Page 201 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
Concentrate on the pain.
He slowed his breathing, glaring at his shoelaces when Libby touched his arm.
“Raz, let me see your face.”
“I’m fine, plum.”
“Let me take a look. We need to know if we should bring you to a hospital.”
“What do you think I do for a living? Ride around on donkeys and meet the day with a sunrise yoga flow? I’m a fighter. What happened was nothing.”
Lies, lies, lies.
If it was nothing, he wouldn’t be a breath away from shaking like a leaf. He needed his mask, needed to become the beefcake to allow arrogance to disguise his anxiety.
But there was more.
He’d broken the first rule of boxing.
Don’t let your opponent get under your skin.
He lifted his chin, forgoing staring at the laces on his trainers. “I don’t need to go to the hospital, plum.”
Libby met his gaze, worry written on her face as she assessed his eye. “Raz, are you sure? It’s already got a blueish tinge to it.”
She was trying to help. Of course, she was. She loved him. And he loved her. He wanted to let her in, but it was too dark inside his heart, too raw, too exposed. His only defense was to put up his guard.
“That’s what happens to boxers. I’m going to get hit and bloodied up, and if you can’t take it…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I’m on your side, Raz. I’m only concerned.”
She was. He could see the tenderness in her expression. But isn’t that what got him here? Thinking she was the answer.
“I have to do everything in my power to beat Silas Scott.”
“I understand.”
“Do you, Libby?” he barked.
“Champ?” Briggs called from the front.
“Yeah?” he said, grateful for his agent’s interruption.
“We’re here. I thought you might want a minute to get yourself together.”
He stared out the window as a steady stream of rain pummeled the ground, the angry drops assaulting the roof of the SUV as Briggs turned onto the drive leading to the Victorian. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed.
He ran his hands through his hair and blew out an audible breath. Agitation prickled beneath his skin, begging him to move, to sweat, to pound the heavy bag until his knuckles bled and he couldn’t raise his hands.
“I’m good, Briggs.”
His agent nodded with a dubious bend to his placating smile.
What he wanted was to stop feeling, to stop fighting the battles in his head. He had to focus on doing whatever he had to do to leave Silas Scott a bloody pulp, lying on the ground, pleading for the round to end. What he needed was that gleaming, glittery belt around his waist and the ref raising his hand into the air in victory.
“How about I get a bag of frozen peas and you can ice your eye before we head back to the barn?”
“No, please, plum. Let’s get this over w—” He stopped himself. “Let’s go,” he said, amending his words. He could feel Libby’s eyes on him, but he had to talk to Aug. The fight was in five days. Every minute not training was a minute lost. That was the ugly truth.
