Noah couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually looked forward to doing something. Dressed in his workout gear, he stepped out of his apartment psyched to meet up with Mo to check out this Warrior Fight Club.

After Mo had intercepted Noah from further mangling his fists, the man had explained more about WFC. The basic idea was to use the discipline and physical outlet of mixed martial arts training to help veterans struggling with anger management issues, PTSD, and other problems transitioning to civilian life.

Check, check, and check. All of that was Noah in a nutshell.

The other interesting thing about WFC—it was only open to active-duty service members and veterans. And given that Noah’s panic attack in the art therapy class this morning was received with nothing but understanding and encouragement, knowing he’d be training with others like him gave him at least some confidence that they’d get it if he lost it again.

Baby steps, man. But he’d fucking take ‘em.

Noah started down the stairs and nearly had a damn spring in his step. After months of feeling so down, this small sliver of excitement at the prospect of finally finding something that could make a difference nearly felt euphoric. Which showed just how down he’d been.

Footsteps sounded out below, and Noah moved to the side as a guy with longish brown hair and lots of ink rounded the landing and came jogging up.

“Hey, man,” the guy said.

At some point, Noah would have to work on actually meeting his neighbors, wouldn’t he? For now, though, he just nodded. “Hey.”

“Oh,” the guy said from where he stood up above him now. Noah turned. “Sorry to hold you up, but I wondered if you were the guy who just moved in.” He came back down the steps, and that’s when Noah noticed he carried a flower in his hand. A single pink rose.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Noah extended his hand and introduced himself.

The guy returned the shake, an easy-going smile on his face. “Ethan. Ethan Black.”

For a moment, Noah couldn’t figure out why the name sounded so familiar, and then he heard Kristina’s voice from last weekend. His name is Ethan and he’s a bartender…

Holy. Fucking. Hell. It was Ethan the Dickhead Neighbor. “You’re the bartender,” he managed.

Confusion painted the other man’s face. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Kristina.” Tension squeezed the muscles of Noah’s neck so hard that a headache bloomed all down the back of his head. This. This was the guy she was going out with tonight. This was the guy she thought was hot.

“Oh, right,” Ethan said, that easy-going smile returning. He looked down at the rose in his hand and blushed. Which almost certainly meant the rose was for Kristina. “You’re her friend…” He kept on chatting, but Noah’s brain tuned him out.

Because something about hearing another man label them as friends had Noah grinding his teeth. Especially another man taking his girl out on a date. Made no difference to the man underneath all the bullshit that Kristina wasn’t actually his. Not as he looked at Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky-Hottie-McDickhead-Neighbor standing there with a fucking rose. And a pink one, at that.

Kristina was going to like that. Because it wouldn’t be the presumptuous overkill of red, but it would be sweet and thoughtful all the same.

And Kristina would like sweet and thoughtful. Hell, she deserved it. And maybe Noah shouldn’t resent that this guy was apparently capable of giving it to her, but he did. He resented it with every pissed-off fiber of his being.

Ethan didn’t seem to have registered that Noah was on a DEFCON-5-level meltdown, because he asked, “Hey, what kind of stuff is she in to? I really dig your friend,” he said with a sheepishly charming shrug, “so I’d appreciate any pointers you could give me.”

Snark and sabotage rushed to the front of Noah’s brain. With some effort, he forced himself to resist the urge to tell him where to stick those pointers or to sabotage his chances with Kristina by suggesting he take her out for sushi, which she hated, or to order for her without asking, which she thought was a ridiculous thing for anyone to do ever.

Finally, Noah shook his head. “Just ask her. She’s very laidback and down-to-earth.” Kristina deserved that much from him.

“All right, man. Well, thanks. I’ll tell her we ran in to each other.” Ethan gave a wave and started up the steps again. “Have a good night.”

Noah couldn’t return the sentiment. Because the idea of what might make Ethan’s night good had Noah’s blood boiling in his veins. His skin was suddenly hot and too tight. He stalked to his SUV and then sat there. Stewing and churning. Full of regret.

