The Only Way is Up

Part Twenty Two

"Modelling?" He nodded, so she asked, "what type?"

"The usual type."

Her mind was bubbling over, what did that mean? When he said nothing else she reached for her phone and typed his name into the search engine. But what appeared on her screen wasn't a set of modelling photos. It was a selection of images of Maxim, naked except for low slung black shorts in various stages of fighting. It wasn't boxing as the gloves were different and in some he was virtually wrestling.

Her eyes went back to the first image, Maxim's cut body, every muscle on display, his face a mask of aggression, his lips in a snarl, his hands raised to attack. Despite the violence, the hostility, he was beautiful, more than beautiful. He was spectacular. Every woman's fantasy. Which only made her feel even more inadequate. She swallowed awkwardly, she'd never seen him in less than a sleeveless t-shirt, but even then she'd been able to tell he was a delight to the eye. But he was so much more than a sleek chest, he had firm thighs, flat stomach, and those familiar haunting, all seeing eyes. She'd never wanted to collapse in a heap of hormones and desire at a picture before, but looking at these, she knew it was a real option.

"These aren't modelling shots..." she finally managed to look up and speak, he was studying her, gauging her reaction. He knew that she'd get these images and not the ones she was expecting; he was trying to read her reaction to them.

He gave a slow nod, "I went to the US to fight, mixed martial arts, that was part of the scholarship."

She knew she was staring, but then it was almost a relief to drop her eyes back down to the screen and scroll for more. He was good, he wasn't being hit in any of these pictures, he had the upper hand. Suddenly it all made sense, the obsession with training, the diet, the fitness.

"Do you still fight?" her voice was surprisingly hoarse.

As soon as she said those words, his face dropped and he shook his head, "I was walking home from the gym one night and got hit by a drunk driver a year ago. Blew my knee. I'll never fight again."

She digested that for a moment, losing your dream, she knew about that. She could feel the pain emanating off him, and coupled with the look of devastation that crossed his face she knew the effect it had on him, "you hate that."

It wasn't a question, she knew.

He shrugged, "I feel as though my world was tugged away from under me. I lost everything that day, my future, my career, my passion..." He sighed, "I'm not in London by choice, this wasn't part of my plan. But I am trying to change things."

"Mike?"

He gave a dry laugh, "yes. I'm here hoping that Mike is going to help me out. I'm investing; working with him, the gym...it's a hobby now."

"But you run...you train...can't you get back to it?"

Nodding he paced across the pavement to the railing and stood looking out to sea, she had to get close to hear his response, "have you ever watched UFC?" When she shook her head he laughed, "an injury is not just a weakness, it's a way to defeat. My leg would be targeted, I'd lose every fight. But I was good, REALLY fucking good."

He dropped his head, and Nicole wondered if he was crying. From behind she wrapped her arms around him, her cheek resting against a shoulder blade, "that must be hell."

She could feel him nod, but he said nothing but after a moment his hands came to rest over hers at his waist, and they stood there like that for a long while. Eventually, Maxim turned pulling her into his chest, chin on her head, and they stood for an equally long time like that, breathing each other in.