Tough Enough

With a wry grin, Rogan salutes his trainer and then turns to me, slinging his still-dry towel over my head to collar me and pull me toward him for a kiss. “I don’t want to touch you and get you all sweaty,” he says, keeping every body part except his lips at bay.

“I’ve been watching this sweaty body for the last four hours,” I tell him, ru

The black of his pupils swells within the green forest of his eyes and I barely hear him breathe, “Damn you, woman.”

Looking left and right to make sure no one has inadvertently stumbled into the private gym that his trainer rented, I give a startled yip when Rogan suddenly bends and throws me over his shoulder, trotting off toward . . . somewhere.

The next thing I see from my perch atop his shoulder, facing the floor, is the carpet turn to tile. When Rogan puts me down, we are in the bathroom. That’s the last thought that registers before his hands are all over me, his lips are all over me, and I find out firsthand what happens when you get a fighter all worked up.

It’s amazing.

•   •   •

An hour and a half later, we are in the back of the limo, retracing the streets to our hotel. I’m lying, boneless, against Rogan’s side, my head on his shoulder and his arm draped loosely around me. He seems distracted. Happy and satisfied, but still distracted.

“What did Johns mean about what to expect on fight day?”

I hear Rogan’s huff of laughter rumble through his chest and vibrate into my ear. “He has always insisted that a very specific ritual should be observed on fight day and he never deviates from it. Ever.”

“And just what does this ritual entail?” I ask, picturing everything from the blood of a live chicken to wearing a jockstrap that hasn’t been washed since 2009.

“Sleeping until seven. A big breakfast at eight. Stretching at ten, followed by a massage and lunch. He has pretty much the whole day pla

Bummer.

“And what do you think?”

I feel his lips brush the top of my head. “I think my mind is always on you, so I’m not sure abstaining will make any difference.”

Now I feel guilty. Deliriously happy, of course, but also guilty. “Well, this is important. Maybe we shouldn’t mess with what works.”

“Well, this isn’t a title fight, so . . .”

“But still. If you lost because of me . . .” I sit up and look at Rogan. His eyes are lazy yet hooded. I want to ask what’s going on behind them, but I don’t dare. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me. And maybe I don’t really want to know.

“I won’t lose,” he assures me with a quiet confidence. He kisses my forehead and the tip of my nose. “I’ll win for you. Because you’ll be there watching me.”

“That’s something I wanted to ask you about,” I begin, toying with the neckline of his V-neck tee. “Will I have to sit in a certain place? I mean, I’d rather not . . . I don’t want people to . . .”

Sexy lips quirk into a knowing grin as Rogan hooks a finger under my chin to raise my eyes to his. “Why do you think I wanted you to bring the umbrella?”

I frown. “I don’t know. Why did you?”

He brings his smiling mouth to mine and teases my lips with a short kiss. “You’ll see. But don’t worry about anything. I’ve got it all taken care of.” When his tongue flicks out to trace my bottom lip, I find it hard to worry about much of anything. “Until then, we’ve got a lot of hours before fight day. I hope you don’t have plans.”

I think to myself, while I can still think at all, that I don’t have any plans other than to be devoured by this gorgeous man. There are no better plans than those.

Sunday, Fight Day

As I’m chauffeured from the hotel to the arena, limo-style, I reflect back on the day. When Rogan said he had it all taken care of, he wasn’t kidding. Maybe it was because he knew I was nervous to be back. Maybe it was because he knew he would hardly see me. Or maybe it was just because he’s thoughtful and kind and wonderful. I don’t know, but he had the entire day pla

We didn’t leave our room at all yesterday. I lost count of how many times we made love. We both fell into an exhausted sleep sometime in the wee hours, but when I woke this morning, he was gone.

Room service was delivered to my room, promptly at eight. It consisted of eggs, bacon, hash browns and the most delicious pancakes in the history of the world. But the best part was what rested beside the tiny, swan-shaped cake of butter—The Walking Dead: Season One and a one-word note that read Enjoy.

Which I did. All the way through lunch, which was delivered to my door at precisely twelve o’clock. And then, again, right up until the phone in my room rang at three fifteen to inform me that my masseuse was on her way up for my three thirty appointment.

I’ve never had a massage before. Obviously, at this point in my life, I’m not terribly fond of people touching me, but I didn’t want to send her away and make a big deal of it and embarrass both Rogan and myself, so I jacked my chin up and decided I’d suffer through it. I mean, from what I’ve seen, there’s a hole in the table that you can actually hide your face in. It’s perfect for someone like me. At least she wouldn’t know of my shame. But as it turns out, Rogan even had that organized to the finest detail. She came in, asked me to change and wrap myself in a sheet, and then she proceeded to give me my massage right through the sheet. My hair stayed swept over my shoulder as I lay, face down, staring at the carpet. Well, until I got so relaxed that I closed them. Then I wasn’t staring at much of anything other than the backs of my eyelids.

After that, I slithered off her table and made it to the couch, where I collapsed in front of the last episode of TWD until suppertime, which was again delivered to my door. The only way the day could’ve been better is if Rogan had been with me for all those hours. But if I had to be in New York and spend them alone, that was certainly the way to go.

I suppose I could’ve called Kurt, but somehow that didn’t seem like it might be a very good idea, so I refrained. If Rogan had wanted him to be part of my day, he’d have penciled him in.

So now, here I am, walking into a packed arena, just a few minutes before the fight starts. My polka-dot umbrella is in hand, although I have no idea why.

My palms are sweaty, even though there’s no good reason for them to be. I guess it’s just the fact that I’m out of my comfort zone, out of my shell after hiding inside it for so long. But I have to admit that it’s been a nice change of pace.

There was a man waiting for me at the curb when the limo pulled up. He opened the door and asked, “Ms. Rydale?”

I nodded and he offered his hand, which I took and let him help me out. He then led me inside, past all the outer bands of security and ticket-taking hot spots, right to a seat that borders on what people call the nosebleeds. I’m not sitting up in the rafters, but I’m not ringside, either. Not that I wanted to be. Too much attention.

Surprisingly, I have an excellent view. I’m nearly eye-level with the ring, which is a big, fenced-in octagon, just farther away.

I sit down, taking in the energy of the people around me. Many are standing, watching the ring expectantly, and many, especially the women, are carrying umbrellas, which I find odd. Odd, both that they’re carrying umbrellas when it’s been gorgeous outside (and is supposed to remain gorgeous until Tuesday according to cha