He had his phone out of his pocket and open to his messages with Kristina in an instant. His fingers hovered over the keys. Saying anything to her about this date was probably a bad idea. No, it was most definitely a bad idea. Which was probably why his fingers started in on the hunting and pecking.

Don’t go on your date tonight, he sent to her, his gut tossing.

Why? Did something happen? came back at him almost immediately.

How easy it would be to tell her he needed her instead, that he wasn’t doing well. But Noah couldn’t do it. It already made him enough of an asshole to ask her not to go out with Ethan in the first place. He knew it did.

No. Everything’s fine. Just don’t go.

A long pause. And then, I don’t understand, Noah. Why not?

He gritted his teeth, and that too-hot/too-tight feeling crawled over him again. Because I’m asking.

Tell me WHY you don’t want me to go and I’ll consider it.

Problem was, he couldn’t tell her why. What would he say? That he was jealous? That the thought that another man might touch her was like shrapnel to the gut? That the thought that she might fall for that guy broke what was left of his fucking heart?

All those things were true, but he couldn’t say a goddamned one of them to her. Because they would tell her too much. And they would give her hope that he wanted her for himself.

And he did. He really fucking did. With every-fucked-up-thing he was. But that didn’t mean he could have her. Because of every fucked-up thing he was.

“Fuck,” he bit out, dropping his head back against the headrest.

His phone dinged again, and he read her newest message.

Tell me why Noah.

But there wasn’t a damn thing he could say. And that left him only two options—go silent and say nothing, or give her his blessing. Not that she needed it.

He stared at the screen until her words went blurry, and then he started typing.

Never mind. Have a good time.

The minute he hit Send, Noah turned his phone off. He didn’t want to know how she might respond. Or whether she’d respond at all.

By the time he got to the Full Contact MMA Training Center in the U Street/Shaw neighborhood of downtown DC, Noah was more than ready to pound the shit out of something.

Taking his time—a necessity given the blind spot caused by his partial vision loss—he parallel parked in a street space in front of a block of red-brick row-houses, then made his way back up the block to the Center, which appeared to take up the first couple of floors in a newer-looking yellow-brick building.

Noah found Mo standing in the bright, modern reception area of the club. The big man had changed into a pair of black and blue athletic shorts and a form-fitting black tank with the club’s name on it. Cases of trophies and ribbons filled one wall by the front desk, and a display of work-out gear for sale ran along the other.

“Glad you came,” Mo said. “Sign in on that clipboard over there and I’ll take you to meet the coach.”

Noah walked up to the shiny steel counter and added his name to a list of thirteen other people. And then he was following Mo down one level, to a large rectangular gym space. Blue mats covered much of the open floor, and two eight-sided practice cages filled the far end of the room. People were spread out across the mats doing stretches and shooting the shit, but Mo led Noah past them to where three men stood near a set of benches at the side of the space.

Mo greeted the men and then gestured to Noah. “This is Noah Cortez, a prospective new member. Noah, this is Coach Mack, Hawk, and Colby.”

“John McPherson,” a fortyish man with dark hair and eyes said. He had full tattoo sleeves down both arms. “Everyone calls me Mack. Glad to have you here.”

“Glad to be here,” Noah said, returning the man’s shake. Next, he exchanged introductions with the other two men, Leo Hawkins and Colby Richmond, long-time members who apparently assisted Mack with the coaching. Despite the black tattoos around his biceps that gave him a harder edge, Leo’s blond hair, blue eyes, and tanned skin gave him a surfer-dude look. Colby had light brown skin and eyes and close-trimmed black hair.

Everyone was friendly and welcoming, helping ease some of the tension flowing through Noah’s muscles.

“Take over warm-ups,” Mack said to Hawk and Colby, “while I get Noah oriented.” The two men nodded and took off for the mats. “Have a seat,” Mack said. They cleared a spot among everyone’s belongings. “Tell me a little about yourself. What brings you here?” the older man asked, expression open and relaxed.

