Rival (6 page)

Emily looks tight and angry, but then
all that emotion disappears in a microsecond. She is intently
focused on her match as she takes her place across the mat from her
competitor.

She's fierce.

And I'm still in love with
her.

But I haven't seen her since our last
pre-tournament sparring match on Monday. Four days.

I haven't sought her out, and she
hasn't made any effort to find me in the halls at school. As far as
I can tell, both she and Erick have been skipping lunch or going
off-campus.

Basically, I'm chicken.

I'm half-afraid she's going to tell me
to get lost.

Our matches were at different times
yesterday, so I didn't get to see her fight, but the other black
belts—three others plus me are still in the running—were talking
about her. A little fear in their voices.

It makes me smile. On the inside, at
least. I keep my game face on.

The match starts, and Emily bides her
time, letting the Reyes girl wear herself out before Emily begins
an assault of punches, kicks, even a jumping spin kick.
Wow!

It all goes downhill from there. Sam
Reyes fights back, but there's no matching Emily's intensity. She
wins handily.

Then she heads my way, wearing a sheen
of sweat, her wispy curls matted to her temples. She sees me and
something in her eyes changes, softens. It's minute, but it's
there.

It gives me the courage to meet her. I
don't hold out my arms for an embrace. I know better than
that.

I push out a clamped fist instead, and
she bumps me.

"Nice match," I say.

"Thanks." Her smile lights up her
entire face.

Two of the other black belts get called
to the mats. Another round, and then it'll be my go.

Emily sits down on a wide carpeted
block, and I join her so that we're
shoulder-to-shoulder.

"You gonna stay and watch me?" I
ask.

She shrugs. I'm intensely aware of the
brush of her shoulder against mine.

"My mom’s expecting me," she says, eyes
on the two competitors as they fight. They're good, but she could
beat either guy easily. And she doesn't seem in any hurry to
leave.

"I can drive you. I've got my bike." I
dig in the gym bag at my feet and come up with a bottle of water. I
take a swig, not too much, because I don't want to go into my match
waterlogged, sloshy, and slow.

"We could get something to eat. Make a
date out of it."

I hold out the water bottle to
her.

I don't know if she can read the
intensity behind my casually-worded suggestion or if she’s just
considering it, but she looks at the bottle, then her gaze follows
up my arm until she's looking me in the face.

She holds my eyes as she reaches out
and takes the bottle, slowly raising it to her lips and drinking.
Even the movement of her throat when she swallows is
hot.

Her lips glisten when she lowers the
bottle and gently smacks it back into my hands. Girl doesn't need
lip gloss to catch my eye there.

She drank after me. Does that mean she
wants to kiss me again?

She seems to know exactly what I'm
thinking because her cheeks pink.

But she doesn't look away.

One of the match coordinators calls out
to me from several yards away, telling me I'm up next. The moment
is broken. I look away from Emily to nod at the guy.

I stand up. There's a time for romance,
and this isn't it, although Emily's got my adrenaline jacked so
high I'm already bouncing on my toes.

"You gonna wish me good luck?" I ask to
the side. I stretch my neck one way, then the other, shake out my
hands.

"You don't need it."

The coordinator motions me with both
hands, getting antsy that I'm not coming yet, but I can't just walk
away when Emily's softening toward me.

"Stay?" I ask, turning to walk backward
so I can watch her.

She's still got that beautiful pink in
her cheeks.

And her eyes give me the answer even
though she doesn't nod.

I face my opponent on the mats, knock
fists with him through the tape we wear as minimal protection for
our hands.

The referee waves us into the start of
the match.

My opponent doesn't know what hits
him.

High on Emily, cranked from her smile
and knowing she's waiting for me, I attack full force. The guy is
toast.

I take him out in six moves.

Then I turn toward the competitor area
where she is on her feet, eyes wide and dancing. I give her an
extra flex of one bicep, and she laughs. I can't hear it, but I see
it.

Emily and I will both have another
match in the morning. Then the winner of those semi-final matches
will go to the final round against each other. There's a
one-in-four chance Emily and I will meet in the final. A repeat of
that fateful fight two years ago.

But that's a worry for tomorrow. Right
now, I've got some wooing to do.

11 - Emily

I don't really know what I'm doing.
Texting my mom that I'm with Brett after we both change into our
street clothes. Meeting his parents briefly at the edge of the
stands. Getting on the back of his bike with him—apparently he's
been carrying my helmet around with him all week, because there it
is, strapped to the back of his machine. Wrapping my arms around
his waist.

A little tighter than I held him
Monday.

He looks back over his shoulder, and
even through our visors, our eyes meet and connect.

It's a little scary.

He reaches down and covers my linked
hands with one of his and squeezes. And it comforts me, sending
warmth all throughout me, and I’m not so scared.

Then he revs the bike, and we shoot out
of the parking lot and into traffic.

He drives the way he fights, steady and
confident. Watching him in the match was intense, gut-wrenching.
Sparring with him in the dojo is fun, but he holds back. After
fighting next to him against those vamps almost a week ago, I see
him differently. Then watching him today, seeing every perfect
blow, no effort wasted. Amazing.

And knowing that for some reason, he
has turned that same intensity on me.

I'm not sure what I'm doing at
all.

