Broken Beautiful Hearts

by Kami Garcia

  Lazarus moves a knight on the chessboard and captures a queen. “You’ve never seen me fired up. But when I was young, I would’ve given you a run for your money.”

  The affection between them is reassuring. Lazarus seems like a man with character—someone who wouldn’t waste time training a jerk.

  “Ready to work out with Cutter?” Owen asks. He reaches for one of the higher ropes, takes hold of it, and leans back, using his body weight to stretch his hamstrings. Owen’s T-shirt rides up, offering me a clear view of his carved abs.

  High school guys aren’t supposed to be this hot. Reed was solid as a rock, but he didn’t have as much muscle definition.

  Owen has a body that looks as if it’s meant to be touched. I imagine dragging my fingers down his stomach.

  Owen catches me staring.

  Kill me now.

  I never answered his question.

  What did he ask me? Something about Cutter and PT?

  “I was ready to start the day I got here,” I blurt out, referring to PT.

  Cutter steps through the doorway as I’m walking to her office. She’s dressed in a plain T-shirt and a pair of black martial arts pants. The pant legs billow out when she moves.

  “They’re a present from my boyfriend,” she explains when she notices me looking at them.

  “The Olympian?” I ask. Last time I was here, Cutter was showing Lazarus a photo on her phone of an Olympic medal-winner. I shouldn’t be nosy, but the Olympics are almost as cool as professional soccer.

  Cutter stops and thinks about it for a moment.

  “Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

  “Peyton is talking about your new boyfriend.” Lazarus snaps his fingers. “You know, what’s-his-name.”

  “You mean Dale!” she says. “These aren’t from him.”

  “He’s another one of her boyfriends,” Lazarus explains.

  I have to ask. “How many boyfriends do you have?”

  “Too many,” Lazarus mumbles.

  Cutter smooths her blond pixie cut. “They’re not really my boyfriends. They’re men I’m dating.” She turns to Lazarus. “And nobody judges a man if he dates more than one woman at a time. Why should I comply with ridiculous gender norms? Besides, the whole online-dating thing was your idea, Lazarus.”

  “Whoa.” Lazarus holds up his hands. “Don’t pin that on me. It was my wife Davina’s idea,” he explains. “She thought Cutter should go on an online-dating site and meet a nice man.”

  “That’s exactly what I did.” Cutter pats him on the shoulder. “I just met more than one nice man. What can I say? I feel like I’m on The Bachelorette. I’m living the dream.”

  Lazarus moves a pawn across the board. “Even I know that show is scripted.”

  I try not to laugh. I’d love to invite Cutter over to Hawk’s for dinner so she can help me teach the Twins a lesson or two.

  “He’s just grouchy because he has to give Davina updates,” Cutter says. “She’s like a second mother to me. And just like my mom, she wants me to settle down. We don’t have a lot of time today. UT’s quarterback pulled a muscle in his shoulder, and I need to take a look at it.”

  I’m only scheduled to meet with Cutter twice a week. If she bails on our sessions, will it hurt my chances of recovering by March? I change into black leggings, a T-shirt with PROPERTY OF ADAMS SOCCER printed on the front, and cross-trainers.

  Owen is already in the ring, hands wrapped and protective gear in place, talking to Cutter.

  Lazarus leans against the ropes, listening.

  As I get closer, I hear Cutter say, “You’re not blocking on your left. Get that left arm up. Anyone you compete against will see that opening.”

  “I block when I need to. I’ve got it covered.” Owen sounds irritated.

  “Prove it.” Cutter moves to the center of the ring and wags her fingers, urging him to come closer.

  Owen circles her, his hands cupped loosely in front of his face.

  She laughs. “Now you’ve got your guard up?”

  He maintains his fight stance, keeping his guard up and the weight on the balls of his feet. He moves closer to Cutter, who hasn’t taken a step or bothered to raise her guard. He throws an elbow, and she blocks it without exerting any effort.

  “If you think I’m weak on the left, throw a punch,” Owen says.

  “The punch you don’t throw is just as powerful as the one you do.”