Heaving a deep breath, Noah wished he could be as laidback. “Served five years in the Marine Corps with the 2^nd Combat Engineer Battalion. Discharged last fall after an IED gave me a TBI that stole the hearing in my left ear and some of the vision in my left eye. I met Mo today at another class and he, uh, told me about the club.”

Mack nodded. “Are you still receiving treatment?”

“I have monthly check-ups with a neurologist and primary care doc for the TBI, but otherwise, no.” He understood that Mack probably needed to make sure he was healthy enough to participate, but that didn’t mean he loved sharing these details. He squeezed the bench with his hands.

“Are you working with a mental health professional?” Mack asked.

Noah dropped his gaze to the floor between his feet. “Not regularly. Talking…” He shook his head as discomfort slinked into his gut.

“Doesn’t help?” Mack offered.

Cutting his gaze to Mack, Noah nodded. “Yeah. Makes it worse, actually.”

“I feel ya. That’s the same thing that brought a lot of other people here, Noah. Hell, same reason I started this club in the first place.” Mack gave him a solid, supportive look, then grabbed some paperwork from a folder. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’d like you to complete this quick-and-dirty member profile and questionnaire before you join in today, and sign this release. But before you can become a formal member, I’m going to need a doc to sign off on a physical. Standard operating procedure. So you can participate in the technical training today, but no sparring.”

Noah’s stomach fell as Mack secured the stapled pages to a clipboard. What if the doctor wouldn’t clear him for this?

Mack must’ve seen something on his face, because the man squeezed his shoulder. “Lots of people here have dealt with head trauma, and we have precautions we can put in place for people who’ve maybe already been dropped on their heads one too many times.” He gave a wicked grin. “So don’t worry, okay? Oh, and if you flip to the last page, you’ll see a strength-training and conditioning program I recommend. A bunch of us work out together when we can. You’re welcome to join.”

“Sounds great. Thanks,” Noah said, the reassurance helping. Mack left him to complete the paperwork. For a moment, Noah watched the group over on the mats working through a series of stretches, then his gaze dropped back to the forms.

On the one hand, he felt more of that excitement from earlier—before running in to Ethan had left him feeling like shit again. On the other, not being able to spar tonight had his shoulders dropping in disappointment. Some part of him had been counting on fighting to release some of the stress and anger that always seemed to be ballooning inside him.

On the first page, Noah completed the profile sheet which gathered basic contact information, military service data, and the specifics of any injuries. On the second, he found the questionnaire, which got more personal—asking a whole series of questions about state of mind of the applicant.

Noah found himself thinking of his list from the art class this morning as he circled how much he agreed or disagreed with statements like, I often feel emotionally out of control, or I often feel irrationally angry or anger that is out of proportion to its cause. He found himself strongly agreeing across the board.

The third page asked him to detail his experience with various forms of martial arts. He had a lot of experience with boxing from the Corps, where he’d also picked up some kickboxing. And he’d been a wrestler in high school and college. But he had no familiarity with some of the other disciplines used in mixed martial arts fighting, like Jiu-Jitsu, Judo, Karate, Muay Thai, and Taekwondo—all of which he was looking forward to learning more about.

At the back of the packet, Noah found the training and conditioning regimen Mack had mentioned and an equipment checklist. He had a cup and mouth guard with him, but he’d have to pick up the right clothing, hand wraps, gloves, head gear, knee pads, and shin guards before the next class.

He supposed that not having all the gear he needed was another good reason not to actually spar tonight, which led him to the physical form he’d have to get his doc to sign off on. Noah wasn’t thrilled about that because he loathed going to the doctor. It forced him to confront shit he’d rather not. But it would be worth it to have a chance at something that might actually help.

“All set?” Mack asked, walking up to him a few minutes later.

“Yeah.” Noah rose and toed off his shoes.

“Then head out for the warm-up and I’ll look this over.” Mack took the clipboard from him.

Out on the mats, Noah found a space at the back of the group and joined right in on the standing quad stretches. They moved on to standing hamstrings, hip flexor, and calf stretches next. Hawk and Colby were at the front of the group demonstrating each of the moves, and then they both went down to their knees.