He pulls the bike into a pizza joint
about halfway to my house. I've been here a couple of times with
friends. Never with a date. I'm eighteen, but I’ve barely dated at
all. Too much time in the dojo and training to be a
Chaser.

Our close call last Sunday has made
things clearer for me. Killing two vamps just settled in my mind
what I already knew. The vamps aren’t going away, no matter what my
mom wants to pretend.

But Brett’s pursuit over the last few
days has also muddied the waters.

I like him.

Really
like
him.

But even though he fought beside me,
he’s not a Chaser. What chance does a relationship between us
really have? Maybe I shouldn’t be here tonight. I should be
focusing on what to say to my uncle when I see him
tomorrow.

But I don’t put a stop to it, don’t ask
him to take me home. I want tonight.

When Brett helps me off the bike and
then laces his fingers through mine, my heart starts beating like
I'm back on the mats.

Inside the family-style restaurant, we
wind through the busy Friday-night crowd, a mix of families and
couples. He doesn’t let go of my hand. We grab a booth in the far
corner. He slides in next to me, instead of across, close enough
that our thighs are touching beneath the table.

He flips one of the menus so that we
can both read it. Our heads lean close together, and I inhale the
scent of the cologne he must've sprayed after his match—neither of
us took time for a shower afterward.

My leg bounces beneath the table until
his palm covers my knee.

"You nervous?"

I shrug. "I haven't done this
much."

"What, had a pizza?"

I roll my eyes. "Dated."

He joggles my knee a little before
letting go. "So you're finally admitting that's what we're
doing?"

I shake my head, and he
grins.

"Veggie all right with you?"

"Fine," I say.

The waitress jots down our orders and
leaves us. All alone. That knee wants to bounce again, and it takes
all my energy to keep it still.

He props one elbow on the table. "So,
your mom didn't come to the tournament? How come?"

I run one finger across the tabletop in
front of us. "She doesn't approve."

"Of martial arts?"

And so much more. But he isn't supposed
to know about vamps or Chasers. "Of fighting."

He covers my fidgety hand on the
tabletop. "Then I'm guessing you didn't tell her about Sunday
afternoon?"

I shake my head a little, eyes on his
hand clasping mine. His thumb idly slides across the back of my
hand.

How can one touch send thrills all the
way through me?

"Have you talked to anybody about it?
About taking out those... guys?"

I hear the hesitation in that last
word. He knows something, but he can’t have guessed the truth. I
avoid his gaze, staring at the worn wooden tabletop
instead.

"What's to talk about? They were v—" I
cut myself off, shock sending my eyes up. Shock that I almost told
him.

"They were trying to kill us," I finish
lamely.

He holds my gaze. "You can trust me,
you know."

I'm learning that. But it isn't just me
with the secret. It's my whole family, our legacy.

"Have you talked to your cousin or your
uncle?"

I shake my head.

"No one?"

Another shake.

He squeezes my hand.
"Nightmares?"

How does he always know so much about
my feelings? Good guesses? Or intuition?

"A few." The worst was re-imagining
that moment when the vamp had Brett pinned, fangs inches from his
jugular. Only in my dream, I hadn't gotten Erick's knife in time to
save Brett's life.

"If you want to have a sleepover, I'm
your guy."

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively,
and that, along with his outlandish statement makes me laugh. The
painful nightmare recedes.

Our pie arrives, steaming hot and piled
high with veggies.

"How do you do that?" I ask as he lets
go of me to dish slices onto our plates. He gives me mine
first.

"Do what?" he’s distracted by the food
and only half paying attention.

"Make me feel better." I haven't
forgotten that moment at my house where his goofiness helped
relieve my pent-up tension.

"I know you." He lifts his pizza slice
and takes a bite, closing his eyes momentarily, in apparent
bliss.

He wipes his mouth, then starts again.
"We were friends, before..." He trails off.

"Before my dad died."

He nods and takes another bite. Is
there a pink tinge to his cheeks? Is he blushing?

"What?" I prod. I bite into the pizza,
and it's as good as the expression on his face implied. Heavenly,
with oozing cheese and just the right amount of sauce. And though
I’m thoroughly enjoying the pizza, I don’t tear my eyes from his
face. Waiting for an answer.

He hesitates, and now I'm intensely
curious, because Brett isn't one to hold back. He usually just says
it like it is.

"I...well, I liked you back then. And I
never stopped."

Seriously? "Is that why you threw the
fight? You had to know that giving up like that would piss me
off.”

He sighs. Exasperated? "I didn't throw
the fight. I—"

Now it's his turn to stop
himself.

His eyes flick around the room, like
maybe he's looking for a way out.

I get the same sensation I had before
when we talked at the dojo. Is he hiding something?

"I'll tell you," he says finally. "But
not here. Somewhere more private."

My curiosity explodes. What kind of
secret could be that big?

A guy I recognize from school walks up
to our table and addresses Brett, only glancing briefly at me.
"What's up man?" He and Brett bump fists. "Heard the news you
rocked your match. Congrats."

"Thanks. Do you know Emily
Santos?"

The guy’s eyebrows rocket to his
hairline and he takes a second look at me. "The chick who's gonna
win this year? How you doin’, Emily Santos?"

I smile.

"She's got two more rounds—she’ll have
to get through me first," Brett protests, but he slides a grin at
me.