Chapter 17
Dunk
Dunk had taken up boxing since he had broken up with Daisy. There wasn’t a boxing gym in Maybelle, but the Rec had a Tuesday night class taught by Dax Steele, who was an E.R. doctor and former Army. It seemed weird, but they weren’t there to fight each other, they were there to learn how to safely and effectively beat the shit out of punching bags.
So Dunk was dripping sweat, his hands and wrists wrapped to keep them protected, throwing jabs and punches at his punching bag.
Dax’s Kick Ass Playlist kept him motivated, jumping from Rage Against the Machine and AC/DC to Nas and Run the Jewels.
When it was done, he was worn out. He gave credit where credit was due to Dax, because it was damn hard to physically wear him out.
He headed towards the locker room, only to stop short.
Conor Rhys was sitting up on a bench, his leg out of a cast and looking pale and noticeably less muscled than his other leg.
“And I’d been doing so well,” he muttered, tension re-filling his muscles and tendons as if he hadn’t just drained it all out boxing.
“What was that, McCoy?” Conor snapped.
Dunk strode closer to Conor. “You got something to say to me?”
Conor lifted one eyebrow, like he had all the patience in the world and the biggest upper hand. “I wasn’t planning on talking to your sorry ass, but I’m sure I could come up with a few choice words.”
Dunk’s mouth stretched in a terrible imitation of a smile.
He hadn’t been miserable… exactly… since the breakup with Daisy, but he hadn’t bounced back like he thought he would.
A part of him—an apparently masochistic part—was glad that it hadn’t been easy, that he hadn’t been able to snap out of it and move on yet. It proved that Daisy really meant something to him. The rest of him was tired of his thoughts running tired circles around his brain, which was why he’d started boxing. It was also why he was keeping up with the knitting circle, although he’d sworn he’d never set foot in the bookstore again.
“But I can see there’s no point,” Conor added.
Dunk’s eyebrows knitted, not sure if Conor was insulting him or implying that it was obvious that Dunk was still not over it.
“I gotta go,” Dunk said, and strode straight on out of the Rec.
Only he had to stop short for the second time that day.
This time, it was because there was Daisy Rhys perched on a bench. She was reading on her cell, sunglasses hiding her eyes, her hair in a big puff on top of her head, wearing a flowy dress he’d never seen.
Of course, she looked up when the door slammed shut behind him.
He couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t seen her; he was frozen like a dumbass practically mid-step, his jaw hanging open and his eyes right on her. For the first time in his life, he considered running away, or being completely rude—even if it was for self-preservation—and turning away.
But instead, he waved, as if he were really the brainless jock everyone thought he was, and said, “Hey.”
So cool, so casual, he mocked himself.
“Hi, Dunk,” Daisy whispered.
It hurt him, worse than a real uppercut to the chin, to see her looking so… neutral, no signs of that exuberance or that cheeky sense of humor.
“Conor’s still in there,” he mumbled, figuring that had to be why she was here. “He’s not even sweating, so he’s still going to be a while.”
“I know,” she said. “I just got here early.”
They stared at each other, and it was awkward and painful even though her sunglasses shielded him from seeing those huge green eyes.
“How—how’s Lempicka?”
He almost hit himself on the back of the head.
“Good,” Daisy replied, with a ghost of a smile, “mostly ignoring me.”
“Cats are evil, Daisy Rhys,” he intoned, for a second forgetting that he shouldn’t tease her anymore, that she wasn’t his to tease. His growing smile shrunk down to nothing and he dropped his eyes to his running shoes. “Well, uh, I’m sorry I interrupted you when you’re reading.”
“Oh, no,” she denied hastily, just as polite as ever.
He wished she’d curse him out or something.
If she had, then he wouldn’t have said quietly, “It was nice seeing you.”
And then he did take off, too twisted up to keep this up.
“Damn it,” he hissed as he slammed into his truck.
While he wanted to take off, or show up at Jesse’s or Wild Harts to drink and bitch, he was a mature man, so he went home instead, to play with his dog and brood while ESPN ran in the background.