Faking It(33)

What was he talking about? “In where?” I said. I waved my microphone. “I’m here to—”

“In the shower. I won’t keep you waiting long.” He winked. “But I’ll take my time once we’re in there. We can give it as long as you need.” He bit his lower lip and leaned forward.

“—to interview you. For the podcast?” I hated the sound of my voice rising, turning what should have been a statement of fact into a question. What was wrong with him? Some of the fighters I knew postured for show, for their brand, for bigger checks and bigger fights, but this seemed real. Apparently, Braden wasn’t going to break character, because it wasn’t a character for him.

“But I’m in the middle of getting naked, as you can see,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. The remainders of the wrist wraps dropped away and I saw his bruised knuckles and massive forearms all at once. He rolled his head a little, trying to loosen up his neck. His traps bulged and flexed. It took a second for me to get my breath again. Why the hell did he have to be so hot? Could nothing ever be simple?

Then he raised his arms above his head and started making arm circles to loosen himself up after the rigidity of the fight. I felt like I was gawking at an exhibit in a museum. A sweaty, stinky museum that had so far exceeded any of Chantelle’s wildest speculations.

“I don’t like to get interrupted when I’m in the middle of getting naked,” he repeated. “Unless you’re in the mood to help. I might be able to find a job for you.”

“Yo man, that’s Edwards’s daughter,” said one of the corner men. “Treat her with some respect.”

Braden looked at me with eyebrows that he had somehow managed to raise even higher. Wondering, no doubt, how a soft little marshmallow like me was sired by the formidable Mason Edwards. I watched him take in the green dress, my hair, my skin, and I fought the urge to cross my arms and stammer. I put my shoulders back and raised my chin, like my dad had taught me. Always project confidence was his personal broken record speech.

“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “But this interview does, and you agreed to it. Now you need to honor your contract.”

Braden cracked his knuckles and sighed. “My manager might have. I don’t remember agreeing to anything. Not saying you’re forgettable, not exactly.” He smiled and I wanted to slap him. Now there was a laugh. Me, trying to get tough and stand my ground with a man who wrecked people for a living. And, apparently, for fun.

“You should honor that contract,” I said again, getting annoyed for real now. “It’s got a signature on it and everything. If people don’t think they have to fulfill their side of a contract, society spirals into chaos.” So there I thought, rolling my eyes at myself internally. I sounded like a freshman political science major trying on a new identity.

“I don’t have time for this schoolgirl shit,” he said. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m on a bit of a tear. Can’t let myself get sidetracked by someone working the junior beat for...what TV show are you from?”

“It’s not—” I began.

“Right. No school girl shit. And no time for schoolgirls,” he said, getting to his feet and looking down at me. God, he was tall. And broad. And obnoxious. And a total dick. But these thoughts were all wiped away as if a tsunami had hit the locker room when he started undoing the drawstrings of his shorts. Just like that, he dropped them to his ankles, stepped out of them, and then pulled off his protective cup and underwear. Braden Dean, naked as a jaybird of war, daring me to say something, or react, or run from the room screaming. Or, as he was probably used to, to drop to my knees in gratitude and praise him.

Well, not this one. Not me. However much part of me might have wanted to. He was so well hung that he would have made a Greek God jealous.

Before I could get any more worked up in any fashion, Braden took the decision out of my hands. Whistling something tuneless, he strode from the room. I heard the blast of the shower coming on. “Room for one more!” he said. His laugh echoed off the tile walls. “But we’re going to have to squeeze in tight! You can quote me on that!”

The heat in my face told me I would have made a great stand in for a bright red tomato at that point. And honestly, I couldn’t tell which was making me flush more—the frustration of the interaction, or my raging desire to rush into the shower, slap his face, and then jump his bones.

I hurried out of the locker room into the hall. A wide-eyed Chantelle was waiting. “That didn’t take too long,” she said. “How did it go? What did you see? You’re so red! Wait...you didn’t!”

“It went like crap,” I said. “He’s a total dick. And I saw plenty, believe me.”

And not enough I thought as she took my arm and we made our way down the corridor and out to our cars.



Chapter 2



Mason was waiting for me when I got out of the shower, which pissed me off. A lot of fighters play into the coach-as-father-surrogate routine, but I had never been one of them. I needed a coach, not a dad. It usually took me days to unwind after a fight, but the shower had done its work and I was feeling better than ever. Even the bruises and the aches were like old friends, reminding me that I was good at what I did.

But I was good at it as I was largely because of Mason, and I owed my coach an ear, even though I knew what he was going to say: some variation about how I needed to treat people better, be more humble, give respect to earn it, etc.