Fighting Hearts Read online

  “Is she naked?” a third voice asks.

  “No,” Usalv tells him.

  “Hey, are you naked?” the second voice asks.

  “Fuck off,” Usalv replies.

  As the door slams shut, there’s an eruption of male laughter mixed with curses in the hallway. Moments later, I reach the entrance, wearing my workout camisole and taekwondo pants. Along the way, I struggle to stuff items into my backpack.

  Usalv stands with his back against the locker door. As I get closer to him, I see he’s even more striking up close. At least six feet-four, with blue-black hair styled in a geometric undercut. Long and wavy on the top, short on the sides and back, fading to a close-trimmed beard that frames full lips and a strong square jaw. His nose is perfectly shaped except for a high bump on the bridge where it’s been broken. I don’t wonder how.

  The backpack zipper is almost closed when a final good yank sends the contents of the front pocket spilling out onto the floor. I bend to retrieve my make-up case and keys, then look up to find Usalv standing above me, his hand extended.

  “You’re a black belt?” He holds my belt out in front me, the four golden notches exposed on top of the coiled cotton belt.

  “Actually, I’m a new instructor.” I stand slowly and retrieve my belt from his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”

  His brows arch in surprise. “Rodgers hired…you?”

  He’s been pretty decent to me all things considered, but his comment makes me bristle. “Of course he did. After all, he’s a very knowledgeable guy.”

  Usalv responds with an impassive look. I give him a patient smile and then reach for the door handle.

  “Sweet Lou…wait.” He reaches out to stop me and his hand touches mine for a split second. I feel a rush of electricity before he withdraws it.

  “What is it?”

  “When I came in and found you here…well… You weren’t scared of me, were you?” He’s so motionless, I wonder if he’s holding his breath.

  “Scared of you? That’s strange question, Usalv.”

  “Yeah… You didn’t scream, or curse, or accuse me of being a predator or a pervert.”

  “You’ve got a lot presence. It’s hard not to notice.” I shrug. “But no. The minute you backed away I wasn’t scared. Only really…embarrassed.”

  “You shouldn’t be,” he replies.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Well, okay maybe a little.” He pauses. “But I didn’t see anything. Only lots of long, curly hair. On your head—I mean, hanging down your back.” He flushes, then turns his gaze to my tangled sweaty hair. “I knew right away you weren’t one of the guys.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

  “Because I don’t want you to hold it against me.”

  “Against you? I wouldn’t do that. That wouldn’t be fair.”

  He smiles. “I hope you still feel that way when I see you again.”

  I can’t help myself. I smile back.

  “Hey, come on, hurry up in there!” an impatient voice calls from the corridor.

  “Thank you, Usalv,” I tell him, then reach for the door handle.

  As I face the men huddled in the corridor, their conversations cease. When I step into the hall, the man nearest to me takes a half step back.

  “Sorry, guys.” My voice carries. “It was an honest, G-rated mistake. It will not happen again. Thanks for not being jerks about it.”

  Without another word, I walk down the corridor while the men move out of my path, and I refuse to glance back.

  4

  “Tell me there’s beer in the house.” The front door slams and I hear Macy’s bag hit the tile floor of the foyer. Tonight is Thursday, when we partake in our weekly slumfest of beer and tasty, gut-busting food.

  “It’s covered,” I announce from our kitchen.

  “You goddess.” Her clogs clip-clop over to the living room table, where she drops a plastic takeout bag. “What did you get?”

  “Dark chocolate stout.” The nose-ring attired beer snob at the liquor store had dispensed quite a bit of advice on the subject, so I feel very accomplished tonight.

  “Atwater or Sexual Chocolate?” she asks.

  “What?” My beer prowess flags.

  “The beer.” She laughs. “I bet it’s the Atwater.”

  “Probably. I’d remember, ‘would you like to try some sexual chocolate?’”

  “I hope so. Although with you—” Macy starts a familiar dig.

  “—and what did you pick up from the deli?” I cut her off.

