She could see the relief in his posture as he opened the door. “What’re you doing tonight?” he asked, his voice and expression casual, neutral, like they hadn’t nearly argued. Like he wasn’t asking her about potentially… what was it? An official date? Or just an invitation to get horizontal?
It would be so easy to say, I’m busy, tomorrow is better. But… “I’ve got a sparring class after work. You can come watch if you like.” He might as well see all of her. Violent, unfeminine, too much muscle. And if it put him off, at least she’d know.
She could have changed at home, because he’d picked her up at her apartment in his truck, which made a nice change from public transit. But she stuck to her usual routine of putting her uniform on in the changing room at the dojang.
It held a kind of magic for her, the ritual of changing, stepping out of the work world and into her space, seeking the focused mindset she needed — the clean, crisp feeling of heavy white cotton, creases down the arms and legs ironed sharp. The black of her instructor collar and the vivid colors of her patches stood out boldly against the white. And when she tied on her black belt, she felt complete.
She pulled back her hair, secured it with an elastic, and closed her locker. I’m ready.
“Evening, ma’am.”
“Hi, Miss Whelan.”
“Hey, Nell!”
Various people greeted her as she entered — students, classmates, and teachers — each according to their history with her, some formal and some familiar. This was a black belt sparring class, and she’d been training with a few of them for over a decade. My place, my world. She glanced over at Eamonn, sitting alone on the row of chairs set up for spectators.
“Who’s the dude, Miss Whelan?” asked a fifth-degree instructor she’d been training and teaching with for what felt like forever. He smiled encouragingly at her, and she realized that she’d never brought a guy, a date, to a training session like this.
It doesn’t mean anything. Her first impulse was to tell him it was none of his business, but doing so would betray that she even cared. And Riley Kahn had a wicked sense of humor underneath his perfectionist exterior — Nell didn’t want to face the endless teasing she’d get if she gave him an opening. Nor did she want to lie. “Co-worker. But he asked me out, so I figured this would be a good test. If he sees me spar and runs screaming, it wasn’t meant to be. And if he’s cool with this, I’ll take him to an MMA session sometime.”
Mr. Kahn laughed. “Practical as always. You should bring him to a self-defense class. See how he likes getting put on the ground.”
“Oh, I’ve already done that.” She allowed herself to show a bit of satisfaction at the open-mouthed surprise on his face. But bringing Eamonn to a self-defense class did have some appeal.
The chief instructor called them to bow in, which put an end to the chit-chat. As always, they warmed up with kickboxing combinations on targets, partnered by height, which usually meant that Nell was matched with a teenage boy or one of the few other women present. Today, her warm-up partner was a young man preparing for his second-degree rank test — he showed off a bit by doing the drill at warp speed, sacrificing accuracy and technique in favor of finishing ahead of other pairs around them. “Great power, sir, but you should take care not to hook your punches like that or you’ll end up with a broken finger,” she warned him, her instructor instinct coming to the surface despite the fact that she was a student in this class.
“Thank you, ma’am,” the kid mumbled, looking a bit sheepish.
When the chief instructor called out for them to switch holders, Nell bounced on the balls of her feet, thinking light, thinking hard. She enjoyed these warm-up drills, and launched into the kicking and punching combination with full power. Her partner staggered backward a bit, apparently unprepared for her to have that kind of force. “Do you want me to hold the targets for Miss Whelan, Mr. Tibbett?” called out Mr. Kahn, seeing what was happening.
“No, sir, I’ve got this,” the kid said.
“Take a stronger front stance and breathe out as her kicks are coming at you, then. She’s got a lot of power.” Mr. Kahn moved on, circulating through the room, but Nell was aware that another instructor moved into their area — keeping an eye on the young Mr. Tibbett. She eased back her power just a notch, not wanting to embarrass the teenager in front of so many senior belts, but also not wanting to give him an easy ride. You thought a woman couldn’t kick so hard, Mr. Tibbett? It was a common mistake.
When they were released to get a drink from their water bottles after the warm-up, Nell glanced over at Eamonn, wondering if he’d be looking bored or playing with his phone. He watched her, smiling slightly, so she toasted him with her water bottle, mouthing, “Cheers.” He winked at her, definitely flirting.
She felt a tiny, unwelcome flutter of hope. He didn’t seem put off by this world she loved so much. No. It’s just going to be sex, maybe a few drinks somewhere or a movie or two. Casual dating. If feelings got involved, they’d leave a mess.
When they paired up and bowed to their opponents, she bit down on her mouthguard and put everything out of her mind but her partner and the contact she could make, the points she could score. Set. Bow, rotate to a new partner, and repeat. After a few rounds, they’d stop and listen to one of the instructors talk about technique, or something to work on. Breathe, drink water. Then pair off and spar again.
For
