Hail Mary Read online

  Hail Mary

  Nicola Rendell

  Contents

  Also by Nicola Rendell

  Glossary

  1. Jimmy

  2. Mary

  3. Jimmy

  4. Mary

  5. Jimmy

  6. Mary

  7. Jimmy

  8. Mary

  9. Jimmy

  10. Mary

  11. Jimmy

  12. Mary

  13. Mary

  14. Jimmy

  15. Mary

  16. Jimmy

  17. Mary

  18. Jimmy

  19. Mary

  20. Jimmy

  21. Mary

  22. Jimmy

  23. Mary

  24. Jimmy

  25. Mary

  26. Jimmy

  27. Mary

  28. Mary

  29. Jimmy

  30. Mary

  31. Jimmy

  32. Mary

  33. Jimmy

  34. Mary

  35. Jimmy

  36. Mary

  37. Jimmy

  38. Mary

  39. Jimmy

  40. Mary

  41. Jimmy

  42. Jimmy

  43. Mary

  44. Jimmy

  45. Mary

  46. Jimmy

  47. Mary

  48. Jimmy

  49. Mary

  50. Jimmy

  51. Mary

  52. Jimmy

  53. Mary

  54. Jimmy

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  © 2016 by Nicola Rendell

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photo: Lindee Robinson Photography

  Cover model: Matthew Engelke

  Cover Design: Najla Qamber Designs

  Editors: Aquila Editing; Duckman Proofreading; Librum Artis Editorial Services

  Publicity: Ardent Prose PR

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written consent of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, brands, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  www.nicolarendell.com

  Also by Nicola Rendell

  Professed

  Confessed

  All titles are standalone romantic comedies.

  For C.

  “Stop insisting on clearing your head. Clear your fucking heart instead.”

  – Charles Bukowksi

  Glossary

  Hail Mar· y

  noun

  1. Football. A very long pass made in a desperate attempt to score late in the game.

  2. Any attempt with a small chance of success.

  Origin: 15th century. Translation of the Medieval Latin “Ave Maria.”

  1

  Jimmy

  She’s got a hell of a left hook, and her jab is no joke either. It’s hard to tell what she really looks like, with the big, blue rubber mouthguard between her teeth, and the black padded headgear covering her jaw and cheeks. But I know this: I want to get my hands on that body. Her tight pink tee is low cut and skin tight, and across her breasts are the words: “NOBODY’S PUSSYCAT.”

  A cold draft blows in from the window, making goose bumps ripple up her arms. A thin stream of sweat runs down into her cleavage, and then I watch her nipples tighten. Christ. With little bounces, she heads back to her corner and bends over for her water bottle. Stretchy black leggings and no panty line.

  Fuuuuuck.

  The buzzer dings and we square up. She holds her gloves up to her face, ready to go. They’re bubblegum pink with white cuffs; the girliest weapons I’ve ever seen.

  But never mind the gloves. It’s those eyes that have me. Shit, those eyes—a crazy, deep green. Packers’ green. Jets’ green. Green like cash. Green that could make a guy go right out of his mind.

  Pow goes a jab into my stomach and I double over, tasting my Gatorade from an hour ago. Before I can breathe, before I can even get up my gloves to slow her down, she pelts me hard with a cross to my sternum that knocks the wind straight out of me. I gasp for air and stagger back into the ropes.

  “Jesus Christ,” I moan. “Who are you?”

  Her eyes light up in this smile, this beautiful fucking smile that I feel way down inside. Then she bounces on her toes and smacks her gloves together out in front of her. Whap, whap. “I’m Mary!” she says around her mouthguard. “And you’re slow!”

  Cute. But, yeah…no. Nobody talks to me like that. Nobody. I hurl myself off the ropes, colliding with her in the center of the ring, skin against skin now. I press into her sexy shoulder with my bicep, feeling the sweat between us. She nails me in the gut again; a solid, low-slung straight punch, and I think, I can’t hit a girl, can I?

