Chapter 3 #2
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 from Sabumnim Choi’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!” Sabumnim Choi 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 when Sabumnim Choi 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. “Sabumnim Arora.”
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. “Sabumnim Arora, 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.”
The endearment throws me off momentarily, causing that same familiar but unexpected pang to rip through me. As if he’s struck me without having done so.
I channel the irritation and hurt into a lightning-fast roundhouse, aiming at his ribs. He blocks it, but he knows he’s struck a nerve. Too bad for him, struck nerves don’t count for actual points.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap as we circle each other again.
That ever-present grin is back in his voice. “What should I call you then? Mrs. Pierce?”
My anger flares, and I strike him using an illusion step he doesn’t see coming.
“Point!” Micah calls.
“You lost Mrs. Pierce seven years ago,” I grit, blinking back the sting in my stupid eyes.
He takes advantage, trying a kick combination that scores him a light touch to my chest guard. The lightest controlled touch as compared to the uncontrolled thwack mine had made.
“Point!” Micah calls out again.
“No, Little Borealis, that’s where you’re wrong,” he says, not even a little out of breath. “You see, I never lost you . . .”—he watches me reset my stance, coming closer and dropping his voice—“you ran.”
I lunge, launching at him with a spinning hook kick to his head that he only barely avoids.
“I see you’ve missed me,” he teases.
“Keep talking, and I’ll aim where it really hurts.”
He laughs, the deep throaty timbre of his chuckle threatening to send familiar shockwaves through me. But I shirk them off, hyper-focused on my task.
Shifting into a back stance, I fire off a double roundhouse—one that he blocks and another he barely evades by millimeters. But I hear the hard exhale of his breath, knowing he’s getting worked up.
Good.
He tries to sweep my leg, but I jump over it and land with my elbow to his chest guard, making him stumble.
“Point! Thirty seconds left on the clock!” Micah warns.
We reset to center, and this time, my ex-husband comes at me with a tornado kick and a combination that would have impressed me a long time ago when we used to train together in a dojang similar to this one. But I’m not a teen anymore.
And I’m certainly not the twenty-something woman who waited around while he chased his dreams.
I slip under him. Using his momentum against him, I sweep his leg just as he lands. He goes down hard, rolling just in time to avoid my follow-up kick and making the crowd gasp.
I shake my head. “Give up, Hollywood.”
He springs back up, eyes determined. “With you? Never.”
This time I come in hot with a triple kick combo—low, high, and spinning axe kick—and the bastard manages to block all three. Clearly, he’s kept up with his training.
But when he charges at me, I meet him halfway, catching him off guard when I feign left, then come around with a spinning back kick that lands precisely at the center of his back.
He hits the mat with a satisfying grunt.
“Final point for Sabumnim Arora!” Micah calls.
The crowd takes a relieved inhale before erupting into applause.
Patton blinks at me from the mat, and I can see the curve of his maddening smile stretched beneath his balaclava. Asshole wanted this outcome, not even giving me the satisfaction of a fair win.
I extend my hand down, though all I really want is to punch him in his stupid, smug face.
“Want to tell me why you’re here?” I ask in a hushed voice veiled under the crowd’s murmur.
His hand envelops mine, and for a beat, no one else exists.
Just us.
“This dojang or this city?” he asks softly, pulling me closer so I’m hovering over him. “Either way, it’s to chase you.”