WHEN I FINISH PT that afternoon, I return from the locker room freshly showered to find Owen pacing in front of the ring with his cell phone to his ear.
“Come on, Mom. Pick up.” Owen tugs at his hair like he’s trying to yank it out. “It’s bad enough that you’re ignoring my texts, but now you’re sending me straight to voice mail?” He stops pacing and leans against one of the ring’s padded corner posts with his arm above his head and his forehead pressed against the padding.
“Don’t do this, Mom. Please. Not tonight,” Owen begs. He hangs up and hurls his phone at the floor. It hits the concrete and explodes. “Shit!” He grips the ropes and shakes them, shoulders slumped, and hangs his head.
I walk over, watching his shoulders rise and fall with each deep breath. In the dimly lit gym, his black track pants and hoodie make him look like a shadow.
“Owen?” I say his name softly and touch his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
He takes one hand off the ropes and lays it on top of mine, curling his fingers around the side of my hand. He slides his thumb under my wrist, sending a ripple of shock waves up my arm.
“My mom is playing her trump card. She doesn’t want me fighting, and by the end of tonight, I won’t have a shot at the regional championship.”
“I need you to give me more than that. What did she do? I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”
Owen’s hand slides off mine and he turns to face me. The top of my head doesn’t even reach his shoulder. “You would help me?”
“It depends on what we’re talking about.”
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and his touch gives me goose bumps.
“There’s nothing you can do, but knowing you’d help me means a lot.” Owen scrubs his hands over his face. “My mom was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago so I could drop her at home and use the car. The semifinals are tonight outside of Nashville. If I’m a no-show, I’m disqualified and I can’t fight in the finals.”
“What about Cutter? Can you ride with her?”
He shakes his head. “She’s meeting me there. UT has a big game on Friday night and they needed her at practice today. Even if I called her now, she wouldn’t make it back in time to pick me up.” He sounds defeated, and I understand. Getting disqualified without having a chance to compete isn’t something I could stomach, either. “Maybe I could ask your cousins for a ride when they come to get you?”
“They’re not picking me up today,” I say calmly. “Practice doesn’t end until seven, and Cam said it might run longer because we don’t have school tomorrow. So I drove myself.”
Owen’s eyebrows shoot up. “Since when do you have a car?”
I take out the keys and dangle them from my finger. “My uncle let me borrow a Jeep he’s working on.”
“You’ve gotta give me a ride, Peyton. I’ll do anything. I’ll pay you or carry your books for the rest of the year. Whatever you want. I just need a ride.”
“To a fight?” I take a step back.
Owen drops to his knees and steeples his hands. “Please.”
I want to go to an MMA fight about as much as I want to walk into school naked. But how can I say no?
“I can’t go to an MMA fight.” The words slip out.
Owen stands, watching my every move. “What do you mean by can’t?”
I pull the elastic off my wrist and work on gathering my hair into a ponytail. Anything to keep from making eye contact with Owen. “I meant won’t.”
“You don’t have to go to the fight. You can drop me off,” he says, switching gears. “If I can’t catch a ride home with Cutter, I’ll hitchhike back, and I’ll do it with a smile. Just get me there.”
“Fine. I’ll take you. But I’m not going in.”
“Seriously?” Owen throws his arms around my waist, picks me up, and spins around. “You have no idea how much I love you right now.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
It’s a figure of speech. People say it all the time.
I’ve said it. He doesn’t mean anything by it, but I kind of wish he did.
Owen puts me down. He grabs his bag and lifts mine off my shoulder. “You’re saving my ass, Peyton. I owe you.”
“Come on.” I lead him through the parking lot to the Jeep.
“Want me to drive?” he offers. “I know where I’m going. It’ll be faster.”
I hesitate.
“Worried I’ll crash it?” Owen asks. “I’m a good driver and I have insurance.”
I snort. “If you’re such a great driver, why did you throw in the part about having insurance?”
Owen pats down his pockets. “Where’s my—?”
“Your phone? You threw it on the floor.”
“Right. Not my finest moment.”
“It’s okay. I threw my cleats out the car window once, after I lost a game.”
He opens the car door for me and offers me his arm when I step onto the running board. I settle into the driver’s seat and start the car while he runs around to jump in, but when I try to shift out of park, Owen covers my hand with his and stops me.
“Forget something?” He leans over and pulls the seat belt across my chest without touching anything he shouldn’t. It’s the sort of gesture you read about in novels, but nobody does it in real life.
Except Owen.
He straps the seat belt into place and secures his own. He doesn’t say much during the forty minutes to the arena. He thanks me ten more times and fidgets with his hands—opening them, stretching his fingers wide, and then squeezing them closed.
“Are you nervous?” I ask. Because I am, and I’m not the one fighting tonight.
Owen looks over at me, and his dark eyes search mine. “Why?”
“Why what?” I’ve completely lost track of the conversation.
He flashes me a smile. “You asked me a question before you got distracted by whatever it was you were thinking about a second ago—which I know couldn’t have been me, because you’re not attracted to me and we’re just friends.”
I open my mouth, but I can’t think of a single thing to say.
“But I’ll catch you up anyway,” he says. “You asked if I was nervous, and I asked why. Then you couldn’t remember what you asked me.” He winks at me.
“Are you always this cocky before a fight?”
“Have you always been this good at changing the subject?”
I lean my elbow on the armrest between us. “You changed it first. I guess you aren’t comfortable admitting that you’re nervous.”
“Not as nervous as you are about watching it,” Owen says.
“Nice try.” I keep my eyes on the road so he can’t read my expression. As much as I enjoy flirting with Owen, I’m not a fan of the fact that he can read me so well. “I don’t like fights, or fighters. Didn’t we cover this?”
