“Okay, but going back to what Piper said. I think she’s right.” Kavi places her empty beer bottle on a side table. “I think Pattonis trying to get you back. Especially after what he said about Micah.”
I stay quiet, hoping my mixed emotions aren’t written all over my face. Because it’s exactly how I feel: jumbled up and turned around.
A part of me—the part that’s been detached and dormant for so long—is stirring awake, wondering if it really is as simple as they’re making it. That perhaps my ex-husband moving into town is some type of Nicholas Sparks-level love declaration.
But the other part—the part that still nurses old wounds from time to time—is suiting up with additional armor. Because she’s the one who remembers those nights alone. She’s the one who recalls wondering where she sat on his priority list. And she’s not ready to just hand over those keys because her ex-husband has decided,seven years later, that he misses her.
“But why now?” Rani asks, gathering her hair into a topknot. “Why after all these years?”
“I have a feeling it has something to do with what happened last year,” Sarina answers. There’s a gleam in her eyes that I don’t like one bit. Like she already knows that whatever happened will only help fortify her plan to play Cupid.
“Which brings us to why we’re here,” Piper says, bringing a tray of—oh, God—shot glasses brimming with green liquid. “To get the tea! To commemorate this occasion, I appropriately made green tea shots for us!”
A few of us groan, but we all reach out to grab a shot glass. There’s no point in arguing with her. Unless you’re pregnant, a recovering addict, or it’s against your religion, the woman is going to pour the shot down your throat anyway.
“Salud, bitches!” Piper chimes as we clink glasses and throw back the shots. She puts her empty one back on the tray before looking at me. “Now. Don’t you dare skip a single detail.”
eight
nisha
Not Asking For Forever
One Year Ago
Itune out the roar from the bleachers—the various national flags, the distant yells from proud parents and family, the scattered applause.
My focus is locked on my student, Sydney, as she blocks a chop kick from her opponent and pivots to land a clean kick to her side.
“Good,” I whisper to myself, though my hands ball at my sides. In my right hand, I’m gripping my protest card so tight, it’s threatening to slice through skin.
I’m waiting—fucking daring—Sydney’s opponent to try something sketchy again. She’s a German girl who’s built like a tank and probably eats toddlers for breakfast. How the hell did she even get into the featherweight class? There’s literally nothing feather-like about her.
Sydney, on the other hand, is all long legs and refined kicks. The kind that makes her look like she’s meant for ballet until they’re trying to crack your spine. But right now, she’s off balance coming off a clinch, the mat squeaking under her feet as she tries to stay upright but can’t.
It’s as if I’ve willed the scenario into existence when her opponent delivers a sharp kick a second after Sydney hits the floor. Not only was that kick unnecessary, it was completely illegal.
Or itshouldhave been.
I wait for the referee to call it. He doesn’t.
What the hell?
I shoot to my feet and hold the protest card up like I’m trying to stab someone with it. “Coach challenge! That should have been agam-jeom.”
The ref calls for a pause, separating the two fighters. And while Sydney is back on her feet, her eyes flick to mine, wondering the same thing—why isn’t the ref calling textbook bullshit?A grounded opponent taking a kick? That should have been an automatic deduction. And it’s not like I’m the only one who saw it.
I give Sydney a short nod, letting her know I’ve got her, but inside, I’m fuming. My eyes are locked on where the judges are reviewing the footage on their monitors while my fists park themselves on my hips.
And that’s when I feel it—that strange pull that starts inside my chest, like a string tugging me upright. It stiffens my spine, making me turn to find the cause.
I scan the bleachers, already searching before my brain can even register it. It’s then that they land on the tall figure partially hidden behind two massive men, who are likely part of his protection team.
He’s wearing an oversized hoodie with a cap and sunglasses, but I’d know that set of shoulders, those unfairly plush lips, and that stubbled cut of his jaw anywhere. Not because any of those features belong to a man who’s been gracingPeople’s Sexiest Menlist for the past five years, but because he’s starred in every single one of my damn dreams since the moment I left him.
Hell, the man could have worn a paper bag over his head, and I’d probably still recognize him.
But why is he here?
