WHEN I RETURN from the locker room a few minutes later, I’m wearing black leggings and a fitted tank under my T-shirt, and showing considerably less skin.
There’s a guy in the ring with Owen and it’s not Lazarus. I recognize the fauxhawk. It’s Tucker. He’s wearing a T-shirt, sweats with a red stripe down the side, mismatched socks, and his high-top Vans.
“You have to stand up to those boys,” Lazarus says from his seat at the chess table, “or they’ll never leave you alone. That’s the way it works. Take down the ringleader and the rest of them won’t bother you anymore.”
Tucker sighs. “That’s not gonna happen. Garrett, the guy who has it in for me, outweighs me by a hundred pounds, easy. The only way I’m going to take him down is with a bulldozer.”
“Size has nothing to do with it. Even if you can’t take Garrett down, you can stop him from kicking your ass.” Owen motions for Tucker to move to the center of the ring. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Tucker says.
Lazarus looks up from his chess game. “Stop talking, Tucker. You don’t need to understand. Just pay attention.”
I move closer to watch.
“So here’s what I want you to do,” Owen says. “Bend your wrist back like this, so the heel of your hand is facing up.” Owen demonstrates the correct position, and Tucker mimics it with his hand. “Good. You’re going to use the heel of your hand to strike.”
“That means hit, right?” Tucker asks.
“Yeah. There are three parts of the body that are vulnerable on everyone: the eyes, hitting the nose up toward the bridge, and right here.” He touches the hollow at the base of his throat. “If you strike any of those places with the heel of your hand, you should be able to stun the person long enough to take off—if the hit doesn’t take them down completely.”
Tucker looks at the heel of his hand. “What if I don’t hit them hard enough, or in the right spot?”
“The nose is the easiest target. But you have to strike in an upward motion, like this.” Owen demonstrates the move in slow motion, raising the heel of his hand up to Tucker’s nose as if he’s going to hit it. “There are a lot of nerves in the nose, so if you hit someone there, it hurts like hell and it will make their eyes water.”
Tucker still looks unsure.
Owen motions toward him. “Try it.”
Tucker performs the same movement, thrusting the heel of his hand upward until he reaches Owen’s nose. “Like that?”
“Exactly like that.”
He walks Tucker through the move over and over, explaining each step.
The first few times, Tucker’s aim is off or he executes the strike incorrectly. With each failed attempt, he appears more dejected. “I’ll never get it right.”
“Try again,” Owen says, sounding like Cutter issuing instructions.
“I’ve already done it ten times,” Tucker complains.
“And we’ll keep doing it until you get it. So are you going to try again or quit?”
“It’s bad luck to give up in a boxing ring,” Lazarus says.
“That probably only counts if you’re a boxer,” Tucker says.
“It counts no matter who you are,” Lazarus says. “A ring is for fighting, not quitting. Sometimes you fight with your fists and other times you fight with your will.”
“Come on.” Owen gestures for Tucker to try again. “Stand up straight and concentrate. Visualize the move before you do it. See yourself executing each step.”
“Okay.” Tucker moves with more determination this time and shoves the heel of his hand at Owen’s nose.
“That’s it, kid,” Lazarus calls out. “Like David and Goliath.”
“I did it.” Tucker stares at his hand. “Did you see that?”
Owen nods. “Yeah, and I can feel it, too.”
“Oh yeah. Sorry!” Tucker stares at it as though he had just shot fire from his fingertips.
“We need to keep practicing, but you’ve got the hang of it.” Owen gets up and notices me watching them.
“But what if the person is someone like you, and they really know how to fight?” Tucker asks.
“If you’re not confident that you can do it fast enough, then you need a distraction.”
“Okay.”
Suddenly, I’m interested. Distracting an attacker is a solid strategy, in self-defense and sports.
Owen motions to Tucker. “Do you have a quarter?”
Lazarus stops playing chess and looks over as if he’s curious, too.
Tucker pulls at the side of his sweats. “Not on me. I don’t have any pockets.”
“I’ve got one.” Lazarus stands, takes a quarter out of his pocket, and holds it up next to the ropes.
“Thanks.” Owen takes it and tosses it in the air a couple of times.
“What are you gonna do with it?” Tucker asks.
“Watch.” Owen stands directly in front of Tucker, the way Garrett did in the parking lot at the football game. “So Garrett or some asshole is coming at you, right?”
Tucker nods. “Yeah?”
Owen tosses the coin, higher this time. It sails above Tucker’s head, and Tucker looks up, tracking it. The moment Tucker looks away, Owen comes at him with a strike and pretends to hit him in the nose.
“I wasn’t ready,” Tucker says.
The coin hits the mat between them.
