19
Jules sat across from her dad at his desk, waiting for him to finish his phone call so they could get to this urgent meeting he’d called her in for. It was already after lunch and she had about a million things to do before she could go home, which would probably mean another late night. At the thought, her shoulders sagged in relief, but that was immediately followed by guilt. She and Nick had returned from Chicago over a week ago, and she was still looking for ways to avoid him.
She felt horrible about it, but things were awkward between them now. Ever since she’d overheard him arguing with Alex she hadn’t been able to relax around him. Despite everything Nick had said to her, all of his reassurances that the past was in the past, he still didn’t trust her. He was still waiting for her to screw up. Maybe she deserved that, but it hurt. It cut even deeper because his reassurances that he’d be there to catch her had helped her to realize that she loved him. Now she wasn’t sure that he would be there. How could he be if he doubted her?
Realizing she loved Nick was something she still hadn’t come to terms with, especially in the wake of hearing his doubts. As a result, she hadn’t talked to him about what she’d heard.
Nick hadn’t helped matters. He’d been different ever since that day, quieter and more pensive. Some of it was worry about his dad, even though it seemed like he’d be okay. Some of it was Nick being focused on the tournament. But she had no doubt that most of it was from the confrontation with Alex.
She’d simply have to prove to Nick that she wasn’t looking for a reason to run this time, and the only way to do that was to stay. With the tournament and his dad’s health, now wasn’t the time to talk to him about what she’d overheard, but she would eventually. And afterward, she’d try to talk to Alex and smooth things over.
“Thursday, Al.” Her dad’s voice got louder and interrupted her thoughts. “If we don’t get that contract signed by Thursday, I can’t announce it at the press conference.”
Al was the WFC’s attorney. His reply was indiscernible, but her father nodded and smiled. His eyes were bright with excitement as they caught hers. She’d assumed the call was related to a fighter’s contract, but he’d already heard from all the big names he’d wanted to sign, so his level of enthusiasm gave her pause.
“Thanks. Let me know ASAP.” Her dad nodded and disconnected the call. When Jules opened her mouth to ask what was going on, he raised a finger signaling he needed a moment. He shifted through the messy piles on his desk before giving up. “Deb,” he called through the open door of his office. “Bring me the Mereo proposal.”
Mereo Athletics was a well-known brand of athletic apparel. Since her dad’s takeover of the WFC, the company had regularly cosponsored fight nights. Jules had even been involved in finalizing the details of their cosponsorship of the tournament, but this was the first she was hearing of a proposal. Not surprising, given the way he wanted to control everything. “What’s going on with Mereo?”
Her dad’s face split into a grin. “They’re impressed with our marketing for the tournament. I gotta hand it to you, Julian, you really came through with polishing our image. The WFC isn’t seen as a band of short-tempered fighters with beer-swilling hooligans as the only fans anymore.”
Jules smiled at his rare compliment, and she couldn’t help but laugh at his description of the league. “Short-tempered fighter” suited him perfectly.
He chuckled too. “All right, I might resemble that first part. But the important thing is we’re coming across as a respectable sports league, and respectable sports leagues get big sponsorships.”
“Okay, so what sort of sponsorship is Mereo offering?” she asked.
“For the next five years, they want to be the exclusive apparel supplier for our fighters. We’ll work together to create designs that promote both of our brands, and they’ll be showcased in the octagon and anywhere there’s a fucking camera. People will be able to buy WFC-branded stuff anywhere Mereo is sold. It’s huge.”
Deb walked in with the proposal and handed the binder to him. “We have an intercom now. You just push this little button right here.” She pointed to the rectangular button on the phone on his desk. “It’ll spare your vocal chords and my hearing.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled as he opened the proposal.
Deb raised a brow and gave Jules a look, but before Jules could interpret it, he was leaning over the desk to place the binder in front of her. Flipping through the pages, he revealed glossy photos of mock-up apparel from fight shorts to T-shirts to footwear.
