Clincher (DS Fight Club Book 6) Read online

  As he and the cat made their way down to the river, Nolan let his thoughts wander. In a former life, he would have just been starting his work shift, as the dinner rush was just beginning. He couldn’t say he missed the hectic pace of working in a restaurant, but he did miss the excitement, that heady rush of almost being in the weeds.

  Chasing that rush almost killed him when ten years of rich food, excess weight, and too much stress triggered a massive heart attack. Nolan ran his fingers over the unseen scar than ran down the middle of his chest. He shouldn’t even be here enjoying this evening stroll on the banks of the Chattahoochee River. But he was. And even though he might not be living it up right now, he was alive, and that was enough.

  “Mrowp.”

  “Yep. Let’s go home, Iggy.”

  When Nolan arrived back at his apartment, his phone flashed with notification. He flicked the screen to wake it up and checked his messages. The first message was from Colin, who rambled on deliriously about the baby. The second was a terse message from the woman he met today. She sounded hesitant on the message, like she wasn’t quite sure what she should be saying. Very different from her training, which was rigorous but well paced. He sensed she didn’t talk much on the telephone.

  Was she cute? Toby’s question stuck in his mind. No, she wasn’t. She was stunning even with no makeup on and her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. And she was strong as hell. She’d had no problem partnering with him for a resistance exercise pattern, and that was something. Nolan was a big guy, and he knew that some people would be uneasy working with him, but Bridget didn’t seem to think a thing about it, which was a really nice change.

  Maybe someday he’d get up enough nerve to ask someone like her out.

  Chapter Four

  “Hands up! Chin down! Hands up, Doherty! You’re not protecting your head!”

  Bridget grunted as her sparring partner’s fist connected with her chin, proving that she was not indeed protecting her face.

  Fuck.

  She swung wildly, and Tig snuck in another tap, this one to her eye, and this time, his hit rocked her on her feet.

  “Stop.”

  Both fighters stopped cold at the voice of DS Fight Club’s co-owner and namesake, Paddy Doyle. Paddy stepped between the two of them and peered first at Tig and then at Bridget.

  “What the fuck do you eejits not understand about light sparring? Light sparring, as in no concussions!” The Irishman grunted and shook his head. “That’s enough for today. Tig, nice moves, quick, but you still need to work on your combinations. Bridget, good pressure today, but you’ve got to keep those hands up. I don’t care if you’re taller than most of the other fighters in your class or that you’re never going to face a fighter with the reach of this rangy bastard.” Paddy jerked his head at Tig, who grinned around his mouthpiece. “All it takes is one well-placed strike, and it’s lights out for you and any chance at a belt.”

  With a heavy sigh, Bridget spit out her mouthpiece and headed to the break room, grumbling to herself while she stripped off her sparring gloves.

  “Bridget, wait up.” Tig caught up with her, his long legs quickly cutting the distance between them. The slight cowboy kickboxer bumped her shoulder with his before falling into step with her. “Talk to me, Doherty.”

  “Nothing to say. You clocked me fair and square, and that shouldn’t have happened.” Bridget shook her head, disappointed in herself. “I don’t know what my problem is lately.”

  “You gotta get your head back in the game, but not live in your head. I know you’ve been going through something. I’m just saying, if you need to blow off some steam or even just talk, I’m here.”

  “Thanks, Tig. I don’t know when this started—” she began, but Tig interrupted her.

  “It started when you got that letter from the law firm.” Bridget blinked at him. “Yeah, I know a legal envelope when I see one.”

  Bridget sighed again and nodded her head once but didn’t elaborate, and Tig seemed to take the hint. He jabbered about kickboxing moves and combinations, and Bridget was thankful for her sparring partner’s intuitiveness.

  Bridget and Tig walked into the break room, where two members of the DS Fight Club heavyweight class stood in front of a television, paying rapt attention to the talking head on the screen.

  “Hey, Bridget, you’re gonna be interested in this,” Dominic “Dig” DiGiacomo called over his shoulder, his eyes still riveted to the screen.

