The kicker of it all? The bastard usually comes out unscathed!
Well, not today.
Fifteen minutes later, having done some simple combinations with my group, I’ve just finished winning the spar with one of the men—a middle-aged fourthdan—when impressed murmurs from the crowd have us all turning toward the noise.
I suppress my groan.
Of course, it has to be him—Patton fucking Pierce—having executed what seems to have been a flawless tornado roundhouse, followed by a spinning hook kick that stops millimeters fromSabumnimChoi’s chest guard. He finishes the combo with a textbook back kick that, if he’d intended it to, would have sent his opponent flying backward.
A sense of nostalgia washes over me, mixing with that familiar pang that rises anytime I’m in the vicinity of my ex-husband.
The way his agile body does his bidding. The way each muscle flexes and yields as if well-versed in the choreographed movements. It’s both utterly beautiful and extremely irritating to watch.
“Flawless technique!”SabumnimChoi commends, awe and reverence lacing each syllable. “Where do you train?”
Patton straightens, his chest barely moving, despite having seemingly defied physics just seconds ago.
“Here and there.” His eyes flick to me, and his gaze sends goosebumps over my arms. “But I learned with some of the best.”
Pretending not to have heard, I swivel my gaze back to my group, murmuring something about getting back to it. I pretend his natural athleticism and ability to command a room doesn’t evoke the very thing I’ve worked years to bury—that attraction that’s always at the surface.
Once each group has completed their rotations, each instructor picks their winner. It’s no surprise whenSabumnimChoi picks the masked man some in the room have nicknamed “The Ninja,” though I’ve had to stop my eyes from rolling each time I’ve heard it.
Micah claps to get everyone’s attention before glancing at Patton. “That was quite the training and skill you showed today, Master Luca?—”
One of the ladies from my group searches my face, and I realize I’ve gasped audibly when Patton’s middle name confirms his identity.
“We’ll start with you. Who would you like to spar against next?” Micah asks, giving Patton a curious smile.
My heart somersaults inside my chest preemptively, my instincts knowing exactly who the bastard is going to choose, exactly who he came here for.
Patton turns, his eyes dragging up my legs and torso in a slow perusal before coming to rest on my face. Even under his headgear, his brow hitches, and though I can’t see it, I know the asshole is giving me one of his smug smirks, too.
His chin lifts. “SabumnimArora.”
With my eyes still pinned to Patton’s, I don’t have to look at Micah’s expression to know he can feel the tension between us.
“Very well,” Micah says as the crowd shifts to give me and Patton the center of the mat. “SabumnimArora, if you accept, please proceed.”
I nod, stepping forward before rolling my shoulders while Patton moves to his spot facing me. His deep brown eyes are deceptively calm, like the earth before a catastrophic quake.
And we’re just two fault lines about to collide once again.
We bow, formally. We’ve danced this dance before. The muscle memory is the same, whether on a mat or a mattress.
I get into my fighting stance, forcing my inner calm to come forth, and Patton mirrors my movement, winking at me like the sly bastard he is. He’s always known how to get under my skin.
The command to begin barely rolls off Micah’s tongue before Patton comes at me. Because of course he does. It’s always been in his nature to make the first move.
In life, in love, and on the mat.
His front kick is aimed at my head, controlled and powerful, snapping like a thunderclap before a downpour, but I sidestep it easily. Too easily.
The asshole is holding back.
“Really?” I taunt, circling him. “Is that the best you’ve got, or are you just out of practice?”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, giving away the tilt of his lips I can’t see. “Just warming up, Little Borealis.”