“Wow, this is great,” she said, feeling her excitement grow. With a major sponsor behind them, even more fighters would sign on with the league, and the price for ad time during televised fights would skyrocket. “I’m guessing Mereo is paying well for this?”
“We’re still hammering out the details, but I’m confident they’ll come up in their offer. We’ll be looking at around fifteen million, give or take.”
That made Jules’ eyebrows shoot up. It was exactly the influx of cash the league needed right now, but he’d turned to the page that outlined the deal in broad terms and the word exclusivity jumped out at her. “That’s great, Dad, but how will this affect the fighters? They all have their own sponsors. Will they be able to keep them?” She thought of Nick’s fight gear and the clothes the fighters wore during a bout. Their shirts and shorts looked like NASCAR cars, covered in their sponsors’ logos. In exchange for wearing the logo during a fight—and thus getting the logo airtime—the sponsors paid the fighters. The fighters used that sponsorship money, in addition to the purse money earned with each fight, to support themselves while training.
He shrugged. “They can keep their own sponsors as long as the sponsor isn’t an apparel company and they wear the provided Mereo gear for official events.”
“But won’t they end up losing some sponsors?” She frowned. Outside of the octagon, there were few outlets for up-and-coming fighters to display a sponsor’s ad, which would make sponsoring a fighter much less lucrative.
“Maybe a few,” he conceded. “But they’ll each get a chunk of the Mereo money. This way they can focus on training and winning fights without worrying about negotiating with sponsors and tracking down the deadbeats who won’t pay up. This deal is better for everyone.”
“You don’t really think it’ll be that easy, do you?” Deb said from the door. Jules turned and saw her leaning against the doorway and realized the woman had never left the room. “Mark my words, Craig.” She shook her finger at him. “The fighters won’t be happy about this, and you’d better be ready for the backlash.”
Jules got the feeling that the two of them had had this conversation before. “You haven’t said anything to them?” she asked, already knowing the answer. If he’d talked to the fighters, Nick would’ve mentioned something.
“You know your father.” Deb shook her head and walked off toward her desk. “Shoot first, ask questions later,” she called over her shoulder.
“Dad, you should talk to the fighters and get their input. It’s not fair to change their revenue source without talking it over with them first.”
“This is my league. I get to make the decisions. I’ll make sure the Mereo money is shared with them.”
“Shared? It’s their money, isn’t it? Mereo is technically sponsoring the fighters with this deal, not the WFC.”
“Mereo is sponsoring the WFC and the fighters,” he clarified. “Without the WFC, the fighters wouldn’t even have this opportunity.”
“Right, but without the fighters, the WFC wouldn’t exist.”
The corner of his mouth quirked upward, and the only agreement she suspected she’d get was the slight nod. “Only good things will come from the deal. Mereo has agreed to put money into research and development to design gear specifically for MMA. We’ve been waiting a long time for mainstream recognition, and we’re finally getting it.”
“Okay, so if Mereo is sponsoring the WFC and the fighters, then why aren’t the fighters involved in negotiating the contract? You can’t cut them out of the negotiating process,” she said.
“That’s why athletes come to this league. So they don’t have to deal with bullshit like that.”
Jules sighed and sat back in her chair. The things he said sounded good, but she couldn’t help but feel the fighters were getting shortchanged somehow. “This doesn’t feel right, Dad. You need to talk to them.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m supposed to call a meeting with over a hundred athletes and have them fly in? Or maybe call them all up?” Shaking his head, he said, “No, that’s not how it’s done. It’s in their contracts that I negotiate this shit.”
“This is going to bite you in the ass.”
“Like I said”— he raised his hands as if to give in—“we’re still hammering out the details, but when we’re finished you’ll see that each fighter will be generously compensated and you’ll feel better about it.”
That seemed fair, so she nodded. “Okay. I’d like to take a look at what you’ve worked out before you sign.”
He glared at her before sighing and running a hand over his short blond hair. “I’ll have the paperwork later this week and you can take a look at it.”
