“Wow. This is really nice. It doesn’t look anything like my gym.”
Nico chuckles. “I doubt any of my clientele look anything like the people at your gym either.”
I look at Nico confused and he explains. “It’s a fighter’s gym, Elle. It’s filled with men with tattoos and raging testosterone. I’d hate to see what would happen in here if you walked into this place dressed how you probably look for the gym.” Nico shakes his head and chuckles.
Oh. I’m not sure if I should be offended or take his words as a compliment, so I choose the latter.
After a few more minutes, we walk into a freight elevator and Nico pulls down a metal gate. He inserts a key into the control panel and the elevator slowly ascends. Nico lifts the gate and his hand is back on my lower back, as he steers me out of the elevator and into his loft. It’s enormous, almost as wide as the downstairs.
At least half of the floor is a huge open space. Off to one side is a sleek modern kitchen with stainless steel appliances. There’s an oversized island and gleaming granite countertops that modernize the dark wood cabinetry beneath them. The living area takes up the other half of the floor and has the largest sectional couch that I have ever seen. I bet the couch can hold ten men. I notice it’s strategically positioned in front of a large flat screen TV and I envision a bunch of guys sitting around watching fights. A complete bachelor pad, but a very nice one at that.
My nose catches a scent and I’m surprised. “Chicken Franchese?”
Nico smiles at me as he walks into the kitchen. “Very good.”
“I’m impressed. You can cook?” I never gave it any thought before, but in the years that I have been seeing William, he has never once cooked for me. I’m not even sure if he even can cook.
“Don’t look so surprised. I’m pretty good at it, if I may say so myself.” Nico walks to the oven and checks on dinner.
“Do you cook often?” I’m so curious about this man.
“I have to, it’s part of the sport. You can’t keep in shape and eat crap, so you learn to cook healthy pretty fast if you’re serious about fighting.”
I nod, it makes sense. It’s next to impossible to maintain a good diet when you live off restaurants and takeout. I should know. The only choice is salad, which is how I have been able to keep thin, but a man that looks like Nico needs an intake of way more calories than a salad could supply. “Do you still fight?” I don’t even think before the words come out of my mouth. Maybe he doesn’t like to talk about fighting. I remember the newspaper saying he had retired after what had happened, but he was definitely younger than whatever the normal age is for fighters to retire.
Nico tells me dinner is ready and puts out an entire meal of salad, vegetables and the main dish. I noticed that he didn’t answer my question, and I’m not sure if it was intentional or just the timing.
We sit at the table for a long time after we eat. I tease him about how domestic he is and he teases me about how dependent I am on takeout. He laughs when I tell him I’m on a first name basis with at least five deliverymen. Our conversation flows naturally and time goes by fast. Too fast. Eventually we relocate to the couch and our conversation turns to how he got into MMA. Nico tells me he’s the youngest of four boys and was raised by a single mother who worked two jobs.
“I got my ass kicked a lot. My mom was at work at night and my brothers were into wrestling big time.”
I laugh at the notion that Nico could get his ass kicked. “You? I hate to see what your brothers look like.”
Nico laughs, “I was always big for my age. When I was eight or nine my mother would warn my brothers that some day I was going to be bigger and stronger and get even with them for the years of ganging up on me. I don’t think they expected that day to come when I was only twelve.”
“How old were your brothers when you were twelve?”
“We’re all two years apart so they were fourteen, sixteen and eighteen.”
“You were bigger than the eighteen-year-old at twelve?”
“I don’t know if I was bigger than him back then. But I could fight better. I remember the day that it happened too. Joe, the eighteen-year-old, came home and I was drinking out of his cup.”
“His cup? He had his own cup?”
Nico laughs. “It sounds worse than it is. But yeah, he had a cup and none of us were allowed to drink out of it. I used to take it out when he wasn’t home and pour a big glass of milk and dunk my cookies into it.”
“On purpose?”
“Yeah, on purpose. I liked to use it when he wasn’t home, it gave me a secret satisfaction.” Nico smiles and shakes his head, realizing how silly it sounds to have taken satisfaction from using someone else’s cup. “But one day he came home early and caught me. We went at it like we usually did. We broke the coffee table and the end table wrestling around. Mom used to get pissed when we broke the furniture. But after we rolled around for a while, I pinned his ass to the floor.”
I smile watching Nico tell his story with such fondness in his voice. I’d never heard anyone speak of fighting with such reverence. To me, fighting has always meant hatred and violence and ugly things. But oddly enough, when Nico speaks of his brothers he makes it sounds like it comes from love and beauty.
Nico stands, “How about a glass of wine?”
“Sure, I’d love that.”
Nico brings me a glass of wine, but nothing for himself. “Aren’t you having one?”
“I don’t drink when I’m training.” He sits next to me on the couch, much closer than he had been before. My leg touches his inadvertently when I lean forward to set my drink down and when I look back at Nico he’s looking at our legs where they meet. He notices me watching him and he brings his eyes back to mine. I’m mesmerized as he looks into my eyes and then slowly his eyes drop to my mouth for a long moment. I can tell he’s forcing his gaze back to mine against his will when his beautiful green eyes refocus on mine. His eyes are dilated now and my breath hitches when I see my own desire reflected back at me.
“Oh.” I swallow hard. What were we talking about? Drinking. Drinking while training. “Are you training for a fight?”
Something different passes over his face at my question, and I’m not sure what it is. “Not really.” Nico ponders for a second. “But if you ask Preach, he might say differently.” He chuckles. The mood has changed and I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved.
I lean forward and take another sip of my wine. “Preach?”
“He’s my trainer.”
I wait for more, but nothing comes. “Why would Preach think you’re training for a fight if you aren’t?”
“Because he thinks he knows me better than I know myself.”
“Does he?” Nico is surprised by my question. I watch as he thinks before he responds. I like that he doesn’t just spit out an answer. He seems to consider his words carefully.
“Maybe. I’ve been with him since I was fifteen. He does know me pretty well.”
“He started training you when you were fifteen?”
“No, not at first. When I was fifteen my mom lost her second job, so my uncle got me a job at a gym so I could help out. Preach hired me to clean up and hold the heavy bag while the fighters trained. One afternoon, the regular sparring practice guy didn’t show and I talked Preach into letting me fill in. I was good at blocking shots from my three brothers, so it wasn’t hard for me to catch their shots with the pads. I did that for a little while and then one of their best fighters, who I thought was an arrogant asshole, took a cheap shot at me while we were sparring and it pissed me off, so I hit him back and we went at it. I wound up kicking his ass and the rest is history. Preach started training me after that.”