Broken Beautiful Hearts(62)

I want to go to an MMA fight about as much as I want to walk into school naked. But how can I say no?

“I can’t go to an MMA fight.” The words slip out.

Owen stands, watching my every move. “What do you mean by can’t?”

I pull the elastic off my wrist and work on gathering my hair into a ponytail. Anything to keep from making eye contact with Owen. “I meant won’t.”

“You don’t have to go to the fight. You can drop me off,” he says, switching gears. “If I can’t catch a ride home with Cutter, I’ll hitchhike back, and I’ll do it with a smile. Just get me there.”

“Fine. I’ll take you. But I’m not going in.”

“Seriously?” Owen throws his arms around my waist, picks me up, and spins around. “You have no idea how much I love you right now.”

My heart slams against my ribs.

It’s a figure of speech. People say it all the time.

I’ve said it. He doesn’t mean anything by it, but I kind of wish he did.

Owen puts me down. He grabs his bag and lifts mine off my shoulder. “You’re saving my ass, Peyton. I owe you.”

“Come on.” I lead him through the parking lot to the Jeep.

“Want me to drive?” he offers. “I know where I’m going. It’ll be faster.”

I hesitate.

“Worried I’ll crash it?” Owen asks. “I’m a good driver and I have insurance.”

I snort. “If you’re such a great driver, why did you throw in the part about having insurance?”

Owen pats down his pockets. “Where’s my—?”

“Your phone? You threw it on the floor.”

“Right. Not my finest moment.”

“It’s okay. I threw my cleats out the car window once, after I lost a game.”

He opens the car door for me and offers me his arm when I step onto the running board. I settle into the driver’s seat and start the car while he runs around to jump in, but when I try to shift out of park, Owen covers my hand with his and stops me.

“Forget something?” He leans over and pulls the seat belt across my chest without touching anything he shouldn’t. It’s the sort of gesture you read about in novels, but nobody does it in real life.

Except Owen.

He straps the seat belt into place and secures his own. He doesn’t say much during the forty minutes to the arena. He thanks me ten more times and fidgets with his hands—opening them, stretching his fingers wide, and then squeezing them closed.

“Are you nervous?” I ask. Because I am, and I’m not the one fighting tonight.

Owen looks over at me, and his dark eyes search mine. “Why?”

“Why what?” I’ve completely lost track of the conversation.

He flashes me a smile. “You asked me a question before you got distracted by whatever it was you were thinking about a second ago—which I know couldn’t have been me, because you’re not attracted to me and we’re just friends.”

I open my mouth, but I can’t think of a single thing to say.

“But I’ll catch you up anyway,” he says. “You asked if I was nervous, and I asked why. Then you couldn’t remember what you asked me.” He winks at me.

“Are you always this cocky before a fight?”

“Have you always been this good at changing the subject?”

I lean my elbow on the armrest between us. “You changed it first. I guess you aren’t comfortable admitting that you’re nervous.”

“Not as nervous as you are about watching it,” Owen says.

“Nice try.” I keep my eyes on the road so he can’t read my expression. As much as I enjoy flirting with Owen, I’m not a fan of the fact that he can read me so well. “I don’t like fights, or fighters. Didn’t we cover this?”

“Have you ever been to an MMA fight?” He sounds so confident and sure of himself. The competitive side of me cringes.

“No.” I hesitate before adding, “I’ve been to more than one.” The moment the words leave my lips, I regret saying them. I’m only inviting more questions.

Owen’s gaze darts between my face and the road. “When? Who did you go with?”

“My best friend’s older brother is an MMA fighter. She dragged me along to watch his fights.” Sort of true.

“And you weren’t into it.” He’s not asking, which saves me from feeling like a total liar when I don’t correct him.

The truth? I loved going to fights. The skills involved in MMA and the conditioning it requires impressed the hell out of me. Now the thought of watching a fight just reminds me of Reed.

Owen sighs. “So much for my brilliant plan.”

“What plan?”

“The one where I talk you into coming to a fight and you see the error of your ways. Then you become an obsessive fan, beg me to bring you to all my competitions, and scream your lungs out when I win.”

I laugh. “You’re delusional.”

“Okay. Forget the last part.” He sounds hopeful.

“I’m guessing your mom doesn’t come?”

Owen stiffens, then shakes it off. “Don’t try to change the subject. I’m asking the questions. You used to like MMA, and now you hate it. What happened between then and now? Did you see someone get hurt in a fight?” He’s working hard to connect the dots that I don’t want connected. But he’s on the wrong track, and every omission and misleading piece of information I give him sends him deeper into a rabbit hole.