Broken Beautiful Hearts(50)

“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 slapping 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.”