“The real reason you didn’t ask me to teach you? Darlin’, you’re afraid of this pull between us.” His focus momentarily slipped to her cleavage. “The thought of being alone with me, with my hands all over you, my body in tight behind yours, my voice in your ear . . . sent you running. But here’s a warning, babe: Don’t think I won’t chase you.” Another round of shots had arrived, breaking the moment.
Molly didn’t speak to him the rest of the night.
And he hadn’t found the balls to ask her out for another year. A year. Talk about fucking pathetic. He might be fierce in the ring and in his classes, but he was a chickenshit when it came to man/woman personal stuff. So when Molly had skipped his kickboxing class three times, he’d seized the chance to turn their teacher-student relationship into something more. He’d loaded his portable fast bag and other training equipment and shown up at her apartment.
The look on her face when she opened the door to him? Priceless.
But then she’d tried to bar him from entering. Rather than laughing and shoving her aside, he’d asked if she really wanted to drop his class. Because the only way he’d allow her to return was to make up the hours she’d missed.
Molly had reluctantly let him in.
Deacon was pretty sure she’d imagined his face on the boxing dummy as she’d pummeled it. After the workout, he’d ordered Chinese. They’d eaten side by side on her couch and watched three episodes of Bar Rescue.
So he’d warned her he’d be back the following Sunday for another makeup lesson. After a grueling session, she’d shocked him by cooking a pork roast with all the trimmings. Those few hours with her had been burned into his memory banks forever.
But the third lesson—he hardly remembered that one. Due to an unseasonably warm afternoon, she’d worn spandex workout pants and an eye-popping sports bra. They’d done mostly floor work because watching her gorgeous tits jiggle every time her fist connected with the dummy . . . A man had only so much willpower. He’d given her a lame excuse and left right after the workout.
Then all that crap had gone down.
And she hadn’t given him a chance to explain.
Not that he’d know what the fuck to say to her anyway. Because even to his own ears it sounded like a lousy fucking excuse.
“Get off that thing. Now.”
Christ. His trainer’s booming voice could compete with thunder.
When Deacon didn’t immediately comply, Maddox leaned over and stabbed buttons on the console until the machine shut off.
Unprepared for the sudden loss of movement, Deacon smacked into the handles. Then, bracing his feet on either side of the belt, he pulled the towel from around his neck and mopped his face and head.
“What is wrong with you?” Maddox demanded. “Three hours on the goddamn treadmill means you won’t be worth a damn for other cardio training tomorrow.”
Deacon slowly raised his head, his chest heaving from exertion. He respected the hell out of his trainer. Not only was Maddox Byerly the force driving him to finally get somewhere in his MMA career, but he’d become a good friend. Spending six days a week together, though, meant they had to maintain a line between friendship and training at the dojo.
“Don’t pull that silent-treatment crap on me, Deacon. How fucking hard is it to just tell me the problem?”
“Hard as hell, to be honest.”
“Tough. Park it. I ain’t going anywhere until you start talking.”
In the rare instances in the past that he’d needed advice, Deacon had relied on Ronin or Knox. They never pushed; they waited until he came to them. But Maddox was a fucking bulldog—he demanded full disclosure about Deacon’s life outside the ring because he claimed it’d affect Deacon’s performance inside the ring. So in the last six months, the motherfucker had tried to force—tried being the operative word—Deacon into talking about every-fucking-thing. Hadn’t worked so far, so he attempted to hedge. “I don’t know what your problem is. I thought you’d be happy I got my cardio in.”
“Nice try. Take your time working up to the real issue. I’ve got nowhere else to be today.”
“You plan to load me up on chocolate and tampons after I share my feelings with you?” he retorted. Hadn’t these new guys gotten the memo that he—Deacon “Con Man” McConnell—did not do let’s-talk-it-out friendship crap?
Maddox scrubbed his hands over his cheeks. “A bottle of Midol would help you immensely, dickhead.”
Deacon wanted to laugh. Maddox didn’t take his shit, which was why they got along so well. He grabbed his water bottle and drained half of it.