“Have you ever been to an MMA fight?” He sounds so confident and sure of himself. The competitive side of me cringes.
“No.” I hesitate before adding, “I’ve been to more than one.” The moment the words leave my lips, I regret saying them. I’m only inviting more questions.
Owen’s gaze darts between my face and the road. “When? Who did you go with?”
“My best friend’s older brother is an MMA fighter. She dragged me along to watch his fights.” Sort of true.
“And you weren’t into it.” He’s not asking, which saves me from feeling like a total liar when I don’t correct him.
The truth? I loved going to fights. The skills involved in MMA and the conditioning it requires impressed the hell out of me. Now the thought of watching a fight just reminds me of Reed.
Owen sighs. “So much for my brilliant plan.”
“What plan?”
“The one where I talk you into coming to a fight and you see the error of your ways. Then you become an obsessive fan, beg me to bring you to all my competitions, and scream your lungs out when I win.”
I laugh. “You’re delusional.”
“Okay. Forget the last part.” He sounds hopeful.
“I’m guessing your mom doesn’t come?”
Owen stiffens, then shakes it off. “Don’t try to change the subject. I’m asking the questions. You used to like MMA, and now you hate it. What happened between then and now? Did you see someone get hurt in a fight?” He’s working hard to connect the dots that I don’t want connected. But he’s on the wrong track, and every omission and misleading piece of information I give him sends him deeper into a rabbit hole.
“I’m not playing twenty questions. MMA isn’t my thing. End of story.”
“Come on. Give me something. Friends are supposed to tell each other stuff.”
“Aren’t you the guy who was giving me a hard time about the friends thing?” I ask.
“I’m not saying I wouldn’t go out with you if the option was on the table, but it’s not. I guess you’ll just have to wonder what it would’ve been like since we’re just friends.”
“So what happened to make you hate MMA so much?” he asks.
I hate lying to Owen, but everyone has secrets. I’m entitled to mine.
Telling him won’t accomplish anything. It won’t make what happened with Reed any less painful or frustrating or unfair. It will just stir up those shitty feelings again.
It’s not like every word I tell Owen is a lie.
This is one thing.
I told him how my dad died—something I usually keep to myself. He knows a lot more about me than I know about him.
“It’s my turn to ask a question. You said friends tell each other things, and we’re friends, right?” I’m using his logic.
“Unless you changed your mind.” He smirks and I poke his shoulder.
“Stop. I’m serious.”
“And you think I’m not?”
I roll my eyes. “Forget I asked.”
Owen reaches over and tugs my sleeve. “Of course we’re friends. Why?”
“Is everything okay with your mom? I wouldn’t ask, but I saw her crying in the car the other morning, and then she didn’t show up tonight.”
“It’s a long story, but the short version is that she thinks MMA is dangerous and she wants me to quit fighting. But she’s never done anything as extreme as what she did tonight.”
An LED sign up ahead reads: MMA REGIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP SEMIFINALS. I turn into a packed parking lot in front of an arena. It reminds me of the place where I saw my first concert.
Men and women carrying gym bags file through a side door while spectators line up at the main entrance. This is an amateur event, but the size of the arena and the number of competitors and trainers entering the building tells me it’s still big time.
I park and Owen looks at me. “Thanks for the ride. I mean it. You saved my ass. I’ll catch a ride back with Cutter, or I’ll figure something out.”
“What time does this end?” I don’t want him hitchhiking.
“Around nine. Why? Did you change your mind about watching?” He looks hopeful.
“No. But I’ll come back and pick you up. It’s only two hours, and I’ve always wanted to check out Nashville.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.” I shove his arm in a flirtatious move that would make Lucia proud. “I’ll meet you back here at nine.”
Owen’s eyes drift to the spot where I’m touching his arm. I move my hand, but he reaches up and presses his palm against mine, as if they’re lined up on opposite sides of a window. He interlaces his fingers with mine and rests our hands on his leg.
“Can I ask you a question?” he asks.
Any question that begins that way is one I probably don’t want to answer.
“Forget it. You won’t tell me anyway.”
For a girl who always picks dare in Truth or Dare, ignoring a challenge is impossible. “Reverse psychology? Am I that easy to read?”
“Just the opposite,” Owen says.
“What do you want to know? The name of the first guy I kissed? The worst thing I’ve ever done? My deepest, darkest secret? Hit me.”
“If you weren’t taking a break from dating and I wasn’t a kickboxer, would you have given me a shot?”
The inside of my mouth goes dry. What can I say? Admit that I’m attracted to him and that in an alternate universe I’d go out with him in a second? Doing anything other than making a joke or evading the question altogether is too risky.
“What kind of shot?” I’m giving him an out, even though I secretly hope he doesn’t take it.
“The kind that ends with me kissing you good night.”
I suck in a breath and end up coughing.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Owen stifles a smile.
“It takes a lot more than a good line to make me uncomfortable.” I throw him a sideways glance. “I bet you say that to all the girls who won’t go out with you.”
The corner of Owen’s mouth tips up. “Actually, there aren’t that many.”
“Like you’d tell me if there were.”
“That hurts, Peyton. Are you trying to break my heart?”
I shoot him an incredulous look, which isn’t easy when he’s fake pouting. “I’m not sure that’s possible.”
Owen brings our joined hands to his chest. “Every heart can be broken. Some just break more easily than others.”
“Do you always flirt this much?”
“Only on fight nights.”
I laugh. Owen makes me forget about the weight I’m carrying, and it feels good.
“What are you smiling about?” he asks.
“A girl can’t smile?” I’m flirting again.
“If the girl is you she can do whatever she wants.” Owen doesn’t take his eyes off me, and it feels like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Are you sure you don’t want to come inside?”
“You never give up, do you?”
Owen’s expression turns serious. “Not if I want something bad enough.”