Legend (Real, #6)(55)

And I think the small, painful little groan I just heard was mine. “God, I know.”

Her brows shoot up to her hairline in alarm. And cautiously, she adds, “He’s also dangerous. We don’t really know much about him. His intentions.”

“I know, but . . .” I try to find words. “Sometimes you just know. Someone. Don’t you think?”

“True.” She nods and purses her lips thoughtfully. “I do sometimes wish Remington would just finish this season in peace. Why does he want to . . .” She shakes her head, pursing her lips even tighter and then sighing. “Coach Lupe says he’s helping Scorpion’s legacy. But the truth is, Reese”—she drops her voice—“Remington believes in Maverick. Remy wants to make sure that his legacy is Maverick.”

I’m burning inside. I’m burning with hope for Maverick. For me. For us.

I want to tell Brooke that I have never felt like this before.

I want to tell her that I feel like a light when I’m with him.

That I don’t feel shy.

Or judged.

That I feel alive and bursting and free and accepted and understood.

And so female.

And so good.

And so pretty just because of the ways Maverick Cage looks at me.

And . . . I think it’s love.

They say love is a chemical thing, a brain thing, a hormone thing.

Call it whatever you want to call it.

I’m buzzing and obsessed, without sleep, without appetite, without want of anything but to be with him, talk to him, think of him.

I’m really, for the first time in my life, in love.

Not calm love, like with Miles, where it made sense to try to be in love.

This love makes no sense. It’s complicated and confusing and scary and I still have it bad for him and I still feel it. And I know it’s rushed and I know it’s dangerous and I know it’s maybe a little bit doomed, but I also know it’s true.

I want to say all that, but I’m afraid of her not understanding. This. Me. Us. I’m afraid nobody understands but Maverick.

I stay quiet as we head into the inflatable indoor playground.

And instead I ask, “How long will they train for?”

“All day for sure.” She stops to get us tickets inside. “Though Remington promised to run early with me today. He should be home by seven. The gym is booked for the day though. Do you want to use it?” She leads Racer inside, looking at me over her shoulder as I follow. “I can take Racer in the stroller with us.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Make use of it.”

So I do.

? ? ?

IT’S 7:11 P.M. when I get there. The gym lights are low, and there’s no background music. Instead, I’m greeted by the rhythmic sounds of the speed bag being hit at lightning speed far away. A part of me wonders if Remy decided to stay, but when I peer past the weights and the ring, to the far corner, it’s not Remy killing the speed bag. Oh, he’s dark-haired and tall, all right, and muscled like there’s no tomorrow, but the guy at the speed bag is Maverick.

He’s bare-chested, wearing nothing but his low-slung sweatpants. His tattoo is alive, rippling in all its winged glory as he hits. Biceps flexing. Shoulders clenching. Abs gripping.

Am I hurting you . . ?

Flashes of him mounting me swim in my head. Flashes of his hands all over me. My nipple disappearing into his mouth. Me, being filled. Being taken. Being reckless. Being free.

I watch Maverick for a moment in silence. In awe. All that male power, perfectly controlled as he measures his punches. Each landing on the spot where he wants it to land, hitting precisely, expertly, one arm rolling after the other.

I don’t get many opportunities to look at him—not really, because when I do, I’m usually seized by the fact that Maverick is looking at me.

But now he’s concentrating on the speed bag, the same guy in the hoodie I met weeks ago who piggybacked on me at that gym.

His muscles have grown a little. He looks a little tanner, maybe he’s been running outside? He looks corded. More male. More adult. More dangerous than any fighter I’ve ever seen—because there’s no one who has as much to prove to all his haters as he does.

And I lean on the wall and watch the look of concentration on his profile. So lethal, so quiet. Every second that I watch, I feel this excruciatingly painful sensation of want mingled with happiness squeeze my chest.

He stops hitting.

Exhales.

And slowly frowns, as if deep in thought.

Did he sense me?

He’s starting to turn.

He sensed me.

Because as he turns, his gaze slides, without stopping, and pins me in place. His eyes smolder the instant they connect with mine. And I smolder inside.

“I’m on my way back to the hotel, I just wanted to say hi,” I nervously say. Even my voice sounds soft when I talk to him. All of me goes soft.

I wait a beat, and while I wait, this gorgeous smile starts to pull at the sides of his lips.

“So hi,” I finish, awkwardly lifting my hand.

He pulls off his gloves with the opposite arms, never taking his eyes off me, and I slowly lower my hand.

He starts approaching.

“Hi,” he says. He walks with that swagger and that look in his eyes that says, without apology or hesitation or remorse . . . I remember you in my arms last night, Reese.