  No. Fuck, no.

  So I stretch my arm between us, the padding of my glove holding her steady right below her collarbone. She swings for me, but I’m a foot taller, and she doesn’t stand a chance. “Jerk!”

  Obviously.

  But on the upside, now I can really get a good look at her the way I want to: close up, but not so close that she’s pummeling me. Her legs are solid, and I can even see that little curve of her hipbones, barely showing through her leggings. I let my eyes follow the line of sweat to her inner thighs, to that wet, hot place where everything comes together. Fuck. I want my hands on that place. I want to feel the softness and the strength. I want to know the taste of that sweat, the way that softness gives under my tongue.

  Ding goes the buzzer. I push her away, padded knuckles to her shoulder. She spins and gets into her corner, so I do the same.

  I grab my water bottle and squirt it into my mouth, watching her all the time. She’s fucking beautiful, this one. Fucking gorgeous. The woman of dreams. Of fantasies.

  From a pink Nalgene, she takes one big gulp, then two, and a little water dribbles down her lips, rolling in drops down her throat. Her eyes stay right on mine. Her chest heaves. Her eyes flash. Her lips tighten. And that’s when it happens. She peels off her T-shirt and tosses it to the floor, so that the only word showing is PUSSY.

  Ding.

  Her body is fucking perfect. I mean perfect. I moan into my mouthguard and look her up and down. Lean, but not thin. Sexy and strong, a fighter’s body. A woman’s body. A body strong enough to take everything I want to give it, and then some.

  She turns to set down her water bottle, bending at the waist, and that’s when I see it. The tattoo. It’s a ribbon of black lace that runs in a beautiful, feminine line down her back from right shoulder to left hip, curving down into her pants. Tough as hell, pretty as can be, and with the sexiest tattoo I've ever seen in my life.

  Stick a motherfucking fork in me. I’m done.

  “Nice ink,” I tell her as we square up again.

  “Thanks,” she says, leaning into my shoulder.

  “I’ve never seen one like it.” I hook my arm around her again and pull her in. I smell something familiar. I can’t place it. She slips free and moves behind me. For one second, all I can hear is her shoes on the mats.

  “I rebelled when I turned 30. It was either this or a tramp stamp.”

  “Of what?” I pivo
t so my face is close against hers.

  “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” She smiles tight around the mouthguard. Her glove comes through the air, cutting through the noise of the gym. Whooosh.

  I get my right hand up just in time to block her from hitting my jaw. The impact rolls down my forearm like my bones are Jell-O.

  She lets another jab fly but misses me—barely—and I slip around behind her. The hair at the nape of her neck is curly and wet, and a long dark braid runs down her back. That strip of wet fabric at the top of her pants, dark with sweat. “Why are we fighting?” I growl as I get closer. “Why aren’t we out drinking? Making trouble? Fucking around? Let me take you out.”

  She spins to face me, her eyes wide open, surprised. “You wanna drink with me?”

  “Hell yes, I do. And a lot of other things.”

  “You want me? Fight me.” She fires her bubblegum pink cannons at my stomach with a one-two combination that makes me feel like I’m nothing but a 283-pound heavy bag.

  I try to get in a left cross, but she’s way faster than I am, and comes up from under with a hook straight out of Manila.

  That one got me in my brainpan, in my marrow. “Fuck that,” I snarl.

  “Atta boy!”

  No way. Nobody atta boys me. I’m Jimmy Goddamned Falconi. I’m nobody’s boy.

  “Atta girl.” I nudge her in the shoulder with my chest.

  Around her guard, she says, “You fight like you’re in molasses. But you’re strong. You some kind of athlete?”

  At first, I’m about to laugh. For about one second, I think I might be on Candid Camera or something. I mean, I can’t walk to the bathroom on an airplane without someone asking me to sign a cocktail napkin. I can’t get through Costco without someone asking me to sign their shopping list. Some kind of athlete?

