Chapter 11
When I got to the gym at 5.45am the next morning—nothing was going to keep me from that gym—Ken, one of my fans or some might say resident stalker, was there. Ken was harmless I think, and I had had a few over-zealous fans over the years who had found out where I was working out or came to where I was reporting sporting events and just hung around waiting to see me and be acknowledged.
Luckily, I’d never had a bad experience, but one of my teammates, Latoya, had. She had started talking to a guy online and they had begun exchanging photos. After a few too many drinks one night, they were exchanging raunchier photos and he put them online – my worst nightmare. The police and club lawyers had stepped in and it had been shut down pretty quickly and he was charged. It came out that he had done that to half a dozen other women as well, but Latoya was mortified; it had really taken away her confidence. My stalker, Ken—or I should say fan—was carrying a bit of weight, a smoker, in his mid-forties at a guess, and just a bit odd. He was coming to most of our games and I had once seen him at the Saints’ when I was reporting there, but he usually just said a few words and departed. I gave him a hesitant wave and headed in.
My eyes swept the gym and, of course, landed straight on The Russian. He was spotting for some other guy; I loved that he never seemed to flirt even though there were girls lifting weights nearby him; he was so solid in every sense of the word – well, from what I’d seen to date that was. He looked up and saw me and smiled; be still my beating heart. I indicated the lockers and went in to put away my car keys, phone and wallet. When I came back he was waiting for me by a set of weights, just doing hand lifts.
“Brooker, looking good,” he said, with the hint of a smile.
“Russian, looking pretty good yourself,” I said, and swept my eyes over him.
“I saw that,” he teased.
“Feel cheap?” I ribbed him.
“I would prefer you liked me for my mind,” he teased, and then we got down to business, because I knew somewhere in my psyche that The Russian didn’t need another pretty girl who looked and talked the part. The Russian—if he liked me at all—might have been liking me because I was real, I was an athlete, I was a driven person. Well, that was what I was counting on and if I was wrong, then so be it. I did a work out with intensity; I didn’t care if I sweated or groaned or didn’t look pretty – okay, I did care a little that I might not have looked pretty, but I was turned on by The Russian straining, not posing, so I gave him the same ... and I wanted to beat him, not that I did, not once ... I came close with the number of sit-ups, I did. I think it paid off because at the end of the workout when we both stopped and breathed in, he looked at me with what I think was respect.
“Well done, Brooker, you’re not a pussy,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” I said, shocked.
I think my reaction unnerved him.
“Sorry, I meant, you worked hard, poor choice of words,” he stumbled. It was good to unhinge The Russian every now and then, he was so confident.
I grinned at him and gave him a wink and he shook his head at me. He grabbed a plastic cup of water from the dispenser and gave it to me while he poured his own.
“Thanks,” I said, drinking it like a woman who had been working out for an hour with a super fit, gorgeous Saint.
He swallowed his cupful and refilled us both. “Got time to grab a coffee?”
“I’d love one. Can you give me the number?”
He looked confused.
“For the coffee lady? I need her number,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“Brooker, Brooker, Brooker, that the best you got?” he asked, and then he laughed. “Keep trying.”
I sighed. “Fine then.”
“So, coffee now?” he asked again. “Ten minutes enough to shower and change?”
“Sure, I’m a natural beauty,” I said.
“Five minutes then?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not that natural, see you in ten.”
I heard him chuckle as I headed off before he could renegotiate. This was going so well; I think The Russian liked me. God knows I tried to show him the few good angles I had that day while working out. A girl’s got to use what she’s got, when she can, and I don’t have long blonde wavy hair, I’m not Boho and my daddy is rich in faith only.
*****
He was waiting for me when I returned, but I hadn’t taken much longer than ten minutes. We headed to the cafe that we had frequented last time.
The Russian went to order and when he came back and slid into the booth opposite, I forgot for a moment to raise my eyes from his torso and he caught me checking him out.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Just checking that gym session is working for you,” I said, sheepishly.
“Good of you,” he said, with the hint of a smile. The Russian sat back in our booth and looked around. There were a few other people from the gym and some guy trying to take a subtle photo of us on his phone.
“Should we just smile and wave?” The Russian asked.
“We could, or we could put glasses on and hats and try and look more cloak and dagger. He might make money from that shot,” I suggested. Then my friendly stalker, Ken, went past the window and waved to me and I waved back.
“Who was that?” The Russian asked, checking him out.
“Just one of my friendly stalkers,” I said. I swear The Russian grew a foot taller if it was at all possible.
“What do you mean?” he said.
