Devon:I bought them.
Ugh, why does he have to ask so many questions? He’s a suspicious son of a bitch.
Jase chimes in as I head downstairs.
Jase:Fuck, bro. Tell me this isn’t about Harley.
Devon:Maybe it’s a little bit about Harley. But come on, some of the girls in her tournament are taking part. In her shoes, any of us would want to go.
Jase:Yeah, okay. But don’t make us regret it.
Devon:I won’t. Gabe, you in, big guy?
Gabe:Someone needs to make sure you keep your hands to yourself.
Devon:Appreciate you looking out for me.
Pocketing my phone, I spend the rest of the trip to the gym thinking about Harley and how her voice sounded in my ear late at night. Like she was on the bed with me. My heart swells. If I have my way, her voice will be the last thing I hear before I go to sleep every night. When I arrive, I head inside and take off my shoes. Jase is already here, and he’s working with Harley, his head ducked close to hers. He’s gesturing with his hands, and then he lays them on her and demonstrates a judo throw. She lands softly, rolls, and springs back to her feet. Her movements are graceful, and I could watch them forever.
“Dev.” I flinch, and spin around to see Seth standing beside me. He holds up a padded hand. “You warmed up?”
“Did a run before I came. If you give me two minutes, I’ll get everything loose again.”
“Good.” He nods firmly. “Need to work on your switch kicks.”
“Great, be there in a mo.” I wrap my hands quickly, skip for a few minutes, stretch, then make my way over to the octagon in the back, where Seth is shadow boxing while he waits. When he sees me coming, he slips the pads over his arms and paces to the middle of the ring. I hoist myself up to join him, and steady myself, then cross to where he’s holding the pads and snap my left leg up in a powerful kick.
“Fake knee to switch,” he barks. I comply.
For the next twenty minutes, he drills me until my leg is ready to collapse, then instructs me to punch a bag for a while so I don’t burn my lower body out. While I do, I watch Harley. She’s holding pads for Buster—a massive white guy with a crooked nose and no neck. She handles him like a goddamn pro, and based on how red his face is and the way his entire body heaves as he struggles to catch his breath, he’s giving it his all in an attempt to impress her.
She does not look impressed.
On the contrary, she seems impatient with his posturing and any time he pauses, she indicates for him to throw a punch.
A smile curves my lips. She’s not into beefy guys with no cardiovascular endurance. Given that I’m the complete opposite of Buster—leaner, darker, and quicker—I can’t help but be heartened by that.
“Yo, Dev,” Jase mutters as he passes by. “Eyes on the bag.”
With difficulty, I tear my attention from Harley. Damn it, I can’t be so obvious about my infatuation or Seth will notice. Settling into my groove, I throw straight punches, hooks, and uppercuts, working on technique rather than power. The round ends, and I can’t resist another glance over. Harley has left Buster and is walking toward her water bottle.
I intercept her. “Hey, Harls.”
She rolls her eyes. “I told you, no one shortens my name. It’s weird.”
“Well, now I do.”
She continues toward her bottle, and I fall into step.
“Do you want your ticket, or should I hold onto it and pick you up on Saturday?”
“Now would be good.” She grabs her drink and tosses her head back as she swallows. Sweat glistens on her throat and upper chest, and suddenly my mouth is dry. She puts the bottle down and wipes her face on a towel. “I’ll just meet you at the venue. Save you having to go around and collect everyone.”
“Okay.” I’d much rather pick her up and have time alone with her, but I claimed this wasn’t a date, so I can’t exactly argue. I try to grin like I couldn’t care less, but the look she gives me implies I’m not successful. “Wait right here and I’ll get the ticket for you.”
Harley
The week passes faster than I expect, and before I know it, Saturday has rolled around and I’m standing in my bedroom trying to figure out what to wear like it’s a goddamn first date. Except I made it clear to Devon that it’s not a date, so I don’t know why I’m so wound up. It’s ridiculous. And yet I can’t help running my finger over the silky skirt of a dress I bought last weekend and wondering what he’d think of me in it. The length makes it perfect to rest across the middle of my thighs. If I paired it with heels, my legs would look amazing. Is he a leg guy?