“That’s the whole point. If you throw something in the air, nine times out of ten, the person will look up. That gives you enough time to make your move without them seeing it coming.”
It’s actually really clever.
Tucker picks up the quarter. “So this is my strategy?”
“Don’t knock it. It works. You can do it with anything: car keys, a pen…”
“Guess I’ll start carrying a quarter.” Tucker grins at me and leans over the ropes. “You’re Peyton, right?” Owen glares at him, and Tucker clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m Tucker. I’m a freshman at Black Water.”
“It’s nice to officially meet you.” He obviously remembers me from the parking lot. “You look pretty good up there.” I realize Owen might think I’m talking to him, and I blurt out, “Tucker.”
“Thanks. Owen is teaching me some self-defense.” He ducks between the ropes and jumps down from the ring. “But I’ve gotta go. My mom is picking me up in a few minutes. Thanks, Owen.” Tucker grabs a skateboard that’s leaning against the wall.
“You got a new board.” It’s nice to see Tucker riding again.
“Yeah.” He pulls on a hoodie. “Someone left it on my front porch yesterday. I’ll see you guys later.”
“You did great,” Owen calls after him.
After Tucker leaves, I say, “It’s really cool that you’re teaching him to defend himself.”
Owen’s eyes flicker to me. “I can teach you, too, if you want.”
“I’m good. I already know how to take care of myself.”
“Do you?” Owen shakes his head and holds up one of the padded red ropes. “Prove it.”
“This makes it kind of hard.” I tap on the top of my brace, annoyed that Owen would challenge me when he knows I can’t accept.
“You don’t have to go full force. I’ll settle for a demonstration.” He’s still holding up the rope, and he makes a ridiculous sweeping gesture with his arm. “Your stage awaits.”
Owen’s smug expression seals the deal.
“Fine.” When I walk over to the ring, Owen offers me a hand. I take it, and the moment his skin makes contact with mine, a rush of warmth starts at my fingertips and travels all the way to my toes. His hand slides around my back, and he supports my weight as I duck between the ropes. I lead with my good leg, and Owen’s grip on my waist tightens as I ease my other leg through.
“Thanks.” With both of my feet planted safely on the ground, Owen doesn’t need to hold on to me anymore, but his hand lingers a moment longer.
I step back and toss my ponytail over my shoulder. “So now I do you?”
That did not come out right. Why do I keep saying the wrong things in front of him? It’s like I’m cursed.
A slow smile spreads across Owen’s lips. He leans against the ropes and crosses his arms, raising his shirt enough to show the sexy sliver of skin. If I didn’t know better, I would swear he was doing it on purpose.
“You look cute when you’re embarrassed.”
“Cute?” I put one hand on my hip. “Puppies are cute.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “I take it back. You’re not cute.”
“What about my knee? You could hit it by accident.”
“This is a demo, like when I was practicing with Tucker. I didn’t hit him,” he reminded me.
True. It was more like watching stunt people practicing for a fight scene.
“I’ll come straight at you, no surprises.” Owen stands in the center of the ring. “And you pretend I’m an attacker and show me how you’d get away.”
“Okay. But be careful with my knee.”
“Got it. Ready?”
I try not to think about how silly I’ll look pretending to knee him in the groin. “Whatever.”
Instead of running at me like people do in self-defense classes, Owen takes his time. He focuses on me, stone-faced, without taking his eyes off me for a second—like a predator tracking its prey.
The adorable and shameless flirt with the sexy abs is gone. It’s strange, but I’m not scared of Owen. The look in his eye is nothing like the one I saw in Reed’s eyes before he pushed me. Owen is pretending to be dangerous. Reed wasn’t acting.
A few more steps and I’ll be within his reach. I wish the circumstances were different—that I was different. And I could let him catch me.
Because I’d love to be caught.
The corner of my mouth tips up.
“This is serious, Peyton.” Without warning, Owen comes at me.
I raise my good knee, mimicking the way I’d knee a real attacker. But I don’t even get close.
Owen reaches over my shoulder and around the back of my neck, and puts his hand over my ear—almost like he’s cupping it. The next thing I know, my body is turning away from him and my balance feels off. Before I have time to panic, Owen’s arm slides up my back, like we’re on a dance floor and he’s dipping me.
He lowers me down to the mat gently, with his hand cradling my head. The sensation of his fingertips on my scalp sends a current tingling along my spine. Owen flips one of his legs over my body so that he’s straddling me, without actually sitting on me. He stays on his knees, supporting his weight. One of his hands is still behind my head, and his other hand is planted on the mat next to my cheek. He leans over me, his face hovering above mine. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I suck in the tiniest breath possible. His lips part, and I imagine reaching out and touching his full bottom lip—running my finger down the indentation in the center.