I told him I had a few regulars—Ken, Alby and Ron, and a female called Liz—and I assured him they had never caused me any trouble.
“What’s he doing here then?” he asked, still tense and watching Ken walk through the parking lot.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, he often comes here. I’ve seen him before and after some of my workouts.”
“I don’t like it, Brooker,” The Russian growled. “Next time you see him or any of the others, including the female, you’re going to introduce me as your boyfriend and I’ll be moving them on. Okay?”
I frowned at him. “I appreciate ...”
“Not up for discussion,” he said, closing it down.
I swallowed and stayed patient. While I appreciated his concern for me, was even pretty turned on by it—sadly—I had been pretty good at looking after myself up to that point.
“Russian, I appreciate it but ...”
“No, Brooker. I protect my own ...”
“And I’m your own?” I asked, with raised eyebrows.
He placed his hands palm down on the table and took a deep breath. “You keep forgetting I’m in security. These people seem harmless until they’re not ... how many times have you seen news reports where the neighbors say ‘he was such a nice man, quiet and wouldn’t hurt a fly’. We’re shutting this down.”
I stared at him and he stared at me and then he reached for my hand.
“Let me at least do what I can, while I can, to protect you. You’d do the same for me if the situation was reversed and it was your area of expertise, wouldn’t you?” he asked. God he was good. I took a deep breath and smiled.
“Thank you, but you can’t hurt them,” I said.
He scoffed. “Wow, you don’t think much of me, do you?”
I looked at the disappointment in his face.
“I don’t really know you, Russian,” I said, truthfully.
He nodded. “Fair enough. I’m not going to hurt them. I’m just going to make it clear that I’m with you now, and I’ll be the one looking out for you, so their work is done here. Okay? Put this number in your phone.”
“What number?” I asked.
“The number I’m about to give you,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“Oh that number,” I said, with a smile and picked up my phone ready to key in. He dictated a number and I entered it.
“That’s Saints’ security,” The Russian said. “If you can’t reach me, call that number, it’s 24-7 and someone will always answer and respond to you. I’ll put you on the list of our clients.”
“Thank you Russian, that’s very kind and weirdly reassuring ... like having a bodyguard on call.”
“You mean ‘thanks Russian, you’re my hero?’” he said, and smiled.
“Don’t push your luck,” I said.
“Speaking of pushing my luck, I’ve got a bit of a problem,” he said, and sat back as our coffees and two muffins were delivered.
I think I stopped breathing; I just stared at him. A problem ... is his ex-girlfriend back? Does he not want a relationship right now? Does he want to focus on his sport? Crap, I hate men.
“What?” he asked. “Don’t look so freaked out.” He broke his muffin in half and began to eat it.
I breathed again. “You know, saying ‘I’ve got a problem’ for a guy is akin to a woman saying ‘we need to talk’” I said, and he grinned at me.
“Brooker, you think too much. My problem is that my delightful sisters—namely Ana and Nikki— showed my mother all the social media photos of our night at your Ball. Now Mom is insisting you come to dinner.”
“Really?” I brightened. I took a bite of my muffin now that the problem was actually a good thing and I could formulate saliva and swallow again.
“So, will you?” he asked, looking down on me with his big chocolate eyes.
Hell, try and keep me away.
“I’d be delighted,” I said, “thank you. Who would miss the chance to see where you sprung from?” I laughed at the thought.
“Hmm,” he sort of snorted. “Tomorrow night, Wednesday?”
“Tomorrow?” I gulped.
“Too soon?” he frowned. “I can tell Mom that another date might be better.”
“No, I’m free, tomorrow night is good. Thank you.” Make my day, make my month, make my ... you get the idea.
“I can pick you up after training, around seven?” he said.
“Where do you live?” I asked and he told me.
“I have a better idea,” I said. “I’m working at The Sports Daily tomorrow which is closer to your place than mine and I don’t finish until 6.30pm. Why don’t I come to your place straight after work and you drive from then?”
“So you’re not going to go home and spend two hours beautifying yourself for me?” he said, surprised. I narrowed my eyes at him, lucky I knew him well enough to know he was joking.
“I’ll powder my nose,” I assured him. “Might even spray a bit of perfume around.”
“Yep, you’re completely taken with me,” he said. “Give me your phone and I’ll put my address in.”
I think I had an orgasm as I handed over my phone and watched that beautiful man enter his address. Is that possible without being touched? I had now seen him Sunday night, spoken Monday, worked out together Tuesday and we were having dinner with his family Wednesday night.
I think maybe, just maybe, The Russian might like me too.