“And that paperwork will include a payout schedule for the fighters?”
“Don’t push it, Julian. I’ll let you see the contract.” He grabbed the proposal and stuffed it into a drawer before raising a brow at her. “If you hadn’t disappeared on me, I’d have told you about it earlier.”
Jesus, he really wasn’t going to let that go. “Dad, I spoke with you several times a day and kept up with all of my work. You could’ve told me about the deal if you’d wanted to, but the truth is, you like to work alone.”
“Yeah, yeah, back to work,” he said, dismissing her.
Realizing she wasn’t going to get anywhere else with him, she said good-bye. Deb was standing beside the doorway when Jules walked out of his office. “Oh, hi, Deb.”
The woman’s brow was furrowed in a look of concern as she hurried to close the door to his office. Then she took Jules’ arm and gently led her away from the door. “Since your father brought up you calling in sick, I thought I should mention this,” Deb said, and glanced toward the hallway as if to make sure no one was coming.
“What’s going on?” Jules tried to keep her voice light, but a sense of dread came over her.
“There’s been talk about you and Nick Giannakis taking off at the same time.” Jules knew she must’ve looked horrified, because Deb patted her shoulder and said, “I think it’s only because you two spent so much time together for the campaign. You know how people are with rumors.”
People knew. Oh God.
Even worse, there was still an entire week until the tournament, plenty of time for the truth to come out. If that happened, it could compromise Nick’s focus and ruin his chances of winning. She knew that if her dad found out, he could cut Nick for violating his contract.
“Has Dad said anything? Has he heard the rumors?” Maybe if he hadn’t, they’d be able to fly under the radar until the tournament.
Deb shook her head. “He hasn’t mentioned it. I just wanted you to know what people were saying, just in case.”
“Thanks, Deb, I really appreciate you telling me.”
Deb nodded and patted her shoulder again. Jules made her way back to her office quickly, needing to sit still and process what Deb had said. No one had seen them together, so no one knew for sure that they’d been secretly dating, and had been for weeks now. If her dad hadn’t heard the rumors, then the only thing they could do was make sure they didn’t give the rumor mill any more fodder.
They’d need to lay low for the next week, and she’d talk to her dad after the tournament. Then maybe, just maybe, things would work out.
Nick slammed first his right fist and then his left into the leather bag in front of him, sending it swaying on its thick chain.
“Good,” Omar said from a few feet behind him. Today was Nick’s second-to-last training session before he put it all on the line and proved his worth in the octagon. Proved to himself that he was worthy—of the WFC, of his career, of the championship belt. “Give me a one-two-three-two,” Omar said, calling for a jab, a cross, a left hook, and another cross. “And drop your shoulders. I can practically smell the tension coming off of you, man.”
Nick dropped his fists and rolled his neck, trying to shove away the tension that was eating at him. And sure, some of it was because of the upcoming tournament, but most of it was because of Jules. They were out of sync in a way he’d never experienced with her. Something had shifted in Chicago, and he had no freaking clue what it was. She never seemed to have time for him, and it took her longer than usual to respond to texts. The few times he’d run into her at work, she’d been quiet, awkward, and stilted in a way that wasn’t like her and that had him on edge.
And yet . . . he hadn’t pressed her on any of it. After everything that Alex had said in Chicago, Nick couldn’t seem to find the words to say . . . shit. He didn’t even know.
“That’s good, man. Better. Keep it up while I go check in with Maddox,” Omar said, patting him on the shoulder before heading toward the cardio equipment. Nick nodded and adjusted his stance, wanting to lose himself in the physical exertion of training.
He hit the bag and tried to shrug off the uneasiness that had been following him around ever since he and Jules had gotten back.
Fucking Alex. No matter how hard he tried to drown them out—with sweat, with loud music, with any kind of distraction—Alex’s words kept swirling through his brain, over and over again.
If everything was perfect and you didn’t think she was gonna pull another disappearing act, you wouldn’t be freaking the fuck out when I tell you to be careful. You might’ve forgiven her, but I doubt you’ve forgotten the hell she put you through.
