Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(33)

He opens the door, stepping aside to let me go first. “No problem. I just wanted to be helpful. We’re over there, in the room on the right.” His fingers graze my elbow as he guides me.

We pass everyone from college students to grandmothers sprinkled throughout the expansive space—running on treadmills and stair climbers, riding recumbent bikes and reading books, lifting weights in pairs.

I follow him into one of the fitness studios. Close to a dozen women are already standing around, chatting quietly with one another. There’s a woman instructor at the front of the room, and her face lights up as soon as she sees Maverick. “Ah, there you are! We’re almost ready to get started.”

There’s a mother with her daughter who looks to be in her late teens, a pair of women in their mid-thirties, a trio who look to be in their forties, and a pair of younger women who are closer to my age, or maybe a few years younger.

“Should I have brought a friend with me? I’m the only one on my own,” I whisper.

“You don’t need a partner.” He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze, then drops his hand and steps back. “You’ll be okay. You’ve got this, and I’ll be here to help the entire time.”

He heads to the front of the room. “Evening. I’m Maverick.” He lifts his hand in a wave, expression open. “I’m here to teach you how to beat the crap out of me.”

The group laughs nervously, and the two younger women and the teen daughter openly check him out.

The other trainer’s name is Laura, and for the next few minutes, they explain the purpose of the class and the basic moves they’ll be showing us.

Maverick puts a pouch over his waist, clearly to protect himself, and then he and Laura start by demonstrating a basic arm grab and how to get out of the hold. Then they move around the class, allowing each of us to give it a shot.

When Maverick reaches me, he gives me an encouraging smile. “Are you okay to try this with me, or would you prefer to work with Laura?”

“I’m fine to work with you.” I wipe my hands on my thighs. At this point I’ve watched several people perform the move.

He nods. “Okay. I’m going to walk you through it, and we’ll do it a few times until you feel like you’ve got it. Sound good?”

“Yup.” I nod, feeling irrationally nervous about the whole thing.

“If you’re uncomfortable at all, or you feel like it’s too much, let me know.”

“Okay.”

At my affirmation, he shows me how to perform the move, giving me step-by-step instructions, repeating it several times until I have it down. “Nice work, Professor. You’ll be kicking my ass in no time.” He gives me a fist bump, which seems to be his go-to with his students.

This whole situation is weird, but his praise gives me all the warm fuzzies.

“You don’t have to call me ‘Professor’ when we’re out of class.” Even as I say it, I don’t know how I feel about it, but having him call me Professor when we’re in a setting like this feels awkward.

“Okay, Clover.” He gives me a wink before he returns to the front of the class. We learn to escape from three more holds: being lifted off the ground, a chokehold, which is intense to say the least, and a hair grab. At the end of the hour, we review all the defense moves we’ve learned, and Maverick and Laura answer any questions and tell the group that they hope to see us next week so we can build on our defense skills. Their final suggestion is that if we have a friend we can practice with, it helps cement them.

Maverick stays behind to talk to a few of the women in the class, but when I shoulder my purse, he holds up a finger. “Give me a minute, and I’ll walk you to your car.”

I hang back, waiting for the last of the class to leave. Maverick pulls his hoodie on and shoulders his gym bag. “See you on Saturday, Laura.”

“Have a great week. You were fantastic as usual tonight.”

“Thanks, so were you.” He puts his ball cap on. “How was that for you?” he asks, shifting his attention to me. “You picked up the moves quickly. Do you think you’ll come back next week?”

“I might.” It was eye-opening, and empowering, like he said it would be. It’s also . . . a little conflicting.

“Better than a flat-out no. Is it weird for you? Being my student instead of the other way around?”

I chuckle and glance at him from the corner of my eye. “A little, but you’re very good at teaching, and putting everyone at ease.”

“It’s important to make everyone feel comfortable, otherwise it’s hard to be effective.”

“I can see that.”

He holds the door open for me, and we walk across the parking lot where his giant truck and my little car sit under one of the floodlights. When we reach our vehicles, I clutch the strap of my bag and turn to him. “Can I ask why you do this?”

Maverick spins his keys on his index finger, catching them in his palm before he releases them and spins them again. “I do it for my sister.”

I’m unsurprised by this. From what I’ve learned recently, it seems Maverick does a lot for the people he cares about. “Did you teach her self-defense?”

“She and my mom took classes together when she was a teenager. I let her practice the moves with me. Eventually I decided I wanted to teach them to other people, so they’d know what to do if they ever ended up in a situation like Lavender did. I mean, she was six when it happened, so it wasn’t like she was old enough to take those kinds of lessons, but I never wanted her to feel helpless like that again. Or anyone I cared about.”