  I’m Jimmy “The Falcon” Falconi. Quarterback for the Chicago Goddamned Bears. I’m somebody.

  But there’s zero recognition in her eyes. No flicker of the fangirl. No sign she’s playing it cool, either. To her, I’m just a guy getting his ass kicked by a girl in pink gloves.

  “Hello?” She presses into my chin with a slow uppercut from the right.

  I snap out of it. I don’t even know how to answer her. I play quarterback for the Bears. Ever heard of them? Or maybe, Ever heard of football? America’s Game? Fuck. I wouldn’t even know how to start. I’ve never had to explain it. People just know. “Yeah, I like to work out.”

  “Then act like it,” she says, all piss and vinegar, and puts her guard back in her mouth. Wham comes that jab into my gut. Pow goes the straight to my pecs. I loop one arm around her and pull her body in close, hooking the back of her neck with the crook of my elbow. I pull her closer, tighter, both arms around her, to get a feel for her…but also to give myself a goddamned break.

  She struggles a little, trying to squirm free, but I see the smile on her face, the crinkle of the skin at her eyes.

  I pull her head closer to mine. I must be twice her weight; no way is she going to get free now. We are the welterweight and the super heavyweight. Wrong class, totally. But then she wedges her forehead in against my chest. I watch her wind up, her biceps flexing, and, boom-boom-boom.

  Every time she connects, I lose a little more air and groan, “Fuck-fuck-fuck!”

  “Atta boy!”

  Fuck. That.

  So I keep her pinned, and she starts fighting harder, which makes me want to hang on to her more. I press my nose against her head. In her thick brown hair, I can smell her shampoo, her conditioner. Coconut.

  While I’m distracted by that smell, thinking of sunscreen and ukulele music and drinks with umbrellas and her on a beach, she slips out from under my arms and pops up in my face.

  Well, shit.

  “What, you chicken? Gonna hit me back? Or do you want to dance around for an hour or two? Because I can totally do that. I just have to go home to feed the dog.” Whap-whap go her padded fists.

  Oh no, no way. No way am I going to let a pretty little thing talk to me like that. I sniff hard and man up.

  I give her a jab. A hook. A cross.

  And she blocks me every damned time. Blocks me like she’s fought me before, or like she’s known all along what I’ll do when it comes down to it.

  Fucking wax-on-wax-off, one-two-three.

  Pow-pow go her gloves into my side, and fuck, I think I feel those in my spleen. Enough. Enough. Anger boils up through me like cheap vodka after a long night.

  I’m Jimmy Falconi. And I’m gonna make this girl know my name.

  I crack my neck side to side and get serious. I suck air through the holes in my mouthguard and get my fists up. I edge her into the corner and those eyes flash at me. She’s sweating hard, and her mascara is smudged. Her hair is mussed and her skin is slick. It makes her look dangerous. Angry. I’d like to smudge that mascara a little more. In bed. Immediately.

  But first, I’m going to show her who’s boss.

  The more she works herself up, the hotter she gets. That’s when something catches my eye. There’s something written on the white cuffs of her gloves. All fuzzy, written in black marker:

  On the right glove: HERE COMES…

  On the left:…TROUBLE!

  Whomp.

  She nails me in the jaw with a haymaker, and my molars shake. “Come the fuck on,” I growl back at her, with my glove pressed to the side of my face.

  She smacks her gloves together, and lowers her chin. “Are we sparring or chatting? Hit me!” Bounce, bounce, bounce. Butterfly, bee. Whap, whap, whap. “I’m not going to break!”

  I work my jaw open and closed a few times, thinking, Okay. Fine. Fine. I didn’t think it was going to go like this, but I can roll with a hostile defense, sure. Wouldn’t be the first time. I give her the old elevator stare—up, down, up again—and get stuck on her bellybutton for a little too long. But then I get a game plan together. I figure I can hit her in the stomach. Not too hard, not hard enough to hurt her, but hard enough to let her know who’s in charge here.

