Chapter 3
three
nisha
In Life, In Love, And On The Mat
My feet find the familiar feel of the rubber mats, and my lungs fill with the scents of sweat, old sparring gear, and disinfectant. The scent composition might make someone else’s nose wrinkle, but it instantly puts me at ease.
Tonight’s charity spar has drawn quite the crowd with approximately twenty volunteers in comfortable clothes, chest guards, and headgear who look like extras on a low-budget remake of Gladiator.
They mill around with palpable nervous excitement, likely wondering if they’ll walk out of here on one or two legs.
I suppose even knowing you’re in good hands, sparring against fifth and sixth dan black belts, the idea of getting your ass handed to you in front of an entire audience doesn’t reduce the flow of adrenaline . . . or visible armpit stains.
Twice a year, my dojang hosts this charity spar, encouraging experienced martial artists from the community to spar its four instructors, including me, for a few controlled rounds.
It’s our way of giving back to youth programs and spreading the word about our center, while offering people a chance to go toe-to-toe with a black belt in a safe environment.
In the past seven years I’ve been a part of this dojang, it’s become one of our most anticipated events.
“Good evening, everyone! I’m Nisha Arora, but here you can refer to me as Sabumnim Arora, which is the Korean title for instructor,” I call out, sweeping my gaze around the room to the various new faces.
“Remember, sparring is about form, technique, and control, not ego. We’re here to raise money for foster families around the Bay Area, not to end up in the emergency room. ”
A few chuckles ripple across the crowd, and a soft laugh escapes Micah’s lips to my left. I don’t have to look at him to know his eyes are pinned on me.
“As a reminder,” he says, stepping forward and addressing the crowd with an easy confidence.
His English accent has some of the ladies in the room raising an interested brow.
“We’ll be breaking out into rotations where you’ll get two-minute rounds with each instructor, or sabum.
We’ll be using the World Taekwondo rules and scoring system.
Remember, you only score with legal techniques, so keep your head-butts and elbow strikes for your next Black Friday shopping spree. ”
His comment earns him more confident chuckles, and his eyes light up when he catches the smile I’ve turned his way. But my smile falters when I see the spark of hope once again reflecting inside his irises.
Micah’s not a bad guy—a little socially oblivious and gossipy, but he’s also funny and confident. Perhaps a little overconfident.
We dated for a few months a couple of years ago. Let me rephrase: we fell into a pattern of going out to dinner after class, then falling into bed. Soon enough, however, I realized that was all it was, a sort of Netflix and chill without the Netflix.
Which would have been fine if his bedroom game was as impressive as his roundhouse kick.
Don’t get me wrong, Micah was plenty enthusiastic, pummeling me like he was trying to exorcise a demon and rolling his hips like Shakira’s backup dancer.
But, unfortunately for me—and him—he was like an English Springer Spaniel.
Tail wagging, he’d eagerly bound off to fetch a stick but would, disappointingly, always come back with a dried leaf.
I suppose that’s not completely on him, either, considering no one’s bedroom game has been up to par since .
. . well, since him. The man who no longer has space in my mind and the only man for whom I didn’t have to put on a Broadway-worthy performance just to convince him—and myself—that “yes, that’s the spot” when it absolutely wasn’t.
I thought Micah and I were on the same page when I put the brakes on the “chill” part of our arrangement, but judging by the way he’s looking at me, it seems I misunderstood.
Clearing his throat, Micah addresses the crowd once more. “If you happen to deliver a legal knockout technique that hinders your opponent from continuing, you’ll automatically win by knockout. Any questions?”
My gaze sweeps the room again, taking account of the shaking heads, the determined set of shoulders, and the shuffling feet. And then—
A prickle, like the touch of electricity on wet skin.
A tug, like the whisper of emotional déjà vu that heightens my awareness and awakens my intuition.
Something shifts the air around me, along with my heartbeats, and my eyes dart to find the cause. It’s as if my body already knows what I’ll find before my mind has caught up.