  “Real interested,” Damon Pierce added.

  Tig and Bridget stepped up beside the two larger fighters to watch the sports news show.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Tig said with a low whistle. “What the hell are they thinking?”

  “They’re thinking money fight, is what they’re thinking, but there’s no way Estes is going to be able to make one thirty-five safely.” Bridget snorted. “She could barely do it three years ago before she retired.”

  “That’s the thing,” Dig nodded at the screen. “Hold up and listen, Bridget.”

  Bridget rolled her eyes but listened. “Yes! An official women’s featherweight class!” She whooped but then shook her head. “It’ll never happen. They talk a good talk, but I bet nothing comes of it.”

  “Why so negative? It seems like it’s a done deal. I thought you’d be pleased and stoked.” Pierce side-eyed her.

  Bridget stalled giving her response while the four fighters listened to the news report. The commentators bandied about a potential debut date for the new women’s fighting class and were already pairing up potential fighters. Bridget was pretty sure she knew who was number one for the matchup, and it made her sick to her stomach.

  “Who do you think it’s going to be, Bridget?” Dig peered at her. “Whoa—you all right?”

  Bridget nodded, her attention still on the news. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just need to—” She grinned as Tig shoved a protein drink into her hand. “Thanks, Tig.” She drank deeply and willed herself to answer as unemotionally as possible. “Yeah, I think it’s going to be Hanna Kowalczyk.”

  “Whoa—she’s the top contender at one thirty-five. You think she’ll jump?”

  “Oh yeah, she’ll jump. She’s met Marisa Estes three times, and Estes has put her down, three times. No one wants to see Estes-Kowalczyk IV, most of all Kowalczyk. Besides, Estes is six months pregnant. She’s gridlocked the division for three years; what are six more months? She’s going to hold on to that belt until they make her give it up. Plus, both Estes’s and Kowalczyk’s competition weight was one forty-five when they were in the Olympics. Why wouldn’t Kowalczyk jump at the chance at a belt in a brand-new division where her only real competition has been out for three years? It’s a no-brainer to me.” The male fighters gawked at Bridget, who just shrugged. “Yeah, I play fantasy matchmaker a lot in my head.”

  Dig narrowed his eyes at Bridget. “You ever face either of them in regionals or anything?”

  She chuckled. “Yep.”

  “And?”

  Bridget blew out a breath. “And I beat both of them.” But then I was an idiot and let myself get sidetracked and lost my momentum.

  “Man, it would be sweet if that fight was in Atlanta, right? ‘Pressure Drop’ Doherty could get on the undercard and kick some ass. Whoo!” Tig whooped and jabbed at her, and Bridget couldn’t help but grin at his enthusiasm. The grin stretched the abraded skin of her cheek, and she winced.

  “Oh man, you need to let Ryan or Junior take a look at that cut, Bridget.” Tig sucked air through his teeth as he peered at her face. “Dang, I’m sorry.”

  Bridget waved him off. “I’ll get it looked at, but it’s a good lesson to keep my hands up, right?” She swallowed the rest of her shake and cleared her throat. “Yeah, I gotta get ready for C’s client. Thanks for the heads-up about the new division, guys.”

  Bridget hurriedly rinsed out her cup, and before the men could say anything else, she fled the break room and dashed into the women’s locker room so she could
have peace and quiet to have a mini-breakdown.

  She swallowed hard, the shake turning to concrete in her belly as she thought about how she’d blown the biggest opportunity she’d ever had, and for what? Nothing. She should have left Kevin the moment he balked about them moving to the Southwest to train, but she didn’t. And now, seven years later, she was essentially starting over at thirty-two years old. Not ideal at all, but hell, she’d gotten a second chance, so she was going to do everything she could to make the most of it.

