not a consoling kinda chick. Come on, let’s go find him.”
“Go on ahead. I’m going to find the medic to make sure he’s coming to look at Tony’s cuts.”
—
Back in the locker room, Tony punched the lockers and said every curse word known to man—both in English and in Spanish.
“I shoulda won!” His hands were on his waist as he paced the room, breathless. “Bullshit!”
When Francesca walked into the locker room, she saw Slade sitting calmly and Tony pacing with a swollen eye. As soon as Tony saw her, he stalked away and yelled, “I don’t want to hear your shit right now, Francesca!” When he was angry, his accent became heavier and it sounded more like “chit” than “shit,” but he was obviously too upset to care.
“Whoa!” She put her hands up. “Relax. I just came in to see how you were doing.”
“How I’m doing?!” He was pacing. “How I’m doing?!” He punched the wall of lockers again. “It was a fixed fight. I shoulda won. Dis ees bullchit!”
A tall, lanky man in his fifties came in to check on Tony’s injuries. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me. I’m fine!” he yelled at the medic.
The man, who seemed accustomed to dealing with adrenaline-fueled prima donnas, rolled his eyes and said, “If he’s yelling, nothing’s broken. Call me if he passes out.” Then he walked right back out.
“Come on. We need to check out that eye.” Slade stood and began to walk over to Tony, but the fighter held out his hand to stop his trainer from approaching. His eyes found Francesca again. “Are ju goin’ to do something? Ju wanted me to come to that hick town to train and then the fight is fuckin’ rigged and ju don’t do chit. You bitch all day about training but when shit gets real you parade in here in your uppity suit and do nothing. You’re all talk and this is bullshit. I shoulda won.” He grabbed his bag and threw it over his shoulder. “I’m outta here.”
“I have to catch Cain’s fight.” Slade stood and pointed to Tony before leaving the room. “You deal with him.”
Francesca moved quickly on her sky-high heels and grabbed Tony’s forearm. “You want real? I’ll give you real. You suck on the ground. Terrible. You need to work on your floor techniques. You should have been more concerned with your training than what loud, misogynistic rap song you were going to parade out into the ring to. You only started training, really training, two weeks ago. Before that you spent months drinking, partying, fucking. What the hell did you expect to happen? It wasn’t rigged, Antonio. You lost fair and square because Winters was the better fighter. Now, you can be a prick or you can take a breather tonight, lick your wounds, and be at the Academy early in the morning to start preparing for the next fight, which is in six months. I assure you, it will be a lot tougher than this one.” She released her grip and crossed her arms over her chest, meeting his glare. “Your call. What’s it goin’ to be?”
His eyes narrowed on her as his chest rose and fell with his shallow breaths. The silence was deafening for about thirty seconds as he seemed to contemplate what she’d said. “Fuck you!” he grunted before storming out of the gym.
—
As soon as Tony escaped outdoors and the warm air hit his face, he winced. Everything hurt, but he stubbornly climbed in his pride and joy—a 1969 Camaro—and took off. Anger pulsed through his body.
The woman should’ve consoled him. Coddled him. He was, after all, her goddamn client! Instead, she accused him of not having trained hard enough. He’d been after her for months, honestly because she was hot. It had been purely physical—the thought of having her toned, lean body naked against his had been a challenge he couldn’t let go. Her constant rejection just further fueled his need to have her. But now, seeing this cold, heartless Francesca, he was left wondering what the hell he’d been thinking.
Oh, yeah, that she was stunning and her feistiness made his blood boil and his dick hard. Damn dick!
Maybe he just needed to get laid. It had been way too long and his dick was obviously confused.
—
Tony sat at a bar in a dark nightclub. He knew his face looked like hell, but he didn’t care. At least he’d gone to the hotel that he’d been calling home for the last five