Ignoring a slightly misplaced foot, pushing past a nagging fear of gear failure, or ramping up the intensity to latch a small hold.

They all require mental awareness.

Most climbers know that the mental game of climbing is just as important as, if not more so than, the physical aspect. So it is no surprise when Cam pulls his Jeep into the parking lot of the Hangar 18 Indoor Rock Climbing Gym.

Peering over his shades, he removes the key from the ignition and glances over at me. “You ready to show me you can get your shit together?”

The question isn’t off the wall. The drive from Vegas to Laguna was spent with me spilling my guts about losing my job, my life, my mind, and even myself, and Cam just listening.

Not judging.

Not commenting.

Just being who he has always been—my friend.

I wanted so badly to talk about Maggie to him, but that promise we made to each other isn’t one I could break, even if I broke a million others. I get that it doesn’t really mean much; she might be with my brother right now for all I know.

Still, it’s all I have to hold onto, except for the memories of how good she felt beneath me, in my arms, and on my tongue.

And yes, I fucked up.

Fucked up big time.

The question is, can I make her see it wasn’t her? That as clichéd as it sounds, it really was me. About me, and my need to succeed. About my own disappointment. About coming down off a high I’d been on for two years and falling so hard, I didn’t know when I hit the ground.

“Well?” Cam smirks.

Snapping out of it, I open my door and look over at him with a grin. “When was the last time you climbed, or got in the ring?”

I don’t bother to wait for an answer because I already know it’s been years. Me, on the other hand, every weekend before my fall from Wall Street I was either climbing or at the boxing gym.

So who do you think is going to show whom what?

Cam might be one of those strong-shouldered dudes with a cocky smile who could definitely break your wrist arm-wrestling if he wanted to. The thing I think he has forgotten is that when I’m sober, I’m faster than him.

Always have been.

Long soul-searching talks forgotten, I’m out to show him I’m back, and boy am I back.

As soon as he turns the corner to the front of his Jeep, I grab hold of him around the neck, jerk him backward, and dig my knee right into his spine. His arms flail and he tries to roll me over his back. Not happening. I apply a little more pressure and hear him grunt.

“Who did it?” I hiss into his ear.

“Did what?” Cam gags for air.

I hold tighter as he twists. “Shot down the Knicks in the 1995 playoffs.”

There’s a twist, a useless attempt to kick my legs out from under me, and even an elbow to the gut. Yet, I still have him in my hold. “Reggie Miller, with back-to-back three-pointers,” he finally gasps.

Releasing the vise hold I have around his neck, Cam falls to one knee on the grass, sucking in air and trying to get his breath back. When he does, he looks up at me. “Fucker.”

“You’re lucky,” I say, grinning, and then put my hand out to help him up. “I was going to ask who shot the craziest game-winning buzzer-beating shot ever, and I bet that would have taken you a lot longer to remember.”

“You know, you really are a sight for sore eyes?” I turn to see my brother leaning against the handlebars of his motorcycle, just shaking his head.

“Yeah, well you’re making my eyes sore now.”

Brooklyn joins us and the three of us laugh, the way we did whenever we all got together growing up, and then we all lock hands, ghetto-style.

Once inside, though, we get serious.

Wearing a pair of Brooklyn’s nylon cargo pants and one of his Dri-FIT T-shirts because all my shit was thrown, like literally, into the back of Cam’s Jeep, I use my hands and feet to find the holds.

I move upward at a pretty good pace considering the amount of alcohol I most likely still have left in my system. The rope tied to the harness around my waist is under the control of my belay partner, who just so happens to be Cam right now.

Hope he doesn’t let me fall if I misstep.

Nah, just kidding; he is belay certified.

He wouldn’t to that.

Would he?

As I ascend the wall, I create slack with the rope, and Cam does his job keeping it tight.

Brooklyn is on a route beside me. “You’re slow today, big brother.”

I shoot him the finger.

He laughs.

“So how’s it been living with a chick?” I ask casually, probing a little for information without making it look like I am.

His fingers tighten around the handle. “Good, man, but I have to say it’s not without its complications.”

I reach a little higher, my body going live wire. “Oh yeah, in what way?” I mentally prepare myself for what he is about to say.

He rises a little and peers down. “Ever since New Year’s she’s been really fucking moody. Always making comments about the chicks I’m hanging out with and never going out anymore. You know, I think she might have a crush on me.”

Jealousy swims in my veins. I look up, trying to keep my temperament at bay. “By the looks of things last night on that table, it’s you, little brother, that has the crush.”

“Me, hell no! That’s just the way we roll. Besides, she is not my type at all. A little too headstrong, if you know what I mean?”

It takes everything I have to not burst out laughing. And I mean everything. “Yeah, chicks are complicated,” I say straight-faced, and then turn my attention back to the climb with the biggest fucking smile on my face. Talk about wires being crossed. Neither of them actually likes the other and both think they do.

It truly is a laugh-out-loud moment.

Within minutes, Brooklyn is about three feet higher than me, the little shit is moving faster than me just to show me up.

The truth is with each movement my mind is wandering farther and farther away from the climb.

Have you ever heard the phrase “The eyes are the mirror to the soul”?

People usually say this when they can see pain, anger, or confusion in somebody else’s eyes.

But what if you see yourself in someone else’s stare?

From the moment I looked into Maggie May’s gaze on New Year’s Eve, I knew she was trouble.

That I was in trouble.

Like deep, deep trouble.

It wasn’t her name, the song, or her belief that it somehow reflects who she is, as if the song was written about her even though she hadn’t been born yet.

It wasn’t the fact that she is attractive as hell. Sure, I’m a guy, but attraction I can fight.

It was the look in her eyes—the one that matched mine.

A hunger that is never quite satisfied.

An itch incapable of being scratched.

A need so deep, no one can ever fill it.

Ignoring it, avoiding those eyes, would have been my best course of action considering the fuck-up that my life is right now. But no, I had to agree to come to California, to take on this job on a trial basis, and without knowing I had agreed to work with her. I can’t believe who she worked for never came up in conversation those three days we talked, but then again, it was all about the sex.

Now who’s screwed?

The whole ride over here today I tried to discourage Cam. Told him I was a big boy and could learn the ropes on my own.

Maggie is anything but ready to work with me—shit, she doesn’t even want to look at me. And I get it. But Cam and his brilliant ideas.

The stubborn fucker wouldn’t back down.

As soon as I suggested I do this on my own, I had to listen to how Maggie is the best person to introduce me to the company. How she loves her job, and how well she knows men’s fashion. How smart and dedicated she is. Blah, blah, blah.

Does he not see the very basic issue here? She’s a woman and I’m a man, and nothing but trouble can come from the two of us working together, especially since she hates me.

I mean, have you ever felt a lust so strong that it threatens to topple the wall you’ve very neatly built around yourself?

If the thought isn’t pretty, the reality can only be ten times worse.

Right?

Just then my foot slips and I start to fall.

Fanfuckingtastic.

Bouncing midair, I glare down at my belay partner.

“Hey Keen,” comes Cam’s smart mouth.

“Yeah,” I bark.

“Payback is a bitch,” he says, letting me hang like a wrecking ball in the middle of the gym.

“Fucker,” I mutter.

Brooklyn peers down at me from the top of the wall. “Losing your edge, big brother?”

My head snaps in his direction. “No, little brother, not at all—I’m just warming up.”

Not even close. My edge. “Yes, my edge is something I plan on keeping for a long time. A very long time, Maggie,” I mumble to myself.

And that’s something to hold onto.