Even worse was the tiny voice that chased those words, whispering that Alex might be right. That maybe he was holding back now because he was terrified she might put his heart through the wood chipper again. And fuck, that hurt.
Nick brought his knee up into the bag, grunting at the hard impact as he tried to regain his focus. He didn’t have room for this shit right now. The championship belt was on the line, and he couldn’t risk losing focus because he was moody about his freaking girlfriend—who’d just walked into the gym.
He stilled and started to wave, but then caught himself and dropped his hand to his side. He wanted her to look at him. To see him. To send him some kind of signal that they were okay. But she didn’t acknowledge him at all, and even though he told himself it was because they were on the down-low, it still stung.
Was she getting ready to run?
With a loud huff, he turned and slammed his fist into the bag, letting his pent-up frustration and anger and worry out in a hard, satisfying punch. The impact vibrated up his arm, making him want more.
Jules’ laugh drifted across the gym, the sound ripping him into little pieces because it wasn’t for him. Because he couldn’t go over there and kiss her and show everyone that she was his. With an anguished grunt, he hit again, and again, and again, working the bag until his heart throbbed in his chest, until his lungs burned. Until Jules left.
Three words, with so much summed up in them.
After she’d gotten whatever it was she’d come for—sure as fuck hadn’t been him—she headed out, not sparing him a glance. A few nearby fighters paused in their workouts, watching her ass in her tight black skirt as she disappeared through the door.
“You see the legs on her?” Eric Clark, one of the league’s lightweight fighters, asked. “And those tits? Jesus.” He shook his head back and forth rapidly, motorboating the air in front of him. The other guys laughed. Nick ground his teeth together, anger and a possessive jealousy swirling through him making it hard to breathe. “Bet she’d look real pretty on her knees.”
“Yeah, I saw her the other day. Tight dress, high heels. Looking like she needed to be bent over and . . .” Sam Kovac, a middleweight, said. He made a grunting sound. “I’d tap that for sure.”
“You think she fucks fighters?” asked Eric, scratching his chin.
“One way to find out, bro,” said Sam. “You wanna put money on it? See who can get that pussy first?”
White-hot rage seared through Nick, and he knew he couldn’t listen to another second of those assholes talking about his Jules that way. He strode over to Sam and shoved him in the chest, hard. “Shut your fucking mouth.” Tension radiated, tight and hot, across his shoulders.
Sam’s head reared back, his nostrils flaring. “The fuck’s your problem?”
Nick jabbed his finger into Sam’s chest. “You. Don’t you fucking talk about her that way.”
Sam sneered at Nick. “Why not? You gotta admit, she’s a grade-A piece of ass. Bet she’s got a juicy little peach.” He made a disgusting slurping noise.
Nick felt the snap inside him a split second before he shot his fist out and connected with Sam’s nose.
“Jesus fuck!” He lunged at Nick, landing a glancing punch off of his cheek. Nick charged forward, shoving at Sam, trying to get at him, wanting to make him hurt. Make him bleed. Make him feel as shitty as Nick did. But before he could, bodies surged between them as the other fighters separated them. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw Omar come tearing over, a disapproving scowl on his face.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Omar’s deep voice rang out, echoing off of the gym’s walls, and Nick stopped straining against the hands and arms pulling him back. He angrily tugged his shirtsleeve out of someone’s grasp and moved away from the group.
“He hit me!” said Sam, his voice whiny and indignant.
“You deserved it, asshole!” Nick shouted back. Guys moved between them again to prevent round two.
Omar’s eyes narrowed as he took in the situation, his arms crossed over his chest. “Both of you, go home. Cool off.”
Sam scoffed. “I’m not finished—”
Omar shook his head and cut him off. “Yes, you are. Go home. You too, Nick.”
Without a backward glance, Nick turned and walked out of the gym, feeling the heavy weight of everyone watching as he left.