“We’ve got two prospective members here tonight,” Hawk said. “Tara Hunter.” A woman wearing her long brown hair up in a ponytail gave a wave. “And Noah Cortez.”

Noah gave a single nod as some of the others turned to look at him. He was glad he wasn’t the only newbie here, although Tara made him look at the group anew to see that she wasn’t the only female student. A dark-skinned woman with shoulder-length curls sat toward the front of the group and another woman with jet black hair in an intricate-looking braid knelt at the far side.

“For the sake of our prospective students, I’m going to move a little slower through the yoga positions tonight,” Hawk said. “Colby will come around to check you.”

Yoga? That was about the last thing Noah expected at MMA training.

Hawk’s gaze scanned the group. “The first position is called child’s pose. Lower your head as you sit on your heels. Breathe out as you stretch your arms forward on the floor, trying to stretch as far forward as you can while keeping your butt on your heels.”

Noah did as the man said, feeling kinda self-conscious even though the position offered a stretch all down his lats and back that felt good.

“We do yoga because your mind is your most important piece of equipment, and the peacefulness, mindfulness, and discipline of yoga can help you regain control of nervous systems that have been stressed and are on edge,” Hawk continued, his voice even, calm. “Concentrate on your breathing, on taking long breaths in and out.”

Colby came around and offered some guidance as Hawk worked them through a few other poses. With the lack of appetite and sleep, Noah hadn’t been particularly kind to his body these past months, and he was definitely feeling that as they finished the warm-up.

“Okay,” Colby said. “If you don’t have gloves, you can grab a pair from the bin. Otherwise, our technical skills session today is going to focus on striking patterns.”

Noah and Tara were the only two who needed to borrow gloves, and they met up over at the benches.

“Hey,” she said, wearing a friendly smile. She was way shorter than him and had a prominent scar that circled part of her neck. Noah couldn’t help but wonder what’d caused it. “I’m glad I’m not the only new person here.”

“Me, too,” Noah said, trying on a pair of thick fingerless gloves. “I was in the Corps. You?”

“Navy,” she said, pulling off one pair and trying on another. She punched her hands together. “These work. Nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Noah said as they rejoined the group.

“Okay,” Colby said, standing at the front of the class. “A couple of things to remember about striking. You want to pop in and out quick, which reduces the opportunity for your opponent to strike. And you don’t want to be predictable, so mix up your striking pattern and the pacing of your strikes.” The man demonstrated a quick attack with a punching combo and sprung straight back out, and then he showed some variations where he came back at angles. “Give it a try.”

Noah got in the correct stance and brought up his hands, muscle memory kicking in from his years of boxing. Even though he wasn’t in peak shape, there was almost a freedom to the feeling of moving—his body fast on the attack, his arms delivering jabs, hooks, and combinations of punches to an invisible foe, his weight shifting between his feet as he moved. The sound of huffing breaths and feet squeaking against the mats filled the otherwise quiet room.

Working through the moves made it clear just how much he’d changed, though, because he now had a massive blind-spot on his left side that he hadn’t had when he’d last boxed. His peripheral vision was non-existent on his left, which meant in an actual competition, he’d have to turn his head to compensate, losing some of his peripheral on the right as he did.

Goddamnit. Why did everything have to illustrate just how much he’d lost?

“Nice, Noah,” Mack said, pulling Noah from the defeatist thoughts. “Tuck that back elbow in against your ribs more. You don’t want any daylight showing through there or you open yourself up to a liver kick.” Noah made the adjustment. Mack stood watching a moment longer and nodded. “Good. Now vary it up further by ducking and turning out.”

Noah changed it up again. Instead of popping out of the attack standing straight up, he crouched down on his retreat, as if avoiding a hook. On his next attack, he pivoted and turned out, which set him up for—

All of a sudden, the room spun, the quickness of his movement throwing his equilibrium off.

“Whoa, big guy,” Mack said, catching him by the shoulder. “How long has it been since you’ve done any kind of regular workouts?”

