A/N: An oddly (for me) G-rated chapter...
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"Come on! We're gonna miss Sal's fight."
Kovacs' only response was to resettle the icepack on her nose.
Nikki drummed her fists on her knees in frustration. "Red, let's go!" she cried nasally. "I'm gonna look like a raccoon in the morning anyway. Leave it!"
He sighed. "There are two more bouts before Salvatore fights." Nevertheless, he removed the icepack, wiped the condensation of her face with a towel, and affixed a piece of trainer's tape over the bridge of her nose.
She rewarded him with a blinding grin.
"You're lucky that it is not broken," Kovacs muttered awkwardly.
"Hey." Nikki took his hand, her eyes growing earnest. "Red, I wanna-"
"Way to go, slugger!" Lester Lincoln called, appearing beside them with a lanky, balding white guy.
Kovacs thought he saw a look of annoyance pass over Nikki's face before she stood to greet the heavyweight, who kissed her cheek.
"For luck!" he explained, grinning.
"You don't need it," Nikki assured him. She released her grip on Kovacs' hand.
"Nikki!" The white guy put out his hand. "Johnny Lassiter. That was a great fight!"
Nikki shook hands. "Thanks, Mr. Lassiter. I appreciate it."
Lassiter smiled. A crystal dangled from a cord around his neck.
Oh, god, he's one of those channeling-energy-through-quartz-pyramids people, she thought.
"'Johnny', please," the promoter insisted. He ran a hand through his too-long brown hair. His eyes flickered toward Kovacs. Nikki got the distinct impression that the redhead made Lassiter nervous somehow.
"This is Walter Kovacs, Johnny. He's been training me for this fight."
The white men shook hands. Kovacs, as usual, registered no emotion.
"Well, Nikki, I'm sure you know why I asked Lester here to introduce us! I've got to set up a few fighters for a card up in Boston this summer, and I'd love to be able to bring you to the table for the women's one-oh-five." Lassiter's green eyes twinkled.
Nikki blushed. "Wow. That's..." She looked at Kovacs, but his face indicated nothing. "That's quite an opportunity."
Lassiter reached into his inside coat pocket to retrieve a business card. He held it out between two fingers. "Look, Nikki, I know you're celebrating and everything here, so I don't wanna waste your time now. But just think about it. Call anytime."
She took the card. "Thanks! I'll get back to you."
The promoter glanced at Kovacs again. "Well, it was great to meet you, Nikki. Can't wait to hear from you!'
Nikki smiled. "You bet!"
Lester chucked her on the arm as he and Lassiter turned away. Then the heavyweight leaned into Kovacs' ear to mutter something.
"What did he say to you?" Nikki demanded when Lester and Johnny were well away.
Kovacs raised his eyebrows and bent to collect their items. He tucked towels, wraps, water bottles, and an assortment of other boxing detritus into a rucksack, then slung it over his shoulder. Nikki glared at him the entire time. At last he started walking toward the hallway that led to the ballroom. She scampered to catch up.
The redhead sighed as if what he was about to say contradicted his better judgment. "Lincoln said that, if you did not want to box, you could always work as the ring girl."
Nikki stopped dead. Her gaze shot across the room to where Lincoln was warming up. Lester paused in his routine and winked at her very deliberately. Grinning, he returned his attention to his coach.
"Oh, Christ," Nikki muttered.
A wry smile played around Kovacs' eyes. "Do you want to break his arm, or shall I?"
"No, Red, you don't understand!" she said urgently, stepping closer to him. "Look, you don't know Lester, but...I have a feeling that he's going to be gunning for me tonight at the after-party."
"'Gunning' for you?"
"Well, he's totally superstitious, so that means at least six weeks...you know..." She raised her eyebrows suggestively.
Kovacs blinked.
"-and I think he wants me to be the lucky girl, so-called. What? Why are you looking at me like that? Red, please: I need your help. Do you think that you and I could pretend..."
He eyed her warily. "What?"
"Y'know," she said shyly, leaning in. "That we're..."
Pale brown eyes swiveled toward the heavyweight on the other side of the room.
"Come on, Red: just help me set up the illusion," Nikki begged.
"I will not lie," Kovacs insisted.
"You don't have to. We're just going to let him, y'know, believe what he sees."
He looked back at Nikki. "And what is he going to see, exactly?"
"There she is! Nikki!"
Sandra Washington traipsed down the hallway, waving her arms at her daughter. Nikki's father, beaming, lumbered along in the rear.
Kovacs hiked the rucksack farther up onto his shoulder. "Veronica, why don't I meet you inside?" He began to head for the ballroom.
Nikki grabbed his sleeve and tugged him back. "You can't just walk past them!" she hissed, giggling. She turned a welcoming smile on Sandra, whose eagle eyes did not fail to notice the small hand clutching Kovacs' arm. Nikki quickly released him and hugged her mother. Up close, the redhead realized that the Washingtons were not much older than he.
No more years between me and Marcus, he reckoned, than between Nikki and me.
"Congratulations, sweetheart!" Sandra crowed, squeezing her daughter tight. Then she pushed her out at arm's length. "Let me look at your nose. It's not broken, is it?"
"No, Mom! It's not broken. Angel and Kovacs checked it."
"Where is Angel?" Sandra asked, pointedly looking down the hallway toward the fighters' holding room. Kovacs tried to see traces of Nikki in her mother. The mouth...the shape of the face...
Marcus rolled his eyes and embraced Nikki. "Great fight, baby!" he said quietly. "That third round! Damn!" Over his daughter's shoulder, Marcus met Kovacs' gaze.
Definitely her father's eyes, the redhead concluded.
"Walter Kovacs, sir," the redhead said politely, offering his hand.
"Marcus Washington. My wife, Sandra."
Nikki's mother greeted Kovacs, curiosity written plainly on her face. "It's so nice to finally meet you," Sandra gushed. "At our house everything is 'Red this' and 'Kovacs that'. You'd think-"
"Mom, why don't we go sit down?" Nikki interrupted, taking her mother's arm. "I don't wanna miss Sal's fight." Trying not to blush, she steered Sandra back toward the ballroom.
Marcus gave the southpaw an appraising stare, then snorted amiably. "Come on, son," he said, cocking his head after the women.