Free Against the Ropes by Jeanette Murray Page A

loose, then we’ll see.”
    â€œThat’s insulting,” she said with a huff, staring straight ahead. She couldn’t even get into lip-syncing along with the radio. But curiosity had her asking, “And how do you know I even have a wild streak?”
    â€œShoes,” he answered quickly, without hesitation. “And partly because of your endearingly horrible lip-syncing on the way down . . . but mostly the shoes.”
    â€œWhy does everyone comment on my shoes?”
    â€œBecause they make a statement. And you know that, or you wouldn’t pick them. You’d wear some flats or plain ones with just a tiny heel. Or you know, some white running shoes with those scrunchy, puffy socks that come halfway up your calves.”
    â€œUh, the eighties called. They want their working woman stereotype back.”
    He just snorted.
    â€œAnd you never answered an interview question.”
    â€œThat’s because all these interview questions are boring.” He reached into his pants pocket—which took a little maneuvering—and tossed the notebook on her lap. “Who cares where I’m from or why I’m in the Marines or why I joined the boxing team? They should care about my stats or how I box or what I do when I’m down and have to rally for a come-from-behind victory. What matters is on the mat.”
    â€œYou want to get to know my wild side, away from my work persona. Why is it so weird to think others might want to know you beyond the ring?”
    â€œBecause nobody cares.”
    She watched him—difficult as it was—in the darkness for a bit, and realized he wasn’t being facetious or difficult for the sake of being annoying. He honestly believed it didn’t matter.
    â€œI care,” she said softly.
    â€œTo peddle some human interest story?”
    That stung, but it wasn’t completely unwarranted. “I care because I like you. And this dinner—”
    â€œDate.”
    â€œThis dinner—”
    â€œDate,” he said more firmly. “Can you just call it what it is?”
    â€œI’m sorry, I don’t recall you asking me on a date. I remember being bamboozled into coming out in order to get my job done.”
    â€œWell, I did. You must have slept through it.” He reached over and squeezed her knee. “Damn shame. It was a good story. One for the grandkids, I’m sure.”
    â€œUh-huh.” She took a chance and put her hand over his. When his fingers curled up and caught hers, she smiled. He couldn’t see, so it wouldn’t hurt anything. “You still have to answer one of the questions.”
    â€œMy prematch routine,” he said, in a monotone voice like a seventh grader reading a report off of cue cards as he answered one of her questions, “includes lots of protein that morning, a light workout to stretch and establish muscle memory and some mental moves before I step into the ring.”
    She waited a beat. “Wow. That was inspirational.”
    â€œYou want inspiration, you pay a thousand bucks and go to a business conference. You said one question, I answered one question.”
    And he picked the single most impersonal one to give, too.
    â€œFine.” She settled back in her seat and prepared for the rest of the drive home.
    â€œFine . . . what?”
    The barest hint of trepidation colored his question. She bit her cheek to keep the smile from her voice. “Fine, that’s all. You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you can handle yourself tomorrow at the interview.”
    He seemed to take this news with slightly less happiness than she thought. “You’re giving up? I thought we talked about that this afternoon.”
    â€œNot giving up. No, just looking for a new angle.” She grazed her thumb over the back of his hand. His fingers tightened on hers in response. “What will it take to get you to let me coach