  There were some days when she still couldn’t quite believe that Junior Maldonado agreed to take her on after she blindsided him in Buffalo. He’d been preoccupied when she’d shoved a stat sheet in his hand and told him she’d call him in three days. She had, and he’d actually remembered her. It had taken another four months of false starts for her to actually come to DS Fight Club, but in the end, she knew it was the right move at the right time. Was it perfect? No. But it was a hell of a lot better than working as a bartender and sleeping in her high school bedroom and seeing the disappointment in her mother’s eyes. Just about anything was better than that.

  Bridget splashed water on her face and neck and looked in the mirror.

  “Okay, Birdie. This is a marathon, not a sprint. You got this.”

  She dried her face and set off to find Nolan Harper.

  Chapter Five

  “What the hell is wrong with you today, Harper? Hmm?”

  Nolan sat on a bench, panting, feeling like he was going to vomit, while this obnoxious woman got in his face, and he didn’t like it one bit.

  “Just having an off day, I suppose,” he ground out. “It happens.”

  Bridget stepped out of his space, thank goodness, but still glared at him as if he’d done something to offend her.

  “Hmph. Well then, pack it up.”

  Nolan, who’d been huffing and puffing thirty seconds before, stopped. “Why? We still have twenty minutes left in the session.”

  “Nope. You’re going to end up hurting yourself. And besides, it’s not good for you mentally.” She seemed like she was about to tap him on the head but then redirected her index finger to her own temple. “So come on. Let’s go.” She motioned for him to get up. “Let’s go, Harper.”

  Nolan scrambled to his feet. “Hah-pah,” he said under his breath.

  “You making fun of the way I talk, hmm?”

  “No, ma’am.” He rolled his lips together to keep from grinning. Tahk.

  Bridget pursed her lips and huffed a little. Then she turned on her heel and strode to the break room. Nolan tried not to look at her backside but couldn’t quite keep his eyes away.

  Yeah, she was good-looking.

  She started opening containers and dumping scoops of powder into a tumbler. She added water and began shaking the tumbler vigorously.

  “So, tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “About you. About Nolan Harper. What’s your story?”

  “Uh, well . . .”

  She arched an eyebrow.

  “I take insurance claims over the telephone. Since I sit all the time, I thought it would be wise to, you know, get some exercise.”

  “Hmm. Okay.” She handed him the shake. “Drink that. You’ve been working hard.”

  Nolan took a sip of the shake and chuckled. “Chocolate peanut butter?”

  “You seem like a chocolate peanut butter kinda guy.”

  She sat and waited while Nolan drank his shake. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. When he’d finished half, he started talking again.

  “I had a heart attack three years ago. Keeled over during dinner service, took a whole prep area of Kobe beef out with me.” He gave her a timid smile. “Doc told me that if I didn’t change some things, I was gonna die. So I quit the restaurant and got a desk job. Stopped drinking, started eating a little better. I used to weigh almost four hundred pounds.”

  “You’ve lost a lot, then.”

  He nodded.

  “It’s impressive, Nolan. You should be proud of yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nolan, look at me.”

  He met her eyes for the first time that day.

  “You’ve done a great job.”

  “Thanks,” he said again.

  Bridget sighed. “You’ll believe it someday. I hope sooner rather than later.”

  She began wiping down the counter and putting the containers back where they belonged.

  “It’s really dumb. The reason, I mean.”

  “Try me.”

  “There are these guys on my team, right? They’re super built, veiny. Not an ounce of fat on ’em. They bring their lunch, just like I do, but, you know, they have the branded portion-control packs and the carrier and all that, and I use lunch meat containers and plastic grocery bags.”

  Bridget rolled her eyes. “I know the type. Thank God that particular flavor of gym rat doesn’t last too long around here.” Nolan nodded. “Did they give you a hard time?”

  Nolan barked a bitter laugh. He’d felt like he was back in middle school, when his father had moved the family to Nashville, to an upscale neighborhood, and Nolan had shown up with his brown sack lunch, proud because his family didn’t qualify for the free lunch program anymore. He’d been mercilessly teased for the way he talked and dressed, and for his size. The coaches had tried to get him to play football for a while but had eventually given up because Nolan didn’t have an aggressive bone in his body. If there was one thing having a father like Chet Harper taught him, it was how to keep your head down and avoid notice, even when you were six feet tall and over two hundred pounds at the age of twelve.