  “A Sherm and a Schwartzy.”

  “Extra fries and pickles? Please say yes.”

  “Of course.”

  “Yay! I’ll take the express train to hell. Give me the Schwartzy.”

  Macy pulls a takeout container from the bag and the smell of smoked beef brisket makes my stomach growl. I emerge from the kitchen and place the six pack on the table.

  “Let’s eat. I’m starving.” Macy grabs a bottle from the cardboard holder and yanks the cap off with the opener on her keychain. “And I want one of these.”

  It’s her last twelve-hour shift of the week, and my weekend started at seven thirty this morning. After I get a good day’s sleep, I teach taekwondo and kickboxing then get home about the same time as Macy.

  Tonight was my third time teaching classes, and it went well. Very well. In fact, tonight I stopped waiting for the axe to fall over my locker room disaster. Instead, Rodgers said hello, asked how the classes were going, and told me to check in with him as needed.

  “Go ahead. I want to change out of my sweaty gym clothes.”

  My bedroom is the smaller of the two, but I don’t mind. Macy and her husband Paul share the larger one when he’s not deployed overseas. I toss my workout clothes on the daybed that doubles as a sofa, and grab a clean pair of leggings and Chicago Bulls sweatshirt out of my mission style dresser.

  Dad had refinished it for me himself. He was the kind of man who never had time to do anything, because he had some project he needed to finish. But when I’d managed to get a partial academic scholarship to nursing school, he’d made the time.

  This dresser means a lot to me. I run a long, loving finger over the smooth tiger wood finish before joining Macy.

  “I’ve got one for you.” Macy nods to an open bottle on the coffee table.

  “Thanks.” I dump my fries and brisket sandwich onto a plate from the kitchen and head toward my usual spot on the couch.

  We’d met four years ago, one year after a big city ER job brought me to Chicago. The dumpy studio I’d rented made me miserable, the same way Macy felt about Paul’s first deployment overseas. Macy wanted to keep her job and their nearby apartment, so she’d posted an ad for a roommate.

  When we realized that we worked in the same ER but just hadn’t met yet, the rest was history.

  “How did it go tonight?” She’s perched on her favorite chair, roast beef sandwich and fries spilled onto a stoneware plate resting in her lap. Her half empty beer sits by the Betty Boop clock on the end table.

  “Better than I hoped, actually.” I reach for my beer and take a long, curious gulp.

  “Really? Why?”

  “This is pretty good stuff.” I raise the dark bottle to study it.

  “Yes, it is,” she compliments me. “Now answer the question.”

  “Well, at first the boss was kind of pissed that I was a woman. He didn’t want to hire me because of it.”

  “What a load of shit,” Macy replies.

  We’ve been roommates for far longer than either of us planned, and in that time, we’ve become close friends. I can always count on Macy for an unvarnished opinion, just like anyone else in her close circle.

  “Yeah, but he needs someone to teach classes, and he gave me a shot. So far so good.”

  “Still sounds like a real jerk. You should find another gym.”

  “That’s not a good idea right now.” The image of a living Greek statue enters m
y mind, but I force it away. Something tells me he got the guys to keep the whole debacle on the down low. I’m grateful and relieved, but puzzled as well. Why didn’t he just sit back and enjoy the joke with the rest of them?

  “Why the hell not?” Macy asks.

  I hesitate, then take another long, slow gulp of stout. I’m not a beer drinker, but this stuff is pretty tasty. That’s a good thing, because it’s time to share my news with Macy.

  “I was accepted to graduate nursing school for the spring term. Classes start in six weeks.” Another slow gulp of beer flows down my throat while the news sinks in. “And this gym is close to the university.”

  “Congratulations. I guess.” Surprise gives way to a mask of irritation on Macy’s elf-like features. “When you didn’t say anything earlier, I thought you either got cut or changed your mind.”

  I shake my head and there’s a long, awkward pause.

  “What program?” she asks after a short, painful eternity.

  This chocolate stout gets tastier by the minute. “Nurse anesthetist.”

