Steele a Kid from Kilkenny
July 1986
The boxing gym should have been cool with the windows open to let the ocean breeze through, but the
constant crush of sweaty men kept it humid and heavy with the scent of dirty socks. The metallic flavor
of blood was subtle but ever a part of the environment.
Some of that blood dripped off a tall, dark-haired Irishman that had just defeated another opponent. He
wiped his forehead, transferring a long red smear from his brow to his forearm.
“Steele, you look like hell,” Jackson told him from his place at ringside. He’d been watching his old
friend pummel the hell out of his challenger--a young fighter that should have been able to take Steele
rather easily, given his size. But the Irishman was fast--too fast for most of the contenders he took on.
“Bugger off, mate.” Remington frowned as he stepped over the ropes. His ribs hurt, and he was fairly
certain he'd taken an accidental kidney punch. He let none of that show as he dropped to the gym floor.
“Done?” the gym owner sneered. Steele had taken on two men this evening. Only at the end of the last
bout had Jackson noted his friend's slowing down with fatigue. Steele had known it too and had taken
the younger man with a flurry of lightning-fast strikes. The third time the young man had dropped to his
knee, Jackson called the fight in Steele’s favor.
“I’m done. “
“Good. You’re bleeding all over my gym. Now go home and make up to Mrs. Steele.” Remington shot
him a sour look. “Nah, don’t give me that face. We both know you and the missus are fighting about
something. It’s the only thing that gets your goat this badly.” Jackson snatched a towel off the bench
and threw it at him.
Steele caught it on his forearm and frowned. “Am I that bloody obvious?”
Jackson unlaced first one glove and then the other while Steele held out his hands. “Only to another
fighter. If you'd been less angry, the kid wouldn’t have gotten up after the second round. But you were
pissed and got sloppy, so it took you longer. A man with your build has no business trying to be a
puncher. You’re an in-fighter and you know it. If the kid'd had a little more weight on ‘em, you'd
have lost.”
A short nod was the only acknowledgement of the assessment. Remington flexed his hands as the gloves
came off and then offered one to Jackson. “Thanks, mate.”
Jackson nodded just as curtly and turned back to the ring to watch the next pair of boxers.
The scorching hot shower in the locker room washed away the mixture of sweat, blood and grime that
seemed to stick to the skin in the muggy building. It also cleared his head.
Jackson was right. He and Laura’d had a blistering fight late in the afternoon over their involvement in a
case that had taken a rather dangerous turn. She’d made a gutsy move that blew it wide open and had
allowed the police to rescue a hostage and arrest a kidnapper. In her elation afterward, he had berated
her about the risks she’d taken.
In retrospect, yelling at her wasn’t the smartest move he’d ever made. One thing he'd learned about
Laura was that emotion rarely changed her mind. Cold logic was far more likely to have an effect on her
than any amount of guilt or number of snap remarks.
Case-in-point was the television coverage of Billie Young. Laura hadn’t heard a word he'd said about her
being in the limelight as long as he was making critical comments. When he’d calmed and talked her
through the issues, she’d immediately seen the problem and together they’d brought the case to
conclusion.
He pushed open the door to their penthouse and found Laura poking about the kitchen. She raised her
brow as she set a bowl of cut fruit on the counter and nibbled on a strawberry. Automatically, she noted
the cut on his forehead and the reddened knuckles as he came around the island. He touched her face
and then laid a light kiss on her lips. In response, she slid her arms around his waist and deliberately
squeezed while savoring his mouth. He grimaced, thinking she wouldn’t see his expression.
He should have known better. “Strip,” she ordered before she left to retrieve the first aid kit from their
bathroom.
Remington slowly removed his shirt and draped it over the barstool before gingerly sitting on it. Laura
came back and dumped a variety of items on the counter. She started with cleaning the cut--blowing on it
when it stung. “Why do you do this?”
There was no point in pretending he didn’t understand what she was asking. “Sometimes, love, it helps
me to think-- Ouch!” He shied away when she started to tape a Band-Aid to his head, but she grabbed
his hair and made him hold still while she finished.
Having grown up in a house full of girls where physical aggression was rare--although not unheard of
between her and Kate--Laura had always found it fascinating that any number of men she’d known
relieved stress in a similar manner. But she never quite thought she would marry one--having always
equated it with a bit more brawn than brain. To find that Remington wasn’t any different had come as a
surprise in these first few months of marriage. In fact, he was probably a little more prone to working out
his problems with fists to the punching bag than most. This was the second time he’d come home
battered in the last few weeks but the first time she knew she was the reason.
