Legend (Real, #6)(9)

His entire attention and focus is on me now, not on the gym. His eyes are not moving, and my heart strains as he takes one step forward with predatory grace, closing the distance between us. This guy would be a panther in the fighting ring. . . .

My eyes widen in surprise when I suddenly realize he heard me greet him.

He’s wearing his earbuds, but I said hey and he spun around, and now he continues staring unabashedly at me. He most definitely heard me.

I realize he’s not listening to music.

That he uses the earbuds to keep people away.

I have an odd understanding of that too.

He pulls out the earbuds and shoves them into the pocket of his sweatpants—and yes, he didn’t stop the music at all. Because he wasn’t listening to music. He was, like a predator, paying attention to his surroundings without alerting the prey.

“Hey,” he says, and the muscles rippling under his shirt quicken my pulse when he starts coiling the rope around his wrist.

“You’re not listening to music,” I say. “You’re using those earbuds so people don’t talk to you.”

He shoots me a skeptical look along with an amused twitch of his lips as we both start to glove up. “I’m not here to make friends.” He scans the crowd dismissively. “Way I see it, one day I’m going to face them in the ring. Easier to smash their faces in if I don’t know them.”

Holy god, the look in his eyes.

I’ve read novels with vampires, where the terms “bloodthirsty” and “bloodlust” are used. I have never, ever seen bloodlust in anyone’s eyes. Until this heartbeat, this second, this crowded gymnasium. When this guy’s eyes glow red with it.

“You can’t smash my face in, I’ll have headgear,” I tell him as I reach for the headgear.

He frowns, then there’s an exasperated clench of his jaw. “Look. You said spar, not chat.”

“I don’t like talking or hearing myself speak either, but you make me want to talk.” I frown at him. “I don’t even know why I offered to spar when I don’t know anything about you.”

He sighs and leans on the ropes as we both climb into the ring.

Sending him a wary look, I drop down on the edge of the ring and slide my legs under the ropes to let them hang to the side. I won’t gain much, sparring with this guy. I know for a fact he’ll spar like a pro. I’ll gain more from talking—I’d gain information.

And I’m intensely curious.

He sits beside me reluctantly. He’s tall and strong and wide-shouldered. A person shouldn’t occupy more space than their body actually occupies—but this one person does. I’ve never felt a presence as strongly as I do his.

I’m uncomfortable, too acutely conscious of this male, extremely attractive person sitting warmly next to me, his body so hot from the exercise and exuding such powerful warmth and energy, I feel the strangest urge to edge away.

I don’t though.

I stand my ground, or rather, park my ass on it, and try to act chill.

“What’s your name? Is it Cage?” I ask him.

He seems to consider the question as he looks at me, almost as if he’s deciding whether to tell me.

“Maverick,” he finally says, frowning a little and staring out at the room as he seems to consider some complicated puzzle.

“Maverick? Like Top Gun?”

“Minus a Goose.” He grins and it’s irresistible. I can’t help a feeling of losing hold of myself.

“So what’s your story?”

He’s quiet. As if there’s no story to tell, and there’s no way there’s no story behind those steel eyes.

“You from around here?” he asks me instead, leaning back to look at me. I get a squeeze somewhere. I don’t even know where it’s at, it’s so alien. I clear my throat and try to use the same tone I’d use when talking to my girlfriends.

“I’m traveling for the summer. For the season. With my cousin.” I don’t tell him that I’m trying to push myself, trying to better myself, even trying to find myself. “Are you fighting?” I ask him.

“Not yet.”

“But you will?”

“Yeah, I will.”

“You’re good?”

“We’ll see.” He bites the Velcro wrap of the glove around his wrist and then pulls it off with the opposite elbow, and when he does the same with the other glove, I notice his hands, long-fingered and strong. His knuckles are impossibly bruised.

“I need a coach for the Underground to accept me,” he says.

“So get one.”

“They’re booked. They suspect I’m not good at taking direction.”

“You’re a bit of a rebel, Maverick? Who would’ve guessed???” I grin.

He almost smiles back at me.

His muscular arms are bare and flex again as he sets his gloves aside and reaches out to remove mine.

“So get a coach who doesn’t coach.”

He laughs. A pleasant laugh that surprises me. When he tugs off each glove, I wrap my arms around my midriff. “I’m serious.”

“Someone to just sit in my corner?” he asks.

“I guess.”

“You available?”

Oh.

Is he serious?