  “Holy shit, Louise.” Macy glares at me. “What the hell’s wrong with you? I thought you were happy in Trauma-ICU?”

  “I am happy there.” I’d transferred almost three years ago to gain the ICU experience required for this program. And because of Tim. “But if I want to go back to school, now’s a good time. No debt. No kids.”

  Macy replies with a loud snort of disgust. “Have you lost your damn mind? I know you did well in undergrad, but that program is brutal.”

  “But for me, that’s part of the appeal,” I explain. “I’m a good trauma nurse who likes managing trauma cases. I’ll be a good anesthetist. There’s nothing crazy about that.”

  “Not at all,” she replies in a sad voice. “Except that it won’t make you happy.”

  Happy? “Macy, happiness requires optimism that I lack at the moment.”

  “Is that the way you’re looking at this?” She leans forward in her chair, ready to argue. “Get over it. You dodged a bullet with Dr. Dumbass.” Her voice is filled with familiar hostility.

  “You were right.” I raise my hands in a defensive gesture. “I wish I’d listened to you.”

  Macy had loathed Tim almost from the start and warned me not to trust him. But I just couldn’t see it. When we crashed and I burned, Macy put up with my melancholy numbness for over a year. In the greater scheme of things, the amount of shit she’s dishing out right now barely registers on the IOU-meter.

  Her voice softens. “It’s been over a year since you two broke up. It’s well past time to get over him and move on.”

  I shake my head and give her a tired smile. “I’m over Tim. I have been for a while.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  I twist a thick strand of hair around my finger until my scalp tingles. “It’s hard to explain. I don’t like being alone. And dating sucks too.” I shrug. “So I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t want to date. Does that make sense?”

  “Um…not really…” she replies.

  I sigh in exasperation. “It’s okay, hon. I really don’t expect you to understand. You and Paul are high school sweethearts who got married out of college.” I twist my hair again. “But it doesn’t work out that way for everyone.”

  “Fair enough.” A tiny ‘w’ appears between her eyebrows. “But how will going to nursing school fix that?”

  “It won’t. That’s not why I’m doing this.”

  “Then why are you doing it? You like trauma-ICU and you don’t have to deal with that asshole at work anymore.”

  “Because I’m resigned. I need to focus on something that doesn’t make me feel like a constant failure.”

  “But is that what you really want? Being married to your job, not being done with school until your thirties?” From the waist up, Macy’s body syncs with the vigorous back and forth motion of her shaking head. “I thought you wanted kids.”

  Ouch. “I do. But I don’t want to be a single mom, or go to a sperm bank and there’s no one on the radar right now.”

  An image of a nearly naked Usalv flashes through my mind, but I force it away. After all, it’s just a primal thing. It must be, because I’ve never seen a guy that looked so good without clothes on.

  “Whew.” Macy folds her arms. “Then I really don’t understand why you’re doing this. You do realize there are nuns who live less cloistered lives than you will be when school starts?”

  “What can I say? We all deal with our shit in different ways. I work myself to the point of exhaustion. If nothing else, it leaves me with a sense of accomplishment.”

  “Let me tell you something.” Her voice quiets, like it does when she discusses something deeply personal. “More work won’t fix your relationship problems. It just makes you too overwhelmed to deal with them. I know, I’ve tried. It just adds tiredness to the loneliness and depression.”

  “When was this?” I ask. Macy’s never told me this before.

  “During Paul’s first deployment.” She pauses and shuts her eyes tightly. “I was on antidepressants for the first six months, but I didn’t like the side effects. So I started taking more shifts, even extra jobs.”

  “I had no idea.” Macy and Paul are both Jefferson Park natives who had met in kindergarten. They’d grown up in the city surrounded by a large circle of family and friends. With her support network, I would never have guessed she’d struggled so much.

  “By the time you moved in, I had my shit together.”

  “What happened?”

