“I’m not going to the gala anyway,” I mutter. But I grudgingly slip my shoes off, bow, and get on the mat.
Why am I being weird about this? I’m confident in my sparring abilities. It is perhaps the only thing I’m confident in. Yes, his frame is bigger and taller, but my experience should more than make up for that. This is just another way of helping Henry, which is why I came here in the first place.
Henry follows suit, slipping off his shoes, bowing, and joining me on the mat. Sensei Mary has us do a few warm-ups—stretches, jumping rope—then stands in front of us, sizing us up.
“Okay,” she says briskly. “We’re gonna teach you a simple shoulder throw. Not too hard, but looks impressive to people who don’t know any better.”
“Is Rika gonna throw me?” Henry asks, his gaze sliding to me. “Because I have to be honest, I find that prospect absolutely terrifying.”
“You’re going to throw her,” Sensei Mary says, her expression turning amused. “Trust me, the thrower looks more impressive than the throwee in this scenario. But you are correct to be intimidated by Rika-chan’s throws—they’re the stuff of legend.”
“I’ll bet,” Henry says, his eyes never leaving mine.
I tear my gaze away and move closer to him, positioning my body so we’re facing each other.
“Rika-chan’s going to put her hand on your chest,” Sensei Mary says, her tone as businesslike as can be. “She’s attacking you—if you were wearing your judogi, she’d grab the front of your garment.”
I obediently reach out and place my hand lightly on Henry’s chest—and immediately have to order myself to not get distracted by the warmth of his skin radiating through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, or the fact that I can feel those ripples of hard muscle that were pressed up against me last night in the alley—
Goddammit. I’m already failing.
“Now you’re going to grab her arm,” Sensei Mary says to Henry. “One hand on top, right above the bend of her elbow. Other hand should shoot out and grasp her near the armpit.”
“Okay . . .” Henry says, his brow furrowing as he tries to concentrate. He does as Sensei Mary instructs, his arms shooting out gracefully, his touch light.
“Mmm, you are a dancer, yes?” Sensei Mary says, nodding. “You have that natural grace in your movements. But in judo, you have to be firm—your moves should be decisive, almost choppy. If you telegraph too much, your sparring partner will be able to counter very easily.”
“Got it,” Henry says, making his hold a touch firmer.
“Now pull her forward and spin around on your front foot,” Sensei Mary instructs. “You’ll still be holding her arm, but now this hand”—she taps the hand in the crook of my elbow—“will go to her wrist. And bend your legs—it should look like you’re trying to carry her over one shoulder.”
Henry does all this, slowly working through each movement. He goes out of his way, I notice, to make his moves more exaggerated, more decisive. But it’s all working counter to his natural grace—there’s still a flow to what he’s doing that is not quite right for judo.
I allow myself to be pulled toward him, and then he spins around and bends his legs so I’m kind of half-flopped over his right shoulder—like a baby koala.
“Okay,” Henry says, sounding like he’s concentrating super intensely now.
I’m pressed lightly against his back, the arm still in his grip draped over his shoulder. I can feel his breath, rapid and heavy. Hmm. That’s odd—we’ve only just started, we haven’t been exerting ourselves that much yet, and he’s in such good shape—
He turns his head to look at me, his eyes scanning my face.
“Are you okay?” he says, his words coming out wheezy.
“I . . . fine,” I say.
And his breath speeds up even more.
I realize then that my face has gotten all hot, that my entire body is basically pressed up against his, that this is . . . possibly the most intimate position we’ve been in? Suddenly, all I can hear is our rapid breathing, synchronizing and echoing through the empty dojo. Giving the space an uncomfortable heartbeat.
Sensei Mary clears her throat, and Henry’s head whips back around to face her. I try to hide my blazing face in his shoulder, feeling like a kid who’s gotten caught cheating on a test.
“Now,” Sensei Mary says, “Henry, you need to lower your shoulder a bit, and flip her over so she lands on her back. It’s kind of a circular motion.”
“Oh . . .” Henry freezes, his muscles tensing up. “Won’t that . . . I don’t want to hurt her . . .”
“That won’t happen,” I say, regaining a teeny bit of my bravado. “I know how to be both thrower and throwee, I know how to land right—and these mats are cushioned. Anyway, weren’t you saying how scared you are of me?” I raise a teasing eyebrow, even though he can’t see my face.
“I am,” Henry says—but he still sounds nervous, like he’s worried he’s going to Hulk out and crush my delicate girl body. “Okay, let’s do this.”
He bends his knee and slowly—so very slowly—drags me over his shoulder. I relax my muscles and brace myself, but then he also takes his sweet time flipping me, as if trying to take utmost care with every single movement. Like we’re suddenly in slow motion or something. When he finally throws me onto the mat, it’s so deliberate and gentle, it’s more like he’s . . . setting me down. Like I’m some kind of super-breakable porcelain doll.
Which he should know by now that I’m not.
“That was not a throw!” I protest, scrambling to my feet. “That won’t look impressive at all if you’re trying to show off for the casting people!”
“I’m sorry!” he exclaims, holding up his hands. “I really don’t want to hurt you—”
“You’re the beginner!” I retort, my defensive armor rising up. “You’re in way more danger of getting
