Class today was about three shades past awkward. At first, I didn’t think Kat showed up for class, but then I saw the back of her head sitting two rows from the front of the room. I can’t believe she’s avoiding me. We left things on a good note, or at least I thought we did. It might be she’s embarrassed over the getting drunk thing. It could be the show she put on, even if she doesn’t know I was listening. Or, maybe she remembered playing tonsil hockey with a douchebag. It’s also entirely possible she remembers how I taunted her into the act. It wasn’t one of my better moments.
The lecture finishes and the room begins to empty like someone just pulled the fire alarm. There are probably close to seventy people in here, the room packed to capacity, and I wonder if she’ll get out without me seeing her. I watch closely as people make their way to the door closest to me, but I don’t see her. I stay in my seat until the room is empty, but she never appears. Finally, I have to admit defeat. She either went out the other door or she hid among the people trying to make their way out.
I don’t see her in the hall, nor is she standing out front. Sighing, I head for my car, and still no Kat. I’m tempted to text her, to ask what the deal is, but I don’t want her to know it matters to me. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea, to get the idea I’m into her or something. Pulling my phone out, I start to text her, but then think screw it. Why am I even worrying about her anyway? It’s not like we’re friends, but I don’t believe we’re exactly enemies anymore either. Placing my phone in the cup holder, I take off for the gym. A few hours spent lifting weights and running on the treadmill are guaranteed to tire me out to the point I won’t think about her anymore.
It’s still pretty early, and the gym is pretty dead. Aside from an older guy riding a stationary bike in the corner, no one’s using any of the other machines. There are a couple meatheads lifting weights, but I head for the treadmill first. I insert my earbuds and turn the volume up loud. Bass heavy rap music fills my ears, and I begin to run. I love the feature on my phone app that changes the music based on my speed. It doesn’t take long before I’m lost in the motions of my feet hitting the conveyor.
I’m so focused on the thumping coming through my earbuds, making sure I’m moving fast enough to keep this music going instead of paying attention to what’s going on around me. When the emergency stop is pulled on the machine, I almost jump out of my skin. I have to scramble to grip the sides of the machine in order to stay upright. Yanking my earbuds out of my ears, I spin around to cuss out whoever dared interrupt me.
The words die on my lips when I see Marcus standing to the side, arms crossed over his chest and a pissed off look on his face. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you.” Even though he’s trying to act angry, the smile tipping up one side of his mouth proves him a liar. He steps closer and holds out a hand for me to shake.
“Sorry,” I say, clasping his hand. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Not exactly, but what else am I supposed to say? Sorry, I’ve been too busy fantasizing about a girl I have no business getting a boner over?
Marcus nods, “I get it.” I’ve been avoiding Marcus since Liam said he wanted to talk to me. Aside from one visit he made to my apartment, I’ve succeeded. I know what he wants, but I’m still not sure if I want to give it to him. If I’d been thinking straight today, I would have waited until later tonight to come to the gym.
“Look, Clay, you’re a decent fighter. I can make you better,” he says matter-of-factly. “Just think of all the money you could make.” The fact that he’s trying so hard to get me involved in his side business is what finally makes me realize beating the guy who put his hands on Kat at the club that night was a bad decision. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but Marcus has been trying to get me to fight for him since I was a freshman and this just gave him more leverage against me. I have a temper, and I need an outlet for all the excess energy that builds up when I’m not playing football, but I’m not interested in illegal fighting. We’re not in the movie Fight Club.
Resting my elbow on the side of the treadmill, I rub my temple with the tips of three fingers, and sigh. “I don’t fight for fun, Marcus. You know that. It’s not like we haven’t talked about this before.”
He puts an arm around my shoulders and steers me closer to the boxing equipment. “Clay, my boy, just think about it. Fighters are friggin’ hot right now. You’d get money, women, recognition.” Marcus gestures at the two sweaty, muscular guys sharing a punching bag in the corner. One is holding the bag for the other, and as we stand here watching, they switch. “There’s no downside if you partner with me and let me manage you.”
Groaning inwardly, I pull away from him, scrubbing both hands down my face in frustration. Marcus hates getting turned down—–for any reason. I pity any woman who says she doesn’t want to date him. He probably goes all stalker on them, keeping the restraining orders he receives as some freaky sort of love note. He’s still talking about the possibilities if I choose to be one of his fighters, but I’ve checked out of the conversation. The perks he’s talking about are already available to me. I have money, girls have always been easy for me, and I don’t need any more recognition. I’m a college football player, and not to be conceited—even though I have good reasons to be, but I’m pretty damn good. I don’t tell Marcus, not that he wouldn’t understand, but I’d rather fuck than fight to get rid of any excess energy. If I can’t fuck, working out is a good substitution. I can’t get laid if some giant, over-muscled, ape beats my ass and breaks half the bones in my body.
“You’ll at least think about it, yeah?” Marcus asks, enough steel in his voice to let me know he doesn’t want to hear “no.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and count to ten. “Yeah,” I finally capitulate, “I’ll think about it.” Marcus grins, thinking I’m one step from saying yes, so I try to slow his roll, holding out a hand in warning. “Thinking doesn’t mean doing, Marcus. Fighting isn’t my bag unless it’s necessary. Fighting for sport? It’s not necessary.”
Marcus waves off my words and turns to head back to his office, leaving me standing in the middle of the boxing area. I walk to the ring, studying the equipment the trainers and fighters use. I’m suddenly not in the mood to work out, so I make my way to the locker area to take a hot shower. My head was already messed up when I came here, and Marcus only made it worse.