Frustrated, Noah sighed. “A while. I’ve managed to keep up with strength training and some occasional runs, but I haven’t figured out how to get the equilibrium issues under control.” He was glad he’d included it on his injury profile and hadn’t tried to hide it.

Mack gave his shoulder a squeeze, then released him as Noah got his legs back under him again. “It’s not always about controlling our weaknesses. It’s about finding ways to mitigate them. It may be that certain moves always exacerbate the issue, but you can find strength in knowing which ones do and then strategizing alternate and equally effective moves.”

Noah nodded, liking that idea a lot. He often worried about what would happen if he could never fix his weaknesses, when maybe he’d been asking the wrong question. Maybe he should’ve been asking how he could work around them instead.

“There are many right ways to arrive at the same destination, Noah,” Mack said, giving him a pointed look.

Bolstered, Noah threw himself back into the striking pattern exercises.

Quick attack in. Right jab, left jab, right hook. Straight back out.

Quick attack in. Fast right jab, left fake, right hook. Duck out and to the right.

Quick attack in. Left, right, left combo. Skip out and to the left.

And damn if using his muscles, exerting himself, and feeling the promise of his strength didn’t make him feel a little different, more focused yet less trapped inside his head.

They worked on those moves for a few more minutes, and then they paired off to practice choke hold and joint lock positions for grappling on the ground.

“Billy Parrish,” his partner said by way of introduction. With short dark blond hair, dark eyes, and a stubble-covered jaw, the guy probably had five or more years on Noah, but the hard cut of his arm and shoulder muscles and the speed with which he’d moved during the striking pattern exercises made it clear that age wouldn’t be an immediate advantage.

They tapped gloves. “Noah Cortez.”

“The purpose of choke holds and joint locks is to achieve submission, or the inability to escape a hold and make your opponent tap out,” Mack said. “The fighter on top is the mount, and the mount’s goal is to ground and pound his opponent until he can put him in a hold and finish the fight. The fighter on bottom is the guard, who’s looking to escape the holds and pass the guard, or reverse his position with his opponent. We’ll show you the positions, and then each of you will try.”

Colby and Hawk got on the ground and first took turns demonstrating a series of different joint locks, many of which came from Jiu Jitsu—new territory for Noah.

Part-way through their demonstration, a guy rushed through the gym door and made quick working of joining the group. “Sorry Coach,” he called, running a hand through his dark hair. “Got caught at work.” He took a place on the mats toward the far side.

“Run through your warm-up, Riddick,” Mack said.

The guy gave a tight nod and started in on the stretches they’d done earlier. “Miss me, Dani?” he asked a woman sitting near him in almost a taunting voice.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” the woman said. Noah’s gaze cut from the demonstration up front to where Riddick grinned and the black-haired woman glared back at him.

“Don’t mind them,” Billy said. “Driving each other batshit is their favorite pastime. Okay, we’re up. Why don’t you go first.”

They started with an ankle lock, both of them sitting on the floor facing each other. Noah pinned Billy’s ankle under his arm pit, clasped his hands together around the lower shin, and bent his elbows back toward his ribs to trap the man’s foot there.

“That’s pretty good,” Billy said. “Try trapping the joint with the middle of your forearm instead of the wrist though. Because you’ve got a gap there.” He pointed to the crook of Noah’s elbow. “That I can yank out of, especially when we’re sweaty.”

Noah tried again. “That feels better,” he said. “Tighter.”

Billy nodded. “Gives you more control and power.”

“Have you been doing this long?” Noah asked, adjusting his hold again.

“Been a member for a little over eighteen months. Medically discharged from the Rangers about three years ago.” He lifted his shirt up his ribs, revealing a large swath of twisted and mottled scarring. Billy dropped the shirt again and gestured for Noah’s ankle so he could try the hold. “Total snafu. Ended up with second and third-degree burns over forty per cent of my body.” He wrapped his arms around Noah’s ankle. “Tap when it starts to hurt,” he said.

His opponent turned on the power and started to lean back. Noah tapped his hand against the mat. “Shit.”

