Broken Beautiful Hearts(41)
In the locker room, I shower, change, and pull my wet hair into a ponytail. When I return to the boxing gym, Cutter is standing near the ring. She sees me and checks her watch. “Right on time. At least you know how to follow directions. That’s more than I can say about most of the athletes I work with.”
“Thanks. What’s next?”
“I need to assess what kind of shape the PCL and surrounding ligaments are in—strength and range-of-motion tests. You probably did something similar with Dr. Kao. After I determine where to start, I’ll design a physical therapy plan for you. I’ll meet with you twice a week. I’ll run through the exercises with you, track your progress, and make adjustments.”
“Just twice a week?” I expected to see her more often.
She flips through a date book that’s falling apart. “You caught me during football season. I’m a consultant for the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. They’ve got a wide receiver with an ACL tear and an offensive lineman who can’t stay off the injured list, so my schedule is tight. But don’t worry. You’ll work out with my intern on the three afternoons I’m not here. Let me introduce you.”
“Lazarus,” Cutter shouts. The old man peeks out from behind the pad, and she motions to the kickboxer.
Lazarus understands her shorthand. He taps the fighter on the shoulder and points in our direction. The guy swipes a bottle of Gatorade off the mat, tips his head back, and takes a long drink as he walks toward us.
She can’t mean …
“The fighter? He’s your intern?”
Cutter gives me a strange look. “He interned with me for two summers. He knows his stuff. You’ll be in good hands.” She notices my apprehension and crosses her arms. “But if you don’t trust me—”
“No. It’s fine.” I can’t risk offending her.
“That’s what I like to hear.”
The guy stops behind the ropes in front of us, his head still tipped back as he finishes off the Gatorade. He looks at Cutter without even glancing in my direction.
She doesn’t seem to notice. “This is Peyton. I’m setting up a PT program for her. You’re going to work with her on the afternoons I’m at the university.”
The guy crosses his arms and studies the mat, as if the dust at his feet is more interesting than this conversation. He obviously isn’t thrilled. Working with me will probably cut into his training time. I put one hand on my hip and hit him with some attitude. I want him to know that I’m not happy about being stuck with him, either.
When he doesn’t respond, Cutter loses her patience. “Are you waiting for an invitation? Take off your damn headgear and say hello.”
The fighter pulls off the black headgear and drops it on the mat. Tufts of damp blond hair are plastered against his head, and trails of sweat run down his face.
“It’s about time.” Cutter turns to me and gestures at the ring.
“Peyton, this is Owen.”
CHAPTER 17
Against the Ropes
OWEN STANDS ON the opposite side of the ropes, his eyes still glued to the mat. He’s shirtless and barefoot, his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His black shorts hang low on his hips, and my gaze flickers to a set of perfect abs. He has the kind of body you see on twenty-five-year-old underwear models, not high school guys.
Heat spreads through my chest. Less than twenty minutes ago, I was in the pool drooling over his body.
Owen’s body.
He finally raises his head and our eyes lock. A crease forms between his brows and he looks miserable, like he’d rather scrub this place down with a toothbrush than spend three afternoons a week working with me.
I turn away first, which gives me a ridiculous amount of satisfaction. This whole situation feels like a giant bitch-slap from the universe. My hand tightens on the plastic water bottle I’m holding and I shake my head.
“What?” Owen leans on the ropes, his shoulders tense.
“You’re a fighter?” I spit out the word. Now I know where he got the bruises on his arms.
“Yeah.” He stands straighter. “But unlike your boyfriend, Titan, who starts fights with anybody who looks at him the wrong way, I try to keep my fights in the cage.”
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Without thinking, I chuck the plastic water bottle at him.
Owen’s eyes widen and he pivots out of the way, but the bottle pegs him in the side.
Lazarus winces and makes a hissing sound between his teeth. “Ouch.”
“That must’ve hurt,” Cutter says, smirking at Lazarus as he tries not to laugh. “I guess they already know each other.”
The boxers in the back corner of the gym take a break to watch us, too.
“There’s nothing wrong with her arm, that’s for sure,” Lazarus says.
Owen rubs the spot where the bottle hit him. “What’s your problem?”
“You first.”
He swipes a gray hoodie off the mat, shoves his arms in the sleeves, and yanks it over his head. Then he ducks between the ropes and jumps down from the ring. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
My pulse pounds and the air feels heavy as if the room is getting hotter. Why did I make a fool of myself and throw that stupid bottle at him? Who cares if Owen gave me crap about Titan?