.

Is this what Lucas likes? What he’d want in his dream woman?

I fold my arms, wincing at my soft muscles.

“Would you like to join a class?” The attendant smiles at me, expectant. He’s got a form ready, a pen hovering over the paper. “We’ll have to take some details. And there’s a waiver you’ll have to sign. This is a very safe gym, but boxing is a dangerous sport and—”

“I’m not here to train,” I interject. The man’s eyes flick down at my clothes, like he can’t help it. Honestly, he’s done a great job of hiding his doubts about my appearance. Lucas hired a champ. “I’m here to see the owner, please. Lucas Scott,” I add uselessly. As if the people here don’t know a boxing legend owns the gym. “We’re… acquainted.”

The attendant’s eyebrows twitch and he leans back. Snatches up a phone. My palms grow clammy as I wait, watching his lips move, the music swallowing up most of his quiet words. His eyes drag over me again, but in a clinical way. Like he’s describing me.

I fight the urge to tug at my skirt.

Finally, the man puts down the phone and gives me another smile. It’s more cautious now. “His office is on the second floor.” He points to a flight of metal stairs set against the back wall. “Please give everyone training a wide berth.”

No fear. The fists pounding bags and pads and bodies land with deafening thumps, the noise echoing from all parts of the room. There’s no way I want to get in the way of those, and I plot a snaking path to the stairs, dancing out of everyone’s way.

I feel their eyes following me, making my neck itch. Curious mostly, but a few judgmental.

Do they know what I wrote about their leader?

The din of the speakers fades a little as I walk upstairs. My ankle boots clatter against the metal steps, and I suck in a deep breath, counting to five. Trying to remember my yoga exercises. But when I glance up, all the air gusts out of me.

Lucas stands at the top, his arms folded and his eyes narrowed.

Wow.

It takes two tries to find my voice. “Very scary,” I call, still climbing. “You should pose like that for the posters.”

His eyebrows twitch, and then his arms drop to hang by his sides. He looks rueful, like he didn’t realize how freaking intimidating he can be. Lucas scrubs the back of his head as I come to join him, then nods at an open door halfway down the hall.

“I’m in there.”

His words are clipped. Gruff.

He’s not pleased to see me.

This was a mistake.That realization thuds through my brain over and over, swirling in time with the distant base, and I distract myself by peering at the hall.

The walls are white. The windows are big and sparkling clean. Potted plants bring bursts of color, their leaves waxy green and far healthier than the tired shrubs in my apartment.

“Nice,” I rasp as Lucas shows me into his office, closing the door behind us. It’s the same in here, but with a cracked brown leather sofa and a desk against one wall. A quick scan shows no trophy cabinets, though lord knows he could fill one. Only framed group photos from his training gym.

“I’m teaching a class soon,” he says, and the message is clear. Say whatever you need to say, then get out. I can’t blame him, but it still stings deep in my chest. I want his welcoming smile. I want easiness between us; I want a freaking hug.

I nod and steel myself, wandering further into the room, then turn to him.

Lucas leans back against his desk and waits.

I take a deep breath.