  Which would be me. Me, pussycat. Me.

  Nudging the edge of her shoulder with my glove, I drive her backward. Our eyes lock and I get this…this…prickle all through me.

  This woman.

  This one right here.

  I want her so fucking bad.

  The fucking gym with its ten phones playing mariachi goes silent. The guys by the cooler egging her on go silent. It’s just her, and me, and the sweat dripping between us. Soft skin, sparkling eyes. She smells like a summer day, and she’s looking at me in a way that no woman has ever looked at me. Ever.

  Like she’s gonna own me and she knows it.

  Which is bullshit.

  She gives me a little lift of her chin and tightens her lips around the guard. She wipes her nose with her glove, and then lowers her head. “Come on! You going to fight, or are you just going to screw around?”

  With my left hand, I jab her softly in the stomach. With the right, a play-hook to the jaw. I raise her chin on my glove so her eyes come up to mine. Then I pull her close, my arm around the back of her neck again. “You wanna screw around?” I say into her ear.

  Bam, she gives me another hit to the stomach. “I haven’t even gotten started,” she answers.

  Fuck it.

  She wants to play? Fucking fine. I'll play. I'll play hard. I square up. But she gives me this eye. This champion eye. A winner’s eye. Cocky, like no eyes I've ever seen before. Tom Brady doesn’t have anything on this kind of cocky right here. My luck, this girl’s some UFC champion. Christ.

  But I can take her. Yeah, I sure fucking can.

  Probably.

  I decide on a straight jab: a no-fail straight jab that I plan just hard enough to send her reeling but not hurt her, not actually injure her. I know the punch. It works in bar fights and brawls on the field. An all-American move. As I wind up, everything slows down. I’m 6’6”, 283 pounds, and I throw a football for a living. When I wind up,
I wind up. As I do, she ducks, fast as fucking lightning. Greased. Elegant. Lethal. So as my arm is powering through the air, as my momentum gets caught behind 12-ounce training gloves, she pops back up like a goddamned whack-a-mole.

  Those eyes flash again and she smiles so hard I can see her dimples.

  Dimples. Oh fuck.

  I watch her shoulder tighten, her tricep pucker, and that’s when she lets me have it for real.

  The punch comes from left to right, blocking out my view of everything. I don’t see the Mexican flag on the wall. I don’t see the graffiti mural over the windows. Nope. The universe turns bubblegum pink.

  It doesn’t hurt, not at first, and as I’m flying backward, airborne, I have just enough time to think to myself, I wonder if this is what a knockout punch feels like…

  Before everything flickers to black.

  2

  Mary

  I didn’t mean to hit him in the face at all, but he fights slow, like a big ox, and he didn’t even turn his cheek. So now here he is, in a big beefy heap on the floor. A really, really, sexy, beefy heap, with his arms out and his mouth slightly open.

  I fall to my knees and pull off my gloves, my headgear, and toss my mouthguard aside. I pinch the big ox’s cheeks, feeling his stubble under my fingertips.

  Now, I've been in close contact with a lot of guys in this ring. Big ones, skinny ones, mean ones, wimpy ones. Guys fresh from Cook County jail. Guys who train at 24-Hour Fitness. But I've never been this close to someone so…

  Just…

  So…

  Incredibly…

  Hot.

  Taking off his helmet and prying the guard from his mouth, the worst news yet hits me. He isn’t just hot, he isn’t just handsome, he isn’t just yummy. The guy is beautiful. Like, jaw-droppingly beautiful. Like the kind of guy who should be modeling flannel for L.L. Bean, or maybe doing ads for five-bladed razors, rubbing his sexy jaw while looking at himself in a mirror. I can see it now: “Gillette.” (Model rubs his jaw roguishly and then smiles.) “The best a man can get.”