Page 6 of Craving the Edge

He wouldn’t be here anyway. Six in the morning was an ungodly hour for a bloke whose primary occupation was avoiding managing the business he owned.

I retreated behind the front desk and looked at the open schedule. The morning slots, usually packed with personal training sessions and the early-bird boxing class, were scored through with a thick black line. In the empty space, two words sat in my neat, blocky script: DECLAN WALSH. I’d erased the ‘dickhead’ I’d put in there on Friday, but I was tempted to put it back in.

Let him bring his fame and his entourage. In here, on my turf, he was just another client. They’d come in for their six hours of training in the back, I’d manage the desk, and the only time I’d have to look at them was when they were arriving and leaving.

Unless he wanted something. I curled my nose. He had better not want something.

A current of air shifted at my shoulder, carrying the scent of expensive perfume. I didn’t need to look. Only one person could make six in the morning seem effortless.

“Just thought I’d get here early,” Billie said, far too brightly. “Give you a hand.”

I looked up as she leaned against the desk, a picture of athletic grace. Her honey-blonde ponytail was pulled so tight it looked painful, and not a single strand was out of place.

I saw through her ruse immediately. She was here to watch the big-shot fighter descend upon our humble little gym. I should’ve been annoyed and sent her packing, but I didn’t. Billie knew when to talk and, more importantly, when to shut her mouth. She wouldn’t gawk or ask for a photo. Her curiosity was purely for the spectacle, and she had the good sense to be professional about it.

She met my gaze, a flicker of mischief in her eyes, before turning her attention to the door. “Do you wanna take a bet on how many lackeys he brings along? Oh, what car do you think he gets driven around in?”

“No,” I drawled. “I don’t care as long as he pays.”

“Aw, you’re no fun, Char. Lighten up a little.”

I screwed up my face and rolled my eyes. “It’s far too early to be so cheerful, Billie. I don’t know how you do it. It’s infuriating how perky you are.”

She laughed, but straightened up as she saw movement outside. “Liven up, Judge. The show’s about to start.”

The heavy glass door swung open, dragging the grey Melbourne morning inside with a gust of cold air that buffeted around the desk. The men who filled the doorway were a wall of muscle and brand name sportswear. How predictable.

I kept my expression blank. My job was to check people in, not massage their egos. I’d dealt with enough cocky amateurs to know that the best way to handle guys like this was to give them absolutely nothing. No smile, no recognition…nothing.

Declan Walsh was first through the door.

I knew his stats. I’d seen him enough on the TV in the corner that I’d involuntarily picked up on his height, weight, and reach. Wins and losses. KOs. Injuries.

The picture on the screen was inaccurate. He was tall, but he took up space in a way that had nothing to do with his build. His nose had been broken at some point, dark stubble on his jaw. Green eyes that were genuinely inconvenient, settled on me. My face did nothing. Professionally. The rest of me took a moment to catch up.

Close behind was a man I recognised as Tomas Fontes, a fighter from the undercards of Walsh’s pay-per-view events. His neck was covered in ink that disappeared into the collar of his hoodie. A welterweight and a lightweight, my brain supplied automatically.

They were trailed by two men who looked like stock standard support staff, and a third dressed in a dark suit. Suit man’s gaze darted around the gym, frowning as he took in the worn equipment and faded posters. He was obviously Walsh’s manager.

They stopped a metre from the desk. I didn’t wait for them to start talking and took control.

“I’m Charlotte Judge. I run the front desk.”

Suit Man stepped forward, his gaze looking me over. “Rhys Galloway. I’m Declan’s manager.” He gave a nod toward the others. “This is Tomas Fontes, his primary training partner. And his trainer and physio.”

He gestured to each man, but they didn’t seem to be worth enough to him to give me their names. He didn’t even bother with Declan.

I shifted my gaze to him. He met it without flinching, those inconvenient green eyes giving away nothing. He offered a slight lift of one shoulder, a motion so small I almost missed it.

Right. I suppose when the guy was on every screen in the country, he assumed his name went without saying.

A curt nod was all I gave him in return. I reached under the counter, finding the laminated paper I’d printed that morning. I handed it to the manager, Galloway.

“This is the access schedule for your private sessions,” I said. “A couple of house rules while you’re here.”

Rhys picked up the sheet, his focus already on the printout.

I kept talking. “First, no media. No photographers, no interviews, no social media check-ins. No exceptions. This is a private gym, not a press junket.”