  “Yeah, I made the mistake of asking them what their protein-to-carb ratio was, and then later I heard them talking about what a fat-ass I was.” He sighed. “Bullies never change, you know? They just move from the school yard to the boardroom. Or the wannabe boardroom. Those guys are gonna be stuck in middle management for the rest of their lives because they’re content to coast.”

  Bridget leaned back against the cabinets and crossed her arms. He could feel her examining him from top to bottom.

  “How long do you think they’d last in the kitchen? I mean, provided they were capable of cooking something other than brown rice and chicken.”

  Nolan barked a laugh. “Ten minutes, tops. They wouldn’t be able to control the sous-chefs, and the GMs would be reaming their asses every five minutes.”

  “See? You are so much better than them, Nolan. I know I don’t know you at all, but the fact that you gave up something you loved because you knew it was killing you proves you are strong. A lot of people aren’t brave enough to part with something that’s toxic, simply because they’re familiar with it. They’d rather die knowing it’s bad than take a chance and risk failure.”

  “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

  Bridget shrugged. “Maybe. You never know what people are capable or incapable of, you know? Sometimes they surprise you.”

  “And sometimes, unfortunately, they tell you exactly what they’re gonna do, and you still don’t believe them.”

  Bridget leaned her head back and laughed, a full, throaty sound that sent a shiver down Nolan’s spine.

  “Nolan Harper, you are something else.” She clapped her hands together. “You feel better?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. Now get outta here. I’m sure you have something better to do than to hang around a fight club.”

  Nolan shrugged, and the idea of asking her out to see Tobias perform flickered in his head, but he quickly dismissed it. Bridget wasn’t the type of woman who would go out with the likes of him, even if she was kind enough to listen to his blathering.

  “I’ll let you get out of here. Thanks, Bridget.”

  “Sure. C should be back for your next session, but I’ll be around. It was nice working with you, Nolan Harper.”

  He bobbed his head. “Likewise, Bridget Doherty.”

  Chapter Six
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  “Oh my God, that baby is so friggin’ cute! I could just eat her up with a spoon.” Nanda shook her head. “It is criminal how cute she is.”

  “I think someone’s got baby fever,” Annie singsonged with a grin.

  “I’m not even going to deny it. I am thirty-eight years old, and my ovaries are screaming at me.”

  “She looks just like C,” Bridget mused. “Not only the hair and those eyes, but all of this.” She made a circle around her face. “That baby looks just like him. I find it very amusing.”

  Nanda snorted, but Annie nodded. “She does. I thought I was the only one who thought so. I’m glad you do, too. She’s adorable, but yeah, she looks just like her daddy.”

  “Speaking of daddies . . .” Nanda leaned back and crooked a finger at her husband, who grinned and began sauntering over.

  “Oh my God, you did not just call Dig ‘daddy.’ ” Bridget pressed her fingers against her eye sockets. “Pass the brain bleach. And besides, I thought this was going to be a mini-GNO. So that means no penis-people.”

  “Hello, I’m sitting right here.” Ryan Richards, DS Fight Club’s cutman, glared at Bridget. “I’m a penis-person.”

  “You’re different. You’re a penis-person who likes penises. Penii. What’s the plural of ‘penis,’ anyway?”

  “Penes is the proper plural of ‘penis.’ Wow. That’s a lot of p’s.” Ryan snorted. “Oh my God, I have been up too long. I think Papi needs to take me home and put me to bed.” Ryan looked around. “Where’s Junior?”

  Bridget laughed at the horrified look on Nanda’s face.

  “Did I just hear you call my brother ‘Papi’? I did, didn’t I?” Nanda made fake retching noises before cackling. Ryan just shrugged and grinned, his smile growing wider as his boyfriend looped an arm around his chest and smooched his bearded cheek.