  Owen rolls his shoulders and throws a combination—right elbow strike, a kick from the left, and a right hook.

  Cutter ducks before Owen lands the hook. In a series of lightning-fast movements, she reaches over his left shoulder and around the back of his neck. She sweeps Owen’s legs out from under him and pulls his head to the side. He lands on his back with her forearm jammed under his neck, forcing his head against the mat. After a moment, Cutter releases her hold and stands.

  Owen coughs and sits up, jerking off his headgear.

  “Seems to me like you should’ve blocked on the left,” she says.

  Owen steals a glance in my direction. “You made your point.”

  Cutter claps a hand on his shoulder as she walks past him. “Good. You can’t afford a mistake like that in the semifinals.” She ducks and slips between the ropes, exiting the ring.

  Lazarus raises the red pad in front of Owen and slaps the front. “Let’s switch things up. Work off some of that steam.”

  Owen nods and mumbles something, but I miss it.

  “You’re up, Peyton.” Cutter waves me over to the corner, where she’s laying out foam floor tiles.

  For the next thirty minutes, she leads me through a series of stretches and exercises to test my range of motion. None of them hurt, but they aren’t comfortable, either. She demonstrates the exercises she wants me to practice until our next session and draws stick figures on a piece of paper to represent each move.

  “Owen will take you through some strength-training exercises after you walk in the pool. I’ll go over your program with him before I leave.” Cutter hands me the paper with the stick-figure drawings on it and heads out. “Thirty minutes in the pool, then meet Owen back here.”

  “Then I’ll tell you more about her boyfriends,” Lazarus calls to me from the ring.

  “Be quiet, old man. Or I’ll drop you off at the old folks’ home,” Cutter says on her way out. Both of them are grinning.

  Lazarus adjusts his cap. “As long as I have Davina, steak sandwiches, and ESPN, I’ll live in the belly of a whale.” He picks up the pad again and turns to Owen. “Do your worst, kid.”

  * * *

  Pools are meant for swimming, not walking. After ten laps, my eyes burn from the chlorine, and I didn’t even go underwater. But I can’t complain about the view. The window that separates the pool and the boxing gym offers the perfect vantage point for watching Owen.

  He switched from hitting the pad to dodging six heavy ropes suspended from the ceiling while Lazarus sends them flying at him—which led to Owen taking off his shirt.

  If I wasn’t paying attention before, I am now.

  Owen’s broad shoulders and back shine, slick with sweat. That might seem gross to some girls, but I’m an athlete and I dated a fighter. Sweat comes with the territory. The ropes fly at Owen one after another, and Lazarus makes sure they keep coming. Owen bobs and weaves, avoiding the ropes every time.

  Okay … he’s fast. I’ll give him that.

  Owen stands near the ropes, head down and his hands on his hips, catching his breath. He looks up and I’m caught in his hold, swimming in brown eyes that confirm he’s feeling the same way.

  The glass window between us seems to disappear.

  What if my knee was fine and I didn’t have an ex who had pushed me down the stairs? What if I could still trust the little voice in my head?

  What if …

  Water splashes in my eyes, and I turn away. An old lady wearing a yellow swimming cap backstrokes past me in the next lane over, her arms slapp
ing the water. When I turn back to the window, Owen isn’t looking over here anymore.

  Why am I so disappointed?

  CHAPTER 21

  Breaking My Fall

  WHEN I RETURN from the locker room a few minutes later, I’m wearing black leggings and a fitted tank under my T-shirt, and showing considerably less skin.

  There’s a guy in the ring with Owen and it’s not Lazarus. I recognize the fauxhawk. It’s Tucker. He’s wearing a T-shirt, sweats with a red stripe down the side, mismatched socks, and his high-top Vans.

  “You have to stand up to those boys,” Lazarus says from his seat at the chess table, “or they’ll never leave you alone. That’s the way it works. Take down the ringleader and the rest of them won’t bother you anymore.”

  Tucker sighs. “That’s not gonna happen. Garrett, the guy who has it in for me, outweighs me by a hundred pounds, easy. The only way I’m going to take him down is with a bulldozer.”

