by Lacy Yager
He fills out his white gi through the shoulders. I look down, trying not to stare, and get a glimpse of his muscular thighs.
And I can't quit thinking about what I saw in the bathroom yesterday.
"You're imagining me shirtless, aren't you?"
His question—his intuitiveness—startles me and I miss his move and end up flipped onto my back.
"Distracted by my hotness?" he teases as I push up off the mats.
We reset again, and this time, angry at myself for the distraction, I launch at him and take him down with a quick sweeping kick.
I lean over him, hands on my knees, panting.
"Easy, Tiger," he says, voice low and even.
Is it me, or is he limping a little when he gets up? His expression doesn't show any hint of pain, but I'm sure he moves a little gingerly.
Just like at lunch.
"You okay?" I ask as I slowly settle into the starting position again.
"Yeah, why?"
But because I'm watching so closely, I see the faint white line around his slightly-pinched lips.
I straighten up, make a T with my hands to call for a time-out. "I need some water," I tell him, and nod toward the co-ed locker room, off the training area and semi-private.
He follows me, and this time I'm sure he's limping. Not because he looks like it, but because I can hear the slightly-longer scrape of one bare foot on the carpeted floor.
Between the rows of lockers on opposite walls are two low wooden benches, lacquer worn off from so many butts sitting on them. I go to my backpack that I forgot to throw in a locker and rummage for the water bottle I'm hoping I didn't forget.
Not there.
Something yellow appears in front of my face.
I look up to see Brett extending his lemon-flavored bottled sports drink to me.
"No, thanks," I say.
He raises both eyebrows. "You'll swap spit with me but you won't share my drink?"
I grimace, glancing behind him, but none of the other trainees or our sensei are paying attention.
"Would you stop saying things like that?" I whisper.
"Why? You did kiss me."
He's totally straight faced but his eyes glint with humor. "Is that all I am to you? A distraction?"
He has no idea.
I turn to the drinking fountain and lean over it to slurp some water. I'm not that thirsty. I just wanted to see what was up with Brett and his limp.
Before yesterday, I hadn't even given him a serious thought since we stopped being friends two years ago, just after my dad died.
But after fighting with him, and everything that followed... I can't stop thinking about him.
Which isn't good. I've got to focus on my endgame: get through mom’s stupid party, win the tournament, convince Uncle Felix I should be Chasing. I don’t have time for a distraction like Brett.
I turn back to him, wiping my chin with the back of one hand. "Can't we just forget about it?"
He watches me. Too closely. "Is that what you really want?"
He shifts his feet. Slightly, so very slightly. Another sign that he's in pain. But this is the second time today I've asked if something is wrong and he isn't admitting it.
He couldn't be sick, could he? He's so transparent about everything, I would be shocked to find out he's keeping a secret like that.
"Emily?"
I love the sound of my name on his lips, like it belongs there. Like all my life, I’ve been waiting to hear my name in his voice. Crazy. He’s said my name before. But this…this is…
He lifts his eyebrows, and I realize I’m staring. I turn away. "I don't know."
He stands beside me, shoulder to shoulder, and we look together at the sparring area in front of us. He speaks low to keep our conversation private.
"You might not know what you want, but I do. I want to go out with you—for real. Think about it."
He walks past me onto the mats, then looks back. "But don't take too long. I'm not going to wait forever."
10 - Brett
"Emily Santos versus Sam Reyes,” the announcer says over the loudspeaker, late Friday afternoon. “Second round black belts, single elimination."
I watch from the competitor's warm up area at floor level in the arena. Yesterday, in the first rounds, there were five mats set up as the double-elimination competition got started. Today there are three. Tomorrow afternoon for the final rounds, there will be one.
And I know Emily wants to be there.
She faces off against another girl I recognize vaguely from a previous competition. She doesn't train at our dojo or attend our school, but Austin is big enough, she could be from another district. Sam Reyes looks like she could be Emily's cousin, with dark hair down her back in a braid and the same Filipino complexion Emily has.
Emily seems to know her. They have words just before the referee joins them on the mat. And they don't seem to be happy to see each other.
Emily looks tight and angry, but then all that emotion disappears in a microsecond. She is intently focused on her match as she takes her place across the mat from her competitor.
She's fierce.
And I'm still in love with her.
But I haven't seen her since our last pre-tournament sparring match on Monday. Four days.
I haven't sought her out, and she hasn't made any effort to find me in the halls at school. As far as I can tell, both she and Erick have been skipping lunch or going off-campus.
Basically, I'm chicken.
I'm half-afraid she's going to tell me to get lost.
Our matches were at different times yesterday, so I didn't get to see her fight, but the other black belts—three others plus me are still in the running—were talking about her. A little fear in their voices.
It makes me smile. On the inside, at least. I keep my game face on.
The match starts, and Emily bides her time, letting the Reyes girl wear herself out before Emily begins an assault of punches, kicks, even a jumping spin kick. Wow!
It all goes downhill from there. Sam Reyes fights back, but there's no matching Emily's intensity. She wins handily.
