She was a tiny little thing. Five two, maybe five three, short, ugly brown haircut, really going at this big old bag which probably weighed more than she did. She looked like she might come up to his waist, maybe the middle of his ribcage, but he knew he was exaggerating. Still, she was lightly built and couldn't have been more than ninety pounds soaking wet. The stupid girl could barely move the bag she was whaling away at, seemingly intent on breaking her wrists or maybe all of her knuckles, whichever came first. Judging by the look in her eye, she might have been going for both. When she got frustrated of bruising her hands, she actually threw herself at the bag, latching on with her knees, growling something fierce and butting it with her head. From the back, she looked about twelve. With a sigh, he got to his feet and came over, weaving around sparring partners and young wrestlers trying to break the current crunch record. As he got closer, he noticed she had a very pallid, pale complexion, a bit waxen, with deep purple shadows under her eyes, and every bone threatened to rupture through her skin. She smelled of stale cigarettes and a sweet feminine sweat which didn't accent the air very often around here. The thin gray tee shirt she was wearing bagged horribly on her frame, and there were big damp sweat patches under the arms. Jogging shorts which might have been her boyfriend's boxers were cinched at the waist and covered with mysterious stains.
"You tryin' t' break your fingers 'r somethin'?" He asked, catching her elbow and sounding incredulous. She let go of the bear hug she had on the bag and turned on him, and he saw she came up to his chest, but barely. The girl cocked her chin and glared at him, breathing ferociously, hyperventilating almost, her face blotchily red and her pixie frame soaked with sweat. She seemed quite prepared to start whaling away on him next, and he almost had to resist the urge to laugh.
"No, why, you gotta problem with me comin' down here?" She challenged, shifting her weight from side to side as if she were either trying to get around him or looking where best to land a punch. "I come down here all the time, whatsa matter, you gotta problem?"
"No, no problem," He said gruffly, taking a step backwards almost unconsciously. Was this chick for real? "'Cept you don't come down here all the time."
"Yeah, yeah, I do!" The girl insisted, shaking her badly taped hands. He could see that there was dark swelling and bruises starting to form – the taping on her hands was truly terrible, and she had been going at the bag for a long time.
"No, you don't," Tommy growled, his deep voice rumbling, a sharp note of amusement whetting his tone. "'Cos I'm down here, this is where I work out, an' you don't come down here."
"So?" She demanded. "Lemme alone, I gotta train!" She turned from him abruptly, cocking her fists to start smashing herself senseless against the bag again. This time he grabbed the bag and held it in his strong grip.
"Hey, hey, easy," He ordered. "You ever go at a bag before? Huh?"
She shot him a dark glare, then dropped her gaze.
"Didn't think so. Lookit these hands, you gonna really hurt yourself, kid." He told her firmly.
"I ain't no kid," She snapped, dark gaze meeting his again. She had funny eyes – flickering, alert, anxious, never staying in one place for long. "I'm twenty two! An' hey, if I wanna train bare handed I'll train that way, you got me?"
"You got no trainer," He pointed out, trying to bite back a laugh. "You ain't trainin'. C'mon, let's get some proper tape 'n those hands."
She followed him reluctantly over to the benches, where he unceremoniously turreted out a young boxer and sat her down. Dropping to his knees on the concrete floor, he waited until she held out her hands, barely covered with tape and already unraveling. Twisting his lips to one side, he held her thin wrist still – it was shaking erratically – and began carefully unwrapping it. She hissed in pain, reflexively pulling away from him, but his grip was as powerful as he looked. When both hands were displayed to the artificial glow of the industrial lights above them, the muscular wrestler whistled. "See, you don't tape right, you get hands that look like this," He showed her, outlining the blue-and-green bruises around her knuckles, purple shading down to her wrist. "See? Gotta get ice on those quick, they'll hurt like a sonofabitch later."
"Who cares?" The girl said sullenly.
"You will, in five minutes, I guarantee it."
She said nothing for a moment, then pulled her hands away. He was a big man – wide, powerful shoulders melting into a thick neck, massive torso blending into stocky legs and creating a strong frame. He seemed to be a mountain of sheer, raw muscle, tattoos decorating his skin, the ink shining dully under the glare of the lights. He was a real boxer, she could tell, the kind which carried themselves with a tough street swagger. He worked here, she could tell – the other trainers asked him questions, respected him, didn't give him any lip service. She had only been in this place once or twice, but she always saw him at the front desk. "Hey, do you fight?" She asked, brightening.
"Yeah. Yeah, I fight," He shrugged his wide shoulders.
""S your name?" She asked, turning her head to one side.
"Tommy. You?"
"Kelly. Can you teach me?"
He laughed then, a bark of a laugh which belonged to a wolf. "Teach you to what, fight?"
"Yeah! How 'bout it?" She asked eagerly, sitting up.
"You high, or somethin'? 'Cos these hands ain't gonna get you nowhere. An' I don't teach nothin'." Tommy said. "C'mon, I'll get you some ice for those hands."
She followed him, still talking, her sweat-soaked body shivering as the air conditioning kicked on. "Please? I gotta know how to defend myself. I got mugged yesterday, my ma was killed in a muggin'. I gotta learn stuff like this, you know? It's hard, you know, livin' in Philly, comin' home late every night, I gotta learn how to kick ass, right?"
He said nothing, just began securing bags of ice on her swollen hands. Her eyes were brown, lively orbs which were probably the best part of her face, but she looked so unhealthy that it was hard to tell. That ugly pageboy haircut wasn't doing anything for her, and she looked like a junkie. Or maybe she was just nervous. Or crazy. "So you though comin' down here and beatin' the shit outta your hands would help you kick ass?" He asked her, raising his brow.
She ducked her head a little, blushing a bit, but there was a smile on her face despite her panting and her sweat. "Kinda. I'ma track runner, see, so's I figured runnin' ain't gonna help none when I'm about to get raped, you know what I'm sayin'? So I thought I'd come down here, meet Sylvester Stallone, y'know."
He looked at her tiny frame, her thin wrists, big eyes in her small face, and shook his head. "You ever get mugged, you run like hell," He said roughly. "You could have a fuckin' Pro Wrestlin' belt and you'd get murdered. You got me? Okay?" He said, and tapped her ice bags for emphasis.
Her shoulders sagged a little. "Okay." She sighed.
That wasn't the end of it, though. It never was.
A/N: Just watched Warrior yesterday and I HAVE to pair someone with Tommy! AHHHHH! Please review, please, I'm on my knees. :)