Malika, the youngest, has braces and a rapt look on her face as I position myself in the front of the gym.
I didn’t plan what to say next, and my stomach squeezes. My gaze flicks to Emory, who is giving me a small, encouraging smile. She thinks I can do this, be a good leader, like her, or anexample.But I’m nothing like Emory.
She owns a room, and I really prefer the background, and now that I’m in front of all these kids I can’t let down, my palms can’t stop sweating, and all I can think issweaty palms are a liabilityover and over in my head.
Why did I agree to this again?Emory assures me it will make me feelbiginside, but I can’t stop thinking about how Nour would be better suited, how I’m too awkward and quiet and there’s absolutely no way I can connect with agroup of high school girls. High school girls didn’t like me when Iwasa high school girl.
“Did I miss it?” The front door swings open, revealing Tristan backlit by bright sunlight.
Heads whip around. There’s a collective intake of air. I nearly laugh. Tristan Prince with last night’s stubble and finger-combed hair is a sight to behold. He’s big and broad and larger than life. Men like him belong in glossy magazine pages or in fantasies. They don’t just stroll in and look at you like you’re sunlight when the whole world is clouds.
My stomach jumps at how he’s watching my face. He mouthshi, before he winks and turns his gaze curiously to the group on the floor. One girl sneaks her phone out.
Harmony, the alum, looks at Emory and whispers, “Is nineteen too young for marriage?” Emory barks a laugh and covers her mouth. Her shoulders shake.
A potent cocktail of relief and nerves and irritably pleasurable warmth spills through my stomach.
He strides forward, mouth lifting in a cocky smile, grass-green gaze scanning the girls, and I’m right back to where I was in the kitchen yesterday.
Practice with me.
Ask me with your body.
Oh god.
Luckily, he doesn’t see it. Instead, he’s introducing himself, sheepishly apologizing to the girls for being late.
“Why are you here?” I fold my arms over my stomach, a slight defense against the warm smile he throws my way. I don’t like how I feel, my body reorienting itself toward him, a silly little sunflower to his sun. “You’re supposed to be on a date.”
“Thought you might need a practice dummy.” He strides forward and spreads his arms wide. “Here I am.”
I scowl, then take a quick, shaky inhale before I turn to the girls.
“Mr. Prince has volunteered to be our attacker for this scenario.”
Behind me, Tristan chokes a breath.
“You’re going to beat him up?” Malika sounds skeptical, and one of the other girls giggles. Rosh, I think her name is.
“She’s going to try,” Tristan says merrily, and sparks kindle inside me.
I’m reminded of the first time I sparred with David, the first time I beat him. I felt a hundred feet tall. I felt like I could conquer the whole world. I want to give these girls even a fraction of that feeling to carry with them.
“First lesson,” I say, looking at each of them. “It doesn’t matter how big an attacker is. With leverage and practice, you can beat him every time. Even someone my size.”
Shoulders straighten across the room.
“He’s going to come at me from the front and try to grab me.” I lift my hands, motioning Tristan forward. “I’m going to climb him and gouge out his eyes.”
“But not literally,” Tristan says with a wink.
The girls giggle. I’m too busy giving Tristan murder eyes.
“We’ll see,” I mutter. “You don’t need eyes.”
Tristan is fighting a smile. “Oh, Bailey,” he whispers. “You like my eyes.”
Right then I resolve to beat him. He rushes me, and I let him grab me in a solid collision of limbs. His arms go around my waist, lifting me up. He huffs a triumphant laugh before I loop a leg around his, grab his shoulders, and climb his body like he’s a tree.