“Right?” Billy winked. “See the difference?”

“Yeah,” Noah said. “Do that again.” Billy pinned him in the lock quick and tight, and then Noah tried it again, feeling like he had even more power and control this time.

“So what’s your damage?” Billy asked.

The casual way Billy had showed his scars and shared his story encouraged Noah to do the same. “IED caused a severe TBI which took my hearing and most of my sight on this side,” he said, pointing to his head.

“Shit. Life’s a goddamned full-contact sport, ain’t it?”

“Roger that,” Noah said, feeling more and more comfortable here despite the talking and sharing he’d done.

The rest of the choke hold and joint lock session went that way, with Billy giving him pointers and the two of them chatting. The guy had apparently parlayed his military career into private investigating, which had Noah wondering how to translate his skills into something in the civilian world. One thing at a time, though. Right?

“Okay,” Coach Mack said a while later. “One team at a time will go into the rings for sparring matches refereed by Hawk and Colby. The rest of you will divide into two teams for a grappling match drill. Hunter and Cortez, you’ll need to watch these from the sidelines until you get your memberships finalized.”

“Good working with you,” Billy said as he rose. They tapped gloves again.

“You, too,” Noah said, frustrated at being benched even though he understood why.

And that frustration only grew as, for the next forty-five minutes, he was forced to cool his heels while others competed in the grappling match or sparred in the rings. He thought about leaving, but he didn’t want to come off as throwing some kind of temper tantrum. Besides, he knew enough from years of wrestling to know you could learn a lot by studying other fighters.

Still, sitting there made him restless and anxious, and soon he felt that pressure growing inside his chest again. It didn’t help that the earlier exercises already had his adrenaline pumping.

By the time class was over, he was itching to get out of there. Because he liked everyone he’d met so far, and no way did he want to make anything but a good impression. He wasn’t pulling another public meltdown. Not in front of these guys, fuck you very much.

As Noah was jamming his feet back into his sneakers, Mack came up to him. “So, what did you think of your first time?”

“Liked it,” Noah said. “Made me feel…more focused than I have in a while.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Mack said, smiling. They clasped hands. “I’ll see you on Tuesday then?”

Noah nodded, antsy to get out of there even though he liked Mack a lot. “Yeah. With my paperwork ready to go.”

“Good man.” Mack made his way through the group to Tara.

“Hey,” someone said tapping his arm. Noah turned to find Mo towering over him—not something he was used to experiencing. “Want to come grab a drink? A group of us usually goes out after class.”

The tightness in Noah’s chest had him worried about chancing it. “Not sure I’m up for it tonight,” Noah said. “Next time, though, count me in.”

“You got it,” Mo said. They clasped hands and the big guy pulled him in for a quick, one-shouldered embrace. “You opened yourself up a lot today, Noah. Don’t be surprised if that throws you off center a little bit.” Mo handed him a card. “You need anything—even to talk—before Tuesday’s class, don’t hesitate to call.”

Frowning, Noah nodded. Throw him off, as in even more? For fuck’s sake. “Thanks, Mo.”

The car ride was quiet and solitary. He’d been around people way more than usual today, and that made him feel even more alone than he normally did. A heaviness settled over him as he approached his apartment complex, and all he could think about was grabbing a quick shower and falling into bed. It was as if the whole day—the classes, the panic attack, sharing parts of himself he normally didn’t—had overloaded his mind and the only fix was to reboot by going to sleep.

As a soft rain started to fall, Noah parked and got out of the Explorer, and then found himself doing a double take. Because he was parked right next to Kristina’s car. Hope surged through him. She hadn’t gone on the date, after all. So glad he hadn’t gone out with the club, he glanced up toward his apartment. The lights were all dark…

Confused, he frowned. And then dread snaked down Noah’s spine.

No.

Noah ran up to his apartment and burst through the door. “Kristina?” He slammed through the space, turning on lights and searching behind doors.

But it didn’t take long to know for certain she wasn’t there.

Which left only one possibility. Kristina had come home with Ethan.

And Noah saw fucking red.