It’s the same way my eyes involuntarily found him last year at the taekwondo championship, dressed inconspicuously and obscured by the crowd, yet impossible to miss.
And the way I felt his presence in the room six months ago, before my eyes had even confirmed it, when he came to ask Troy for his help on a new role. A role, coincidentally, playing an injured baseball star, living in the Bay Area.
Or the way my soul connected with his across a similarly crowded dojang all those years ago, when we were just teens. Connected and sealed.
Because the man has the magnetic pull of the Earth, always has.
I inhale sharply when my eyes land on him.
Taller than the rest, with shoulders set so confidently, they make his chest look like an immovable wall. He’s utterly unfazed by the nervous energy in the room.
His stance is casual, deceptively easy. His hands are clasped loosely in front of his waist, serving to draw the eye to the stretch of his biceps straining against the sleeves of his fitted long-sleeve black shirt.
His eyes, the molten chocolate I’ve drowned in again and again, are lined with lashes as dense and dark as the hair underneath his headgear.
They’re fixed on a spot straight ahead, as if purposely avoiding my inquisitive stare.
The rest of his face is covered beneath a black balaclava tucked under his headgear, presumably so no one recognizes him as the world-famous celebrity he is.
But I don’t need to see it to know it’s him.
A jaw dusted with the kind of insufferable stubble that makes my thighs clench on reflex.
A mouth and lips so sinfully kissable and annoyingly smug, even a simple smirk has the power to undo seven years of my hard-won resistance.
And the faintest sprinkle of freckles—God, those freckles!
—over his nose and cheeks, a testament to the time he spends in the sun, and a constellation I could trace even with my eyes closed.
I lift my fingers to my neck, feeling my pulse hammering beneath my skin.
He’s here.
I know it’s him as surely as I know my reflection in the mirror. But just as that conclusion locks into place, his covered face turns. His dark eyes lock with mine, unblinking and . . . certain.
I stand motionless, breathless—perhaps even pantiless—as I suppress the urge to disconnect our standoff and run for the nearest exit.
“Nisha?” Micah’s voice jolts me out of my mind trap, and I straighten my posture.
“How about you start with this set of five here?” He waves his hand toward five volunteers who look to be of different skill levels.
“From each set, each sabum will choose an overall winner. And that winner will then choose a final instructor to spar with for a chance to win the grand prize. We’ll address ties if they occur. ”
Letting out a relieved breath, I nod, motioning for my group to follow me to the far side of the mat while forcing myself not to look at the masked man again—the one I’m ninety-nine percent sure is my ex-husband. Though, shamelessly, my ears stay acutely trained on his whereabouts like horny bats.
“Sabumnim Choi will take this group,” Micah announces, and with a quick glance in their direction, I notice Patton follow four other volunteers behind Instructor Choi toward the opposite side.
Good. The farther away from me, the better.
For my sanity.
And my increasingly traitorous underwear.
Perhaps I can get through this evening without having to confront him and whatever his reason is for being here.
Because one thing is clear: his walking in here was not by mistake, nor was it a sudden philanthropic itch. Although, to be fair, he has donated almost half of his earnings to charitable causes over the years, like an incredibly hot, ridiculously ripped, and recently bathed Keanu Reeves.
Because Patton is all lean and lethal muscle with a soft heart, smelling like expensive body wash and the promise of orgasms.
No, he didn’t walk in here on this particular Friday night to risk getting recognized by every person with a smartphone because he wanted to raise money for foster families. He walked in here for something else.
Me.
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, though I was hoping Troy could have kept his mouth shut a little longer, given we’re practically family at this point, and family is supposed to look after one another, but I also know my ex-husband.
Once he’s determined to do something, be it obtaining a black belt with two broken toes, securing a lead role in the next Scorsese film, or irritating the shit out of his ex-wife by spontaneously showing up to her events, he’ll let nothing stop him.
It’s the same reason he does his own stunt work, like flying off a bridge on a motorcycle, having had zero experience with motorcycles.
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 fourth dan—when impressed murmurs from the crowd have us all turning toward the noise.
I suppress my groan.