Chapter 10 #3
I follow his gaze to see a woman surveying the gym, her arms on her hips Peter Pan style and a frown on her lips as she takes in the modest concrete surroundings.
She’s compact and muscular, wearing leggings and a sports bra, a long braid trailing down her back that somehow manages to stay thick at the tip.
“Who is she?” I ask.
Danny sighs heavily. “My new coach.”
The woman turns, as if on cue, her disapproving violet eyes scanning me from my large bike helmet to my dark cashmere turtleneck, all the way down to my ankle boots.
Topher signs something to Danny, grinning.
The woman tilts her head, her brows furrowed. “Talk about my ass like that again, and I’ll shove my foot up yours,” she says, signing briskly in jerky movements. Her nails, I notice, are painted black.
Topher’s face goes pale at her threat. Then the woman turns her attention to Danny, one perfectly manicured eyebrow arched.
Danny crosses his arms. “Gracie.”
I glance between the two of them, picking up the shift in energy. Danny isn’t meeting her eye, but hers bore into him with intensity.
“Surprised you’re here on time. Figured you’d roll in hungover an hour from now.”
“Well, things have changed. Meet Lauren Hart. She’s chaperoning me until the fight.”
I smile and offer my hand. Gracie looks at it, and laughs.
“Chaperoning? Is that what you’re calling it these days?” She rolls her eyes and turns on the balls of her feet. “You warmed up?”
“We biked here.”
“Good. Get in the ring.” She glances over her shoulder at Danny. “Let’s see if you remember anything from the last time I had you on your back.”
Topher grins, and Danny elbows him hard. Then he leans in to me.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I’d say she’ll warm up, but she won’t.”
Gracie hops lithely into the ring, putting in a mouthguard and bouncing from left foot to right.
“She looks like she wants to kill you,” I say quietly.
“That’s probably because she does.” Danny sighs, kicking off his shoes and climbing into the ring after her.
Danny and Gracie circle each other on the mat like dancers in a choreographed performance while Topher and I sit crisscross-applesauce on the sidelines. Danny springs forward, taking Gracie down to the mat. She scrambles until she’s on top, straddling his waist.
“I see you’re still all offense,” she says, her elbow in his neck.
“If it ain’t broke.” Danny flips her until he’s on top again. She taps the mat, the signal of surrender, and he releases.
They run through his takedown defenses until I finally catch the small flick of muscle that is Gracie’s tell, or the slight backward lean Danny does before a strike. Then it’s Topher’s turn. He’s far quicker than his physique would have you believe.
I pepper them with questions at every break in the action, my notebook balancing on my knee.
“What’s that move called?”
“A kimura,” Danny replies.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not me.”
“What happens if you accidentally get kicked … you know … below the belt?”
He releases the boxy hold he has on Topher’s arm, flips himself upright, and pads over to me in his bare feet. He towers over me, his hand outstretched.
“Come,” he says, as droplets of sweat gather at his temples.
I shake my head no and go back to my notebook, pretending to be busy writing profound life-coaching things.
“If you want to know so much about fighting, then put down that notebook and come experience it for yourself,” he says.
“Sorry. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
Danny cocks his head. “I assure you, one can be both.”
“I can’t stand violence. I don’t even like it when puppies wrestle.”
“It’s not about violence.” Danny backs away from me, closes his eyes, and clenches his fists together next to his waist. Then he opens his eyes, and they radiate a calm intensity as he focuses on something unseen in the space between us.
He grunts, a loud expression of energy, and leaps into a swirling leg kick impossibly high in the air, spinning in perfect form before landing lightly on one foot.
He bows. “It’s art.”
My mouth is open. I close it.
“Martial arts,” he says, walking slowly toward me, “or The Art of Mars, have been around since the fifteenth century. Soldiers would pray to the Roman god Mars for protection. There’s a mix of spirituality, skill, and imagination within combat—in other words, art.”
He leans in and offers his hand once more. I stare at it.
“Go on. He won’t hurt you. At least, not in the ring,” Gracie says with a smirk. Topher jogs to the side for a towel, apparently not even winded. He smiles warmly at Gracie, who returns it with a wrinkled nose and a side step. Then they both turn to watch me.
I slowly unravel my legs to stand and stretch my tight neck from side to side. Then I climb into the ring.
“Come at me,” Danny says, already in a fighter’s stance and motioning with gloved fingers. “It’s OK. Do it.”
At first, I hesitate, but then all the pressure and stress of the last few days coils within me.
Jake’s pompous underbite. Helena’s irritatingly perfect Margherita pizza.
The miserable inflatable mattress and its resulting neck pain.
And Danny Kekoa, his unnerving attractiveness making my job harder than it needs to be.
I sprint toward him, fists balled with all my might.
He dismantles my energy like diffusing an incendiary device. One moment, I’m hurtling through the air, all anger and momentum aimed at him, and the next, he is gently folding me in on myself, as if I am a piece of delicate origami paper he doesn’t want to rip.
“Not bad, Theranos.” He’s so close to my ear I can hear his smile. I grit my teeth and tap my fingers on the mat, and he lets me back up.
He regains his fighting stance, and once more invites me to come at him. This time, I try short, concise bursts of energy, using my hands to gain purchase on his wide muscles, but they are slick with sweat, and my skin slips right off his.
He’s toying with me, pretending to give me a chance to take him down to the mat, but then one graceful swipe of his leg sends me arching backward as if he’s dipping me in a ballroom dance, cradling me all the way down as we stare into each other’s eyes, our breathing synchronized.
“Had enough?”
“Hell no.” I tap out and hop back up to my feet. “Again.”
We circle each other. Gracie watches us intently from the side of the ring. This time, Danny attacks first. Within a split second, I’m flat on my back with Danny on top of me, one of my legs secured in the crook of his elbow, his entire upper body surrounding me like a cage.
His heart pounds into mine. I slowly tap my fingers on the mat, signaling defeat, while Gracie murmurs something about it getting too hot and opening the garage door to welcome in the cool Puget Sound air. It slices through the heat, breaking the spell.
“I’ll just go have a cold drink of water,” I say, slipping out from under Danny and padding off the mat.
“You do that,” Gracie says, her eyes on Danny as he silently watches me leave.