“Sure I’m sure. It’s on the promotion company’s dime.”
“Okay. Great.” Far better than great.
“Right,” Jenna said, giving Lindsey a look, one she translated to mean Don’t forget you have a man at home or some similarly fretful matchmaker admonishment. “I’ll see you Monday. Have a great weekend, both of you.”
Lindsey watched them disappear into the chaos, suddenly shy now that her evening was officially slated to end in the same vehicle as Prince Richard.
“Wait.” She turned to him as he sat. “Don’t you live in Lynn? Isn’t that, like, twenty miles from where I am? In the opposite direction?”
“Like I said—not my fare to pay.”
She smiled, tapping his glass with hers. “Any plans for your prize money?”
“Help my mom out with some bills, get my car fixed. Nothing flashy.”
“Saving those flashy plans for when you’re one of the main event guys?” She shook her head, boggled by the top-level payouts. “Fifty grand for a night’s work.”
“I know. Still, nothing compared to Tyson back in the day, or the big Vegas boxing matches. Seven figures for a single fight.”
She looked him in the eye, feeling a flash of intimacy and praying it didn’t show on her face. “Think you’ll ever be that big? A million dollars big?”
“Nah. Even for the biggest events in UFC, the main event guys don’t take home more than two or three hundred grand. And those are the top Ultimate Fighting Championship guys. Celebrity types. Names you might actually recognize outside the sport. People are only just realizing it’s not a fad or some pro-wrestling-type sideshow.”
Lindsey tried to imagine any woman seeing a commercial featuring a half-naked Rich and not finding herself turned on. To the sport. Turned on to the sport. “I should buy shares.”
“I’ll buy shares in Spark, then. Mercer says your stable of singletons is growing nicely.”
“I’m meeting with my first client on Thursday.” Sort of. She’d be shadowing and assisting Jenna to start, completing a couple courses this fall before being officially cleared to oversee her own clients. “And you’ll be on the road soon—no longer a threat to the female population of Spark.”
“Their loss.” His gaze shifted to some distraction in the middle distance.
“Are you looking forward to whatever’s next? Jetting off to exotic foreign locales?”
His eyes met hers once more. Goodness, they were dark. And deep. Boring through her skull and dismantling her good sense.
“No jets for me,” Rich said. “More like motor lodges off the freeway or somebody’s spare room near whatever facility my future manager sends me to train at.”
“But you are leaving Wilinski’s, right?”
Word came down the corridor that people were relocating to a club. Rich nodded his comprehension but turned back to Lindsey.
“I’ll get sent away to some camp for a while, so I’ll have a chance to try on the competition.” he looked thoughtful a moment.
“What?”
Rich’s voice went quiet, nearly soft, and he dropped his gaze to the glass in Lindsey’s hand. “It feels shitty, saying that. Like I’ve outgrown the gym.”
“Maybe you have.”
“I’ve been making do with what I got for as long as I’ve been alive. Wilinski’s is my style—scrappy and broke.” He frowned. “We could make it a lot more than what it is, if we had the money.”
“How do you get money? More members?”
“Yeah.”
“And how do you get more members? By producing bigname fighters, right?”
“That’s a good way.”
“Then all you have to do is go out there and set the world on fire, Rich.”
He smiled, though the gesture drooped with melancholy. “There’s a part of me that’s afraid I’ll go off, train for a few months in some state-of-the-art facility and forget where I came from.”
She was peeking through the slimmest crack in his shell, offered a glimpse of a man who wasn’t as cocksure as he liked everyone to believe.
“That’s your choice to make, I suppose.” Emotion and alcohol had her reaching out and rubbing his arm, patting his shoulder. The contact was intense, a mix of intimacy and awe at the sheer hardness of him. She took her hand back, feeling drunk.
For a moment their eyes met, then Rich dropped his gaze. “Sorry to unload. It’s been a hell of a day.”
“I’ll bet. You going to the club?”
“Nah, I’ve had enough excitement for one night. Plus I gotta be in the gym at ten.”
“Jeez, no rest for the wicked.”
“You wanna get out of here? Must be pushing two.”
Get out of there and go home alone? Or together? The exhaustion was gone from his eyes, replaced with his usual mischief, if she wasn’t mistaken. “Sure.”
He stood, stooping for her shoes and sliding them onto her feet. Lindsey blushed to the roots of her hair and stammered a thank-you.
Rich stopped by the locker room for his gym bag, and Lindsey carried his jacket. The weight of it felt peculiar, draped over her arm. Personal. She wanted to put her nose to the collar and find his smell there. She wanted to pretend she’d forgotten she was holding it when they got to her place so she could keep it. But that was lame and a little creepy, and an invitation for uncomfortable questions from Brett.
Stupid crush, making her all crazy.
The night air was enlivening, and Lindsey suddenly felt wide-awake. She wished for a dozen things in a breath—for Rich’s arm around her shoulders or his hand claiming hers, for a hot, loaded look or a brazen invitation. The only gesture she got was the simple opening of her door when he selected a cab from the curbside lineup. Her heart beat in her throat for the few seconds it took him to stow his bag and circle to the other side.
He seemed impossibly big as he settled beside her.
She gave the driver her address. It was only a fifteen-minute ride, this time of night. The backseat felt strange after the arena, so quiet and close. She glanced Rich’s way. “Did you meet any managers you liked?”
“Two or three I thought I could stand working with. Got their cards, so I’ll have to do some research this week and make my pick.”
“If you get your rematch, I’ll be sure to come.”
“Excellent. My first official groupie.”
“You wish. What if I show up in my Greg the Trucker shirt?”
Rich winced. “If that dirtbag’s your type, I am not sharing a cab with you.”
“Just kidding. And fine, I’ll be your groupie. Just don’t think you get to sign my cleavage.”
He laughed, eyes squinching in a way that seemed to double his sex appeal.
Not wanting their rapport to end, Lindsey asked a couple more questions about the sport. Rich answered, then added, “You really got some bloodlust in you.”
“No, it’s not that.” An image flashed—his hips, his thighs, his sweat-gleaming stomach and incredible arms. “Some different kind of primal something-or-other. Did you have any family watching tonight?”
“Nah. My mom thinks it’s barbaric—she