“Do you want your middle wrapped?” She looked at his knuckles, dismissed them, and then pressed her
fingers against each rib in turn. She found two that were tender, but he shook his head.
“No, I’ll be fine.” He snagged his shirt and shrugged it on, leaving the buttons undone for the moment.
He tugged on her waist until she was standing between his legs. “You took a rather large risk this
afternoon. I’m not saying it wasn’t justified. It was and it worked. It also scared the bloody hell out of
me.”
She nodded. “I gathered that.”
“Next time, and I’m quite certain there will be one, would you give me a hint before you do something
like that? I know you were reacting on instinct, and it was a good one, but my heart nearly stopped when
you dove into the middle as you did. A word, a signal, even a glance will do in a pinch.”
Casually, she leaned on the island. “In other words, some sort of acknowledgement that I’m going to do
something that might be foolish, but I’m going to try it anyway?”
He grinned. “Something like that.”
Laura nodded. “That makes a great deal of sense, Mr. Steele. Especially when I realized that the brief
moment it might have taken to signal you would have given you the chance to back me up. I was out
there on my own in that moment, and there was nothing you could do to cover me.”
“Exactly.”
“Done.” She stood up and kissed his forehead over the adhesive strip, aware of his relief and the way his
shoulders relaxed at her word.
He cocked his head at her. “Does the fact that I box when I’m irritated bother you?”
“No,” she said lightly, knowing that it wasn’t something she could change. “Do me a favor and learn to
duck. I don’t like seeing you bleed.”
“No, I know you don’t. It’s an old habit, love. I--“
She put her fingers to his lips. “I’m sure it’s something along the lines of ‘you can take the kid out of
Kilkenny'--” She paused and quirked her lips in a small smile.
His voice was pure Irish and his grin twice as charming. “But ye can’t take th’ Kilkenny out o’ th’ kid.”
Remington slid a hand behind her head and brought her to within an inch of his mouth. “Oh, but me
Laura, I’ve learned a few other things along the way.” He flicked his eyebrows and touched his lips to
hers.
27 May 2009
July 1986
The boxing gym should have been cool with the windows open to let the ocean breeze through, but the
constant crush of sweaty men kept it humid and heavy with the scent of dirty socks. The metallic flavor
of blood was subtle but ever a part of the environment.
Some of that blood dripped off a tall, dark-haired Irishman that had just defeated another opponent. He
wiped his forehead, transferring a long red smear from his brow to his forearm.
“Steele, you look like hell,” Jackson told him from his place at ringside. He’d been watching his old
friend pummel the hell out of his challenger--a young fighter that should have been able to take Steele
rather easily, given his size. But the Irishman was fast--too fast for most of the contenders he took on.
“Bugger off, mate.” Remington frowned as he stepped over the ropes. His ribs hurt, and he was fairly
certain he'd taken an accidental kidney punch. He let none of that show as he dropped to the gym floor.
“Done?” the gym owner sneered. Steele had taken on two men this evening. Only at the end of the last
bout had Jackson noted his friend's slowing down with fatigue. Steele had known it too and had taken
the younger man with a flurry of lightning-fast strikes. The third time the young man had dropped to his
knee, Jackson called the fight in Steele’s favor.
“I’m done. “
“Good. You’re bleeding all over my gym. Now go home and make up to Mrs. Steele.” Remington shot
him a sour look. “Nah, don’t give me that face. We both know you and the missus are fighting about
something. It’s the only thing that gets your goat this badly.” Jackson snatched a towel off the bench
and threw it at him.
Steele caught it on his forearm and frowned. “Am I that bloody obvious?”
Jackson unlaced first one glove and then the other while Steele held out his hands. “Only to another
fighter. If you'd been less angry, the kid wouldn’t have gotten up after the second round. But you were
pissed and got sloppy, so it took you longer. A man with your build has no business trying to be a
puncher. You’re an in-fighter and you know it. If the kid'd had a little more weight on ‘em, you'd
have lost.”
A short nod was the only acknowledgement of the assessment. Remington flexed his hands as the gloves
came off and then offered one to Jackson. “Thanks, mate.”
Jackson nodded just as curtly and turned back to the ring to watch the next pair of boxers.