  “Size has nothing to do with it. Even if you can’t take Garrett down, you can stop him from kicking your ass.” Owen motions for Tucker to move to the center of the ring. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Tucker says.

  Lazarus looks up from his chess game. “Stop talking, Tucker. You don’t need to understand. Just pay attention.”

  I move closer to watch.

  “So here’s what I want you to do,” Owen says. “Bend your wrist back like this, so the heel of your hand is facing up.” Owen demonstrates the correct position, and Tucker mimics it with his hand. “Good. You’re going to use the heel of your hand to strike.”

  “That means hit, right?” Tucker asks.

  “Yeah. There are three parts of the body that are vulnerable on everyone: the eyes, hitting the nose up toward the bridge, and right here.” He touches the hollow at the base of his throat. “If you strike any of those places with the heel of your hand, you should be able to stun the person long enough to take off—if the hit doesn’t take them down completely.”

  Tucker looks at the heel of his hand. “What if I don’t hit them hard enough, or in the right spot?”

  “The nose is the easiest target. But you have to strike in an upward motion, like this.” Owen demonstrates the move in slow motion, raising the heel of his hand up to Tucker’s nose as if he’s going to hit it. “There are a lot of nerves in the nose, so if you hit someone there, it hurts like hell and it will make their eyes water.”

  Tucker still looks unsure.

  Owen motions toward him. “Try it.”

  Tucker performs the same movement, thrusting the heel of his hand upward until he reaches Owen’s nose. “Like that?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  He walks Tucker through the move over and over, explaining each step.

  The first few times, Tucker’s aim is off or he executes the strike incorrectly. With each failed attempt, he appears more dejected. “I’ll never get it right.”

  “Try again,” Owen says, sounding like Cutter issuing instructions.

  “I’ve already done it ten times,” Tucker complains.

  “And we’ll keep doing it until you get it. So are you going to try again or quit?”

  “It’s bad luck to give up in a boxing ring,” Lazarus says.

  “That probably only counts if you’re a boxer,” Tucker says.

  “It counts no matter who you are,” Lazarus says. “A ring is for fighting, not quitting. Sometimes you fight with your fists and other times you fight with your will.”

  “Come on.” Owen gestures for Tucker to try again. “Stand up straight and concentrate. Visualize the move before you do it. See yourself executing each step.”

  “Okay.” Tucker moves with more determination this time and shoves the heel of his hand at Owen’s nose.

  “That’s it, kid,” Lazarus calls out. “Like David and Goliath.”

  “I did it.” Tucker stares at his hand. “Did you see that?”

  Owen nods. “Yeah, and I can feel it, too.”

  “Oh yeah. Sorry!” Tucker stares at it as though he had just shot fire from his fingertips.

  “We need to keep practicing, but you’ve got the hang of it.” Owen gets up and notices me watching them.

  “But what if the person is someone like you, and they really know how to fight?” Tucker asks.

  “If you’re not confident that you can do it fast enough, then you need a distraction.”

  “Okay.”

  Suddenly, I’m interested. Distracting an attacker is a solid strategy, in self-defense and sports.

  Owen motions to Tucker. “Do you have a quarter?”

  Lazarus stops playing chess and looks over as if he’s curious, too.

  Tucker pulls at the side of his sweats. “Not on me. I don’t have any pockets.”

  “I’ve got one.” Lazarus stands, takes a quarter out of his pocket, and holds it up next to the ropes.

  “Thanks.” Owen takes it and tosses it in the air a couple of times.

  “What are you gonna do with it?” Tucker asks.

  “Watch.” Owen stands directly in front of Tucker, the way Garrett did in the parking lot at the football game. “So Garrett or some asshole is coming at you, right?”

  Tucker nods. “Yeah?”

  Owen tosses the coin, higher this time. It sails above Tucker’s head, and Tucker looks up, tracking it. The moment Tucker looks away, Owen comes at him with a strike and pretends to hit him in the nose.

  “I wasn’t ready,” Tucker says.

  The coin hits the mat between them.