Then she heads my way, wearing a sheen of sweat, her wispy curls matted to her temples. She sees me and something in her eyes changes, softens. It's minute, but it's there.
It gives me the courage to meet her. I don't hold out my arms for an embrace. I know better than that.
I push out a clamped fist instead, and she bumps me.
"Nice match," I say.
"Thanks." Her smile lights up her entire face.
Two of the other black belts get called to the mats. Another round, and then it'll be my go.
Emily sits down on a wide carpeted block, and I join her so that we're shoulder-to-shoulder.
"You gonna stay and watch me?" I ask.
She shrugs. I'm intensely aware of the brush of her shoulder against mine.
"My mom’s expecting me," she says, eyes on the two competitors as they fight. They're good, but she could beat either guy easily. And she doesn't seem in any hurry to leave.
"I can drive you. I've got my bike." I dig in the gym bag at my feet and come up with a bottle of water. I take a swig, not too much, because I don't want to go into my match waterlogged, sloshy, and slow.
"We could get something to eat. Make a date out of it."
I hold out the water bottle to her.
I don't know if she can read the intensity behind my casually-worded suggestion or if she’s just considering it, but she looks at the bottle, then her gaze follows up my arm until she's looking me in the face.
She holds my eyes as she reaches out and takes the bottle, slowly raising it to her lips and drinking. Even the movement of her throat when she swallows is hot.
Her lips glisten when she lowers the bottle and gently smacks it back into my hands. Girl doesn't need lip gloss to catch my eye there.
She drank after me. Does that mean she wants to kiss me again?
She seems
to know exactly what I'm thinking because her cheeks pink.
But she doesn't look away.
One of the match coordinators calls out to me from several yards away, telling me I'm up next. The moment is broken. I look away from Emily to nod at the guy.
I stand up. There's a time for romance, and this isn't it, although Emily's got my adrenaline jacked so high I'm already bouncing on my toes.
"You gonna wish me good luck?" I ask to the side. I stretch my neck one way, then the other, shake out my hands.
"You don't need it."
The coordinator motions me with both hands, getting antsy that I'm not coming yet, but I can't just walk away when Emily's softening toward me.
"Stay?" I ask, turning to walk backward so I can watch her.
She's still got that beautiful pink in her cheeks.
And her eyes give me the answer even though she doesn't nod.
I face my opponent on the mats, knock fists with him through the tape we wear as minimal protection for our hands.
The referee waves us into the start of the match.
My opponent doesn't know what hits him.
High on Emily, cranked from her smile and knowing she's waiting for me, I attack full force. The guy is toast.
I take him out in six moves.
Then I turn toward the competitor area where she is on her feet, eyes wide and dancing. I give her an extra flex of one bicep, and she laughs. I can't hear it, but I see it.
Emily and I will both have another match in the morning. Then the winner of those semi-final matches will go to the final round against each other. There's a one-in-four chance Emily and I will meet in the final. A repeat of that fateful fight two years ago.
But that's a worry for tomorrow. Right now, I've got some wooing to do.
11 - Emily
I don't really know what I'm doing. Texting my mom that I'm with Brett after we both change into our street clothes. Meeting his parents briefly at the edge of the stands. Getting on the back of his bike with him—apparently he's been carrying my helmet around with him all week, because there it is, strapped to the back of his machine. Wrapping my arms around his waist.
A little tighter than I held him Monday.
He looks back over his shoulder, and even through our visors, our eyes meet and connect.
It's a little scary.
He reaches down and covers my linked hands with one of his and squeezes. And it comforts me, sending warmth all throughout me, and I’m not so scared.
Then he revs the bike, and we shoot out of the parking lot and into traffic.
He drives the way he fights, steady and confident. Watching him in the match was intense, gut-wrenching. Sparring with him in the dojo is fun, but he holds back. After fighting next to him against those vamps almost a week ago, I see him differently. Then watching him today, seeing every perfect blow, no effort wasted. Amazing.
And knowing that for some reason, he has turned that same intensity on me.
I'm not sure what I'm doing at all.
He pulls the bike into a pizza joint about halfway to my house. I've been here a couple of times with friends. Never with a date. I'm eighteen, but I’ve barely dated at all. Too much time in the dojo and training to be a Chaser.
Our close call last Sunday has made things clearer for me. Killing two vamps just settled in my mind what I already knew. The vamps aren’t going away, no matter what my mom wants to pretend.
But Brett’s pursuit over the last few days has also muddied the waters.
I like him.
Really like him.
But even though he fought beside me, he’s not a Chaser. What chance does a relationship between us really have? Maybe I shouldn’t be here tonight. I should be focusing on what to say to my uncle when I see him tomorrow.
But I don’t put a stop to it, don’t ask him to take me home. I want tonight.
When Brett helps me off the bike and then laces his fingers through mine, my heart starts beating like I'm back on the mats.
Inside the family-style restaurant, we wind through the busy Friday-night crowd, a mix of families and couples. He doesn’t let go of my hand. We grab a booth in the far corner. He slides in next to me, instead of across, close enough that our thighs are touching beneath the table.