The scorching hot shower in the locker room washed away the mixture of sweat, blood and grime that
seemed to stick to the skin in the muggy building. It also cleared his head.
Jackson was right. He and Laura’d had a blistering fight late in the afternoon over their involvement in a
case that had taken a rather dangerous turn. She’d made a gutsy move that blew it wide open and had
allowed the police to rescue a hostage and arrest a kidnapper. In her elation afterward, he had berated
her about the risks she’d taken.
In retrospect, yelling at her wasn’t the smartest move he’d ever made. One thing he'd learned about
Laura was that emotion rarely changed her mind. Cold logic was far more likely to have an effect on her
than any amount of guilt or number of snap remarks.
Case-in-point was the television coverage of Billie Young. Laura hadn’t heard a word he'd said about her
being in the limelight as long as he was making critical comments. When he’d calmed and talked her
through the issues, she’d immediately seen the problem and together they’d brought the case to
conclusion.
He pushed open the door to their penthouse and found Laura poking about the kitchen. She raised her
brow as she set a bowl of cut fruit on the counter and nibbled on a strawberry. Automatically, she noted
the cut on his forehead and the reddened knuckles as he came around the island. He touched her face
and then laid a light kiss on her lips. In response, she slid her arms around his waist and deliberately
squeezed while savoring his mouth. He grimaced, thinking she wouldn’t see his expression.
He should have known better. “Strip,” she ordered before she left to retrieve the first aid kit from their
bathroom.
Remington slowly removed his shirt and draped it over the barstool before gingerly sitting on it. Laura
came back and dumped a variety of items on the counter. She started with cleaning the cut--blowing on it
when it stung. “Why do you do this?”
There was no point in pretending he didn’t understand what she was asking. “Sometimes, love, it helps
me to think-- Ouch!” He shied away when she started to tape a Band-Aid to his head, but she grabbed
his hair and made him hold still while she finished.
Having grown up in a house full of girls where physical aggression was rare--although not unheard of
between her and Kate--Laura had always found it fascinating that any number of men she’d known
relieved stress in a similar manner. But she never quite thought she would marry one--having always
equated it with a bit more brawn than brain. To find that Remington wasn’t any different had come as a
surprise in these first few months of marriage. In fact, he was probably a little more prone to working out
his problems with fists to the punching bag than most. This was the second time he’d come home
battered in the last few weeks but the first time she knew she was the reason.
“Do you want your middle wrapped?” She looked at his knuckles, dismissed them, and then pressed her
fingers against each rib in turn. She found two that were tender, but he shook his head.
“No, I’ll be fine.” He snagged his shirt and shrugged it on, leaving the buttons undone for the moment.
He tugged on her waist until she was standing between his legs. “You took a rather large risk this
afternoon. I’m not saying it wasn’t justified. It was and it worked. It also scared the bloody hell out of
me.”
She nodded. “I gathered that.”
“Next time, and I’m quite certain there will be one, would you give me a hint before you do something
like that? I know you were reacting on instinct, and it was a good one, but my heart nearly stopped when
you dove into the middle as you did. A word, a signal, even a glance will do in a pinch.”
Casually, she leaned on the island. “In other words, some sort of acknowledgement that I’m going to do
something that might be foolish, but I’m going to try it anyway?”
He grinned. “Something like that.”
Laura nodded. “That makes a great deal of sense, Mr. Steele. Especially when I realized that the brief
moment it might have taken to signal you would have given you the chance to back me up. I was out
there on my own in that moment, and there was nothing you could do to cover me.”
“Exactly.”
“Done.” She stood up and kissed his forehead over the adhesive strip, aware of his relief and the way his
shoulders relaxed at her word.
He cocked his head at her. “Does the fact that I box when I’m irritated bother you?”
“No,” she said lightly, knowing that it wasn’t something she could change. “Do me a favor and learn to
duck. I don’t like seeing you bleed.”
“No, I know you don’t. It’s an old habit, love. I--“
She put her fingers to his lips. “I’m sure it’s something along the lines of ‘you can take the kid out of
Kilkenny'--” She paused and quirked her lips in a small smile.
His voice was pure Irish and his grin twice as charming. “But ye can’t take th’ Kilkenny out o’ th’ kid.”
Remington slid a hand behind her head and brought her to within an inch of his mouth. “Oh, but me
Laura, I’ve learned a few other things along the way.” He flicked his eyebrows and touched his lips to
hers.
27 May 2009
Steele Holting On
Steele Holting On
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