  “That’s the whole point. If you throw something in the air, nine times out of ten, the person will look up. That gives you enough time to make your move without them seeing it coming.”

  It’s actually really clever.

  Tucker picks up the quarter. “So this is my strategy?”

  “Don’t knock it. It works. You can do it with anything: car keys, a pen…”

  “Guess I’ll start carrying a quarter.” Tucker grins at me and leans over the ropes. “You’re Peyton, right?” Owen glares at him, and Tucker clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m Tucker. I’m a freshman at Black Water.”

  “It’s nice to officially meet you.” He obviously remembers me from the parking lot. “You look pretty good up there.” I realize Owen might think I’m talking to him, and I blurt out, “Tucker.”

  “Thanks. Owen is teaching me some self-defense.” He ducks between the ropes and jumps down from the ring. “But I’ve gotta go. My mom is picking me up in a few minutes. Thanks, Owen.” Tucker grabs a skateboard that’s leaning against the wall.

  “You got a new board.” It’s nice to see Tucker riding again.

  “Yeah.” He pulls on a hoodie. “Someone left it on my front porch yesterday. I’ll see you guys later.”

  “You did great,” Owen calls after him.

  After Tucker leaves, I say, “It’s really cool that you’re teaching him to defend himself.”

  Owen’s eyes flicker to me. “I can teach you, too, if you want.”

  “I’m good. I already know how to take care of myself.”

  “Do you?” Owen shakes his head and holds up one of the padded red ropes. “Prove it.”

  “This makes it kind of hard.” I tap on the top of my brace, annoyed that Owen would challenge me when he knows I can’t accept.

  “You don’t have to go full force. I’ll settle for a demonstration.” He’s still holding up the rope, and he makes a ridiculous sweeping gesture with his arm. “Your stage awaits.”

  Owen’s smug expression seals the deal.

  “Fine.” When I walk over to the ring, Owen offers me a hand. I take it, and the moment his skin makes contact with mine, a rush of warmth starts at my fingertips and travels all the way to my toes. His hand slides around my back, and he supports my weight as I duck between the ropes. I lead with my good leg, and Owen’s grip on my waist tightens as I ease my other leg through.

  “Thanks.�
� With both of my feet planted safely on the ground, Owen doesn’t need to hold on to me anymore, but his hand lingers a moment longer.

  I step back and toss my ponytail over my shoulder. “So now I do you?”

  That did not come out right. Why do I keep saying the wrong things in front of him? It’s like I’m cursed.

  A slow smile spreads across Owen’s lips. He leans against the ropes and crosses his arms, raising his shirt enough to show the sexy sliver of skin. If I didn’t know better, I would swear he was doing it on purpose.

  “You look cute when you’re embarrassed.”

  “Cute?” I put one hand on my hip. “Puppies are cute.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “I take it back. You’re not cute.”

  “What about my knee? You could hit it by accident.”

  “This is a demo, like when I was practicing with Tucker. I didn’t hit him,” he reminded me.

  True. It was more like watching stunt people practicing for a fight scene.

  “I’ll come straight at you, no surprises.” Owen stands in the center of the ring. “And you pretend I’m an attacker and show me how you’d get away.”

  “Okay. But be careful with my knee.”

  “Got it. Ready?”

  I try not to think about how silly I’ll look pretending to knee him in the groin. “Whatever.”

  Instead of running at me like people do in self-defense classes, Owen takes his time. He focuses on me, stone-faced, without taking his eyes off me for a second—like a predator tracking its prey.

  The adorable and shameless flirt with the sexy abs is gone. It’s strange, but I’m not scared of Owen. The look in his eye is nothing like the one I saw in Reed’s eyes before he pushed me. Owen is pretending to be dangerous. Reed wasn’t acting.

  A few more steps and I’ll be within his reach. I wish the circumstances were different—that I was different. And I could let him catch me.

  Because I’d love to be caught.

  The corner of my mouth tips up.

  “This is serious, Peyton.” Without warning, Owen comes at me.

  I raise my good knee, mimicking the way I’d knee a real attacker. But I don’t even get close.