Below the Belt. Sarah Mayberry

on her schedule.

      “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about me,” she said. “I’ll get sick of this boxing thing soon enough and go back to my needlework and cookie-baking like a good Stepford wife.”

      Flashing him a saccharine smile, she slung the towel around her neck and strode over to her gym bag.

      She tossed her workout gloves inside and hoisted the bag onto her shoulder. Ignoring Cooper, she kissed Ray on the cheek as she passed by.

      “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

      Then she headed for the house, her stride long, her head high, every muscle in her body signaling to Cooper Fitzgerald that he could go hang, thank you very much, as far as she was concerned.

      

      COOPER SLID HIS sunglasses up onto his head, the better to watch Jamie Holloway stalk away from him.

      He was still coming to terms with the way his body had reacted to seeing her again at close range. The tight black shorts and form-hugging crop top she’d been wearing left precious little to the imagination, especially when soaked in sweat from a good, hard workout. She had a sizzling body—all firm muscle, with high, full breasts. His body had gone to red alert the moment he’d recognized her, then she’d turned around and a visceral stab of emotion had ripped through him when he’d registered her bruised and battered face. He was still trying to work out exactly what that emotion had been. Protectiveness? Anger? Frustration?

      As her rounded, muscular butt disappeared into the house, he turned to Ray, a frown on his face.

      “Who is the old guy, anyway?” he asked.

      “Her grandfather. He did a bit of fighting in his time,” Ray explained vaguely.

      Cooper swore. “You’re kidding me? She’s got her grandfather giving her advice in the ring? No wonder Jovavich ate her for breakfast.”

      “She wants it. She’ll learn. Losing that fight is burning her up. It won’t happen a second time,” Ray said.

      Cooper gave the other man a frustrated look. “I saw the fight, okay? She’s a long way off being ready to go pro. She’s got bad habits—and now I can see why. She’s used to fighting with her feet as well as her fists.”

      “I had to be in Melbourne and I couldn’t make the fight. What happened?”

      Cooper slid his sunglasses back onto his face. “She wasn’t ready. Someone ought to tell her that.”

      Ray spread his hands wide. “You think I want her in that ring in the first place? I felt freakin’ sick when I saw her face this morning.”

       You and me both.

      “Yeah, well,” Cooper said, suddenly aware that he was wasting way too much time on a dead-end subject that had nothing to do with him. “I wanted to talk to you about your training schedule for next week.”

      He sat beside Ray as he began to outline the new training regime he’d come up with, a plan designed to build stamina and capitalize on Ray’s speed in the ring. They talked for half an hour or so before Cooper checked his watch.

      “I’ve got to be someplace else, but I’ll see you at the gym tomorrow, yeah?” he asked as he stood.

      “Yeah.” Ray ran a hand over the bristle on his scalp, his gaze fixed on the horizon for a beat as he thought something through. “She’s got another fight in two weeks time, you know,” he said.

      Cooper palmed his car keys. “Then she’ll lose again. Someone needs to tell her to quit while she’s ahead.”

      “She’s not a quitter,” Ray said, looking at Cooper as though he was the one who could do something about the situation.

      “She’s not my problem,” Cooper said very firmly.

      He was almost sure he meant it, too.

      

      YET TWO WEEKS LATER, Cooper was watching as Jamie Holloway made her way to the ring for her second pro fight, the old man following in her wake with bucket and water and stool.

       Why am I here?

      He’d asked himself the same question about a million times. There was no promising young fighter to scout here tonight—there was only Jamie and her pigheaded determination. And still he was sitting here, on the edge of his seat, hoping to see a different outcome for her this time.

      Stupid. Pointless. Frustrating. Because if she fought the way she did last time—and the odds were she would—she was going to lose.

      He leaned his elbows on his thighs as the MC read out the fighters’ stats. Jamie’s opponent this time around was a girl from Queensland, taller than Jamie, more experienced. Not that that was hard.

      He could see Jamie’s grandfather talking steadily near her ear as she waited in her corner for the referee to call her forward for instructions. What was the old man saying? And did it matter, when she had years of training, fighting and thinking in another discipline holding her back? As soon as the pressure was on, Jamie was going to want to use her knees and legs again. And that split second of hesitation where her brain overrode her instinct was going to leave her wide open to attack. Just like last time.

      Nodding one final time, Jamie moved away from her grandfather toward the center of the ring where the ref was waiting. Cooper watched the old man climb down from the ring, his movements slow.

      Talk about the blind leading the blind. What a ridiculous bloody situation.

      Cooper stood. He’d seen enough. Then the bell rang, and the two women came out fighting. As before, Jamie threw the first punch, a nice straight armed jab that rocked the other fighter’s head back on her shoulders.

      He sat down.

      It didn’t take long for Jamie’s old habits to undermine her natural talent. And she was talented—Ray hadn’t lied when he said that. She was strong, fast, quick on her feet. She had good power in her punches, good control. She wasn’t afraid to go in hard and risk her opponent finding an opening. But that hesitation and that fumbling footwork let her down every time.

      As the round ended and the bell rang, he watched with frustration as she sank onto the stool in her corner. She had a lot of potential. But she was never going to reach it if someone didn’t take her in hand.

      After the regulation minute, the bell rang and the second round started. Again Jamie landed some good punches first up, and Cooper looked to the judges, urging them to score her high. But as the round ticked into the second then the third minute, those hesitations of hers began to tell again.

      “Think with your fists, not your feet,” he found himself yelling in frustration at the ring. His voice was one of many, drowned out by the crowd, and he sprang to his feet, unable to watch anymore.

      She was taking a pounding, her head bobbing on her neck, her steps slowing as her body reacted to the pain. He couldn’t stand by and watch her go down. It was like watching a bully kick a dog.

      He excused his way past the other fans to get to the aisle. Descending the stairs, he headed for the nearest exit. At least, that was where he thought he was going. The bell sounded the end of the second round and somehow he found himself smooth-talking his way past the security guy guarding the ring and barreling up to Jamie’s corner where she was sitting on her stool, breathing heavily and washing her mouth out while her grandfather rinsed her mouth piece over the bucket.

      “Stop lifting your goddamned feet,” he barked at her as soon as he was within earshot. The ring was four feet off the ground, putting him well below her, but her head snapped around when she heard him. “You keep wanting to use your feet and it’s killing your technique.”

      She looked dazed, a little punch drunk he figured, but then her eyes cleared and she frowned.

      “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.