He flips one of the menus so that we can both read it. Our heads lean close together, and I inhale the scent of the cologne he must've sprayed after his match—neither of us took time for a shower afterward.
My leg bounces beneath the table until his palm covers my knee.
"You nervous?"
I shrug. "I haven't done this much."
"What, had a pizza?"
I roll my eyes. "Dated."
He joggles my knee a little before letting go. "So you're finally admitting that's what we're doing?"
I shake my head, and he grins.
"Veggie all right with you?"
"Fine," I say.
The waitress jots down our orders and leaves us. All alone. That knee wants to bounce again, and it takes all my energy to keep it still.
He props one elbow on the table. "So, your mom didn't come to the tournament? How come?"
I run one finger across the tabletop in front of us. "She doesn't approve."
"Of martial arts?"
And so much more. But he isn't supposed to know about vamps or Chasers. "Of fighting."
He covers my fidgety hand on the tabletop. "Then I'm guessing you didn't tell her about Sunday afternoon?"
I shake my head a little, eyes on his hand clasping mine. His thumb idly slides across the back of my hand.
How can one touch send thrills all the way through me?
"Have you talked to anybody about it? About taking out those... guys?"
I hear the hesitation in that last word. He knows something, but he can’t have guessed the truth. I avoid his gaze, staring at the worn wooden tabletop instead.
"What's to talk about? They were v—" I cut myself off, shock sending my eyes up. Shock that I almost told him.
"They were trying to kill us," I finish lamely.
He holds my gaze. "You can trust me, you know."
I'm learning that. But it isn't just me with the secret. It's my whole family, our legacy.
"Have you talked to your cousin or your uncle?"
I shake my head.
"No one?"
Another shake.
He squeezes my hand. "Nightmares?"
How does he always know so much about my feelings? Good guesses? Or intuition?
"A few." The worst was re-imagining that moment when the vamp had Brett pinned, fangs inches from his jugular. Only in my dream, I hadn't gotten Erick's knife in time to save Brett's life.
"If you want to have a sleepover, I'm your guy."
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and that, along with his outlandish statement makes me laugh. The painful nightmare recedes.
Our pie arrives, steaming hot and piled high with veggies.
"How do you do that?" I ask as he lets go of me to dish slices onto our plates. He gives me mine first.
"Do what?" he’s distracted by the food and only half paying attention.
"Make me feel better." I haven't forgotten that moment at my house where his goofiness helped relieve my pent-up tension.
"I know you." He lifts his pizza slice and takes a bite, closing his eyes momentarily, in apparent bliss.
He wipes his mouth, then starts again. "We were friends, before..." He trails off.
"Before my dad died."
He nods and takes another bite. Is there a pink tinge to his cheeks? Is he blushing?
"What?" I prod. I bite into the pizza, and it's as good as the expression on his face implied. Heavenly, with oozing cheese and just the right amount of sauce. And though I’m thoroughly enjoying the pizza, I don’t tear my eyes from his face. Waiting for an answer.
He hesitates, and now I'm intensely curious, because Brett isn't one to hold back. He usually just says it
like it is.
"I...well, I liked you back then. And I never stopped."
Seriously? "Is that why you threw the fight? You had to know that giving up like that would piss me off.”
He sighs. Exasperated? "I didn't throw the fight. I—"
Now it's his turn to stop himself.
His eyes flick around the room, like maybe he's looking for a way out.
I get the same sensation I had before when we talked at the dojo. Is he hiding something?
"I'll tell you," he says finally. "But not here. Somewhere more private."
My curiosity explodes. What kind of secret could be that big?
A guy I recognize from school walks up to our table and addresses Brett, only glancing briefly at me. "What's up man?" He and Brett bump fists. "Heard the news you rocked your match. Congrats."
"Thanks. Do you know Emily Santos?"
The guy’s eyebrows rocket to his hairline and he takes a second look at me. "The chick who's gonna win this year? How you doin’, Emily Santos?"
I smile.
"She's got two more rounds—she’ll have to get through me first," Brett protests, but he slides a grin at me.
His friend hangs out for a few minutes, chatting about school. And glancing curiously at me all the while.
"What was up with that?" I ask in a low voice after his friend departs.
"Hasn't seen me on too many dates," he says, chomping into his pizza again.
I raise my brow at him.
He swallows his bite and sets the slice on the plate. "I've been waiting for you."
And while I'm dumbfounded with shock, he leans forward and pecks me on the lips.
12 - Brett
I pull my bike into Emily's drive and kick it off. The sudden silence is heavy, oppressive.
I can't believe I'm going to tell her about my condition. Only my parents and doctors know. I'm a little scared she'll see me differently. Feel sorry for me.
"Come inside," she says, and takes my hand.
We're almost to the side door we entered last Sunday when I pull back against her.
She turns with a question on her lips, but I cover her mouth with mine in a searing kiss.
Just in case.
Last time, our first kiss, she'd been surprised by what happened even though she had initiated it. I could tell.