  “Paul came home. He was on leave and neither of us liked what I’d become. But while he was here, we ended up spending a lot of time with family and friends that I’d given up with all the extra work.” She gives me a gentle smile. “That’s what really helps. Spending every minute I can with family and friends. Not double shifts. Or second jobs…or school.”

  “Macy… I don’t have those options. My family lives in Indiana. As much as I love them, I’m not going back. My life’s here in Chicago now. I’ve got a great job, great friends, lots of things to keep me busy. But those distractions don’t work anymore. I need a new one.”

  Macy’s response is a sad shake of her head.

  “It’s okay. You and Paul got lucky. This is what life looks like for the rest of us.”

  “Lucky? You call this lucky?” She makes an open-handed gesture toward the apartment that’s empty without Paul.

  “No. This sucks.” I mimic her gesture. “Like life does sometimes. But he’s the guy you want to be with. You both do. And far from being a douche, he’s a great guy.”

  “I know we’ll be fine.” She wipes a tear from her cheek. “It’s you I’m worried about. You are a bright kind woman, worthy of all the love and happiness you crave. Right now. No self-improvement plan required.”

  “I haven’t given up hope.” I smile at her. “Just put it on the shelf for a while.”

  5

  Acid heat courses through my muscles from that last set of bench presses when I overhear two guys five minutes past high school work themselves up into a froth.

  “Check that out,” the guy on the Smith machine tells his spotter.

  “Damn. Wouldn’t mind tapping that.” The spotter leans onto the metal frame and looks toward the main aisle.

  “For sure,” the first guy agrees.

  Ah, the good old days, when the smell of perfume or a glimpse of lacy underwear could get you sprung. I shake off their comments and power through my reps, promising to check this goddess out between sets. But it’s not a 9-1-1 for me. At seven thirty on a Saturday morning, my expectations aren’t high.

  “Fuck,” the spotter complains, “she’s coming this way.”

  Christ. I bang the barbell back on the rack with an annoyed clang. I snatch the white towel from my waistband, wipe the sweat away from face, head, and hands, then scope out the main aisle of the gym just as Sweet Lou struts into my field of vision.

  “Goddamn,” the firs
t voice announces, echoing my own thoughts.

  Looks like the hot mess from the locker room is running just plain hot today.

  That curly caramel hair, no longer weighed down with sweat, rests in a messy bun on top of her head, except for loose wisps that fall from her neck and temples.

  While her face is pretty enough, with a small nose and a sweet mouth and full lips, it’s those round amber-colored eyes that catch my attention. They remind me of an exotic cat, luminous and alert. I find myself hoping like hell they aren’t colored contact lenses.

  “Look at those pins,” the spotter gawks.

  “Fuck. Boobs you can buy, but those…”

  The dick-headed duo has a point. Those cropped pants emphasize every ripple of her toned legs, and that powder blue tank top doesn’t hide her athletic shoulders and lithe arms. Though there’s nothing bold about her clothes—that body aches to be watched.

  “Say something,” the first guy urges his friend.

  For some reason, the thought of these guys giving her shit pisses me off. I stand from the bench with my back to the main aisle and take some weights from the nearby stacks.

  “Careful with her,” I warn them from the stacks by the Smith machine. “You don’t want to mess with that.”

  “Yeah, why’s that, Madman?” the spotter asks.

  I sigh and look over my shoulder as she approaches. Since sophomore year in high school, females have noticed me. Lately though, it’s gotten monotonous, although it’s hard to explain why.

  “Because she’s way out of your league, kid,” I reply.

  He snorts with contempt. “Hey, Madman, sure you’re not just trying to save that all up for yourself?”

  My body shakes with laughter. The pair on this guy…

  Even if I weren’t a pro athlete, which amounts to a special brand of sexual crack for all types of women, these two don’t worry me. Not. At. All. Sure, I’d try and get with Sweet Lou, but my size, strength, and libido come with issues of their own, and not every woman is up for it.

  “Piss her off and she’ll have you constantly doing a ball check.” My teeth clench as I spit out the words. “Because on of top everything else, she really can kick your ass.”