Suddenly, he sits up on his knees, my body still pinned between his legs. His hands move to my wrists, holding them against the mat. He looks down at me with a cocky smile. “Still think you know how to defend yourself? A real attacker wouldn’t break your fall.”
For a moment, I forget about the reason I’m pinned against the mat. He must feel my pulse pounding against my wrists.
Why Owen? Why now—at the worst possible time?
“Did I hurt you?” Concern flickers in Owen’s eyes.
“No. But I don’t understand what happened. I started to turn and it felt weird.”
“Like you were off balance?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“If you put your hand over someone’s ear and pull them in the opposite direction from behind, it throws your inner ear out of whack. Your inner ear is what controls your equilibrium.”
“Maybe I don’t know as much about self-defense as I thought.”
Owen releases my wrists and tucks the loose strands of hair that escaped from my ponytail behind my ear. “I’ll teach you the basics if you want. It won’t earn you a black belt, but you’ll know how to protect yourself if someone tries to hurt you.”
I look away when he says the last part. “You don’t have to.”
Owen helps me up, and I lean against the ropes, trying to make sense of everything I’m feeling. His arm skims my waist as he reaches for the rope behind me. He brings his other hand up to my cheek. It hovers there for a moment—frozen in place.
The same way I feel right now.
Finally, he tucks another strand of hair behind my ear and leans closer. “Let me teach you, Peyton. I don’t want anyone to hurt you.”
Too late.
I almost let the words slip out.
“You got quiet on me. Does that mean you’re thinking about it?” Owen asks.
What were we talking about?
Self-defense.
Me and Owen rolling around on the floor together … his face inches from mine on a regular basis. Me wanting to kiss him.
“Peyton?” Owen watches me with an intensity that makes it hard to concentrate.
“Yeah. Sure.” Why am I agreeing to this? “If we have time after PT and everything.”
When he hears the last word, he smiles. He’s still sweaty from training. Unlike most guys, he doesn’t smell like a dirty pair of gym socks. It’s crazy and I’d never admit it to anyone, but I think he smells like the ocean—clean and salty. And it’s not helping with the attraction issue.
Owen holds one of the ropes I’m leaning against. If I move the slightest bit, the side of my arm would graze his hand. I inhale and get another hit of his intoxicating scent.
“I don’t want a boyfriend,” I blurt out.
It’s a defense mechanism. Fight or flight. Except words fly out of my mouth and my feet stay planted on the floor.
Owen leans closer. “Who said I want to be your boyfriend?” His breath tickles my neck.
“You’re right. I should’ve said that I’m not looking for a hookup.” I step to the side and move out of reach.
“You don’t seem like the kind of girl who randomly hooks up with guys.” He’s leaning against the ropes where I was standing a moment ago.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Owen walks over to where I’m standing. “You’re stubborn and you don’t take any shit. And don’t look at me that way. It’s a compliment.”
“Maybe, if you’re a drill sergeant.”
“You’re the kind of girl a guy wants to keep around for a lot longer than one night.”
I tilt my head to the side. “How many nights, exactly? Are we talking two or three, or a whole week? I want to keep my expectations realistic.”
Owen looks down at me. “You’re taking this all wrong. I wasn’t saying I wouldn’t want to be your boyfriend. I was just giving you a hard time. You made it clear you weren’t available the first night we met. I believed you.”
Part of me regrets it—the same part that told me how lucky I was the first night Reed kissed me. The part I can’t trust anymore.
He takes a deep breath. “But we can still be friends, right?”
Unbelievable. I’m getting an updated version of the “let’s be friends” speech from a guy I’m not even dating.
“Or do you have too many friends already?” he teases.
Getting closer to a guy I’m attracted to and I can’t date is a bad idea—like playing with matches over a puddle of lighter fluid.
Owen holds his fists in front of him, like a boxer meeting his opponent in the center of the ring before a fight. “Friends?”
I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason. Some things just happen, and you have to live with the fallout.
Miracles have explanations.
Love at first sight isn’t an inexplicable phenomenon. It’s science—biology and pheromones.
Owen is still holding out his hands. “Have you ever watched a boxing match?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Boxers touch gloves at the beginning of a fight as a show of respect.”
“Are we going to fight?” I hold back a smile.
“Are you ever gonna go easy on me?”
“Probably not.”
Owen grins. “I can live with that.” He holds out his hands, still balled into fists between us. “Friends?”
I search his dark eyes for an indication that I’m not crazy to trust him. There’s no way to be sure. I think about coincidences and excuses, giving up and fallout.
I ball it all up in my fists and touch mine against Owen’s. “Friends.”