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The first day she came into the gym, I’d been shocked as shit to realize it was Amelia Johnson and as a fighter, no less. She’d been outgoing and athletic but sunny, more the girl you’d expect on the cheer squad than in the ring.
Her cheeks pinked, and she took a big slurp of her water.
My curiosity piqued at her quiet. So far, she hadn’t hesitated to jump headfirst into difficult topics—whether it was asking me out on a whim or this morning when she’d talked about her insecurities over her old relationship.
I didn’t break the silence, wanting to give her time to speak at her own pace rather than potentially spooking her, so I sipped at the water the server had dropped off for me.
She scrubbed her face with her palms. “Ugh, this is embarrassing.”
I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms. “Well, now I’m intrigued.”
“I might’ve sort of had a crush on you way back when.” The words tumbled out. “You’d show up after MMA, looking super fucking hot, and even though you were long gone by the time I started high school, I decided to try out a class.”
My heart thumped a little harder. The shy way Ames acted hinted the crush had gone deep, which landed with mixed feelings. “So, how disappointed were you when you saw where I was now?” I asked, steering away from the hope, the adrenaline burst at having the admiration of someone like her. That was past me she’d been into, not the present version—ten years older and broken.
Ames slapped her palm on the table. “Enough of that bullshit. If anything, I was intimidated because you’ve only gotten hotter and more competent.”
My cheeks heated at her praise, at the way she stared at me like I was worth more. That type of passion, that type of support, was addictive, and I wasn’t immune to the lure. “You tried out a class and then what?” I was unable to address the other shit—not when it made me feel more stripped down than I’d been in the shower with her this morning.
She shrugged. “I’ve always had a lot of energy, and MMA was a great outlet for it. I’d never expected to be any good, but the rush when I won my first fight? Yeah, I’m riding this out for as long as I can.”
“You’re talented. And I’m not just saying that because you’re my client.”
She shot me a scorching look, but beneath it, layers of history between us simmered, sediment stacked under pressure until over time it turned into something beautiful. The years we’d shared, the connection from before I’d left, the love for MMA, and the direction we’d each taken that led us to here. All of it swelled beneath my skin like something momentous, something bigger than me.
Far bigger than a single night.
I tugged on my ponytail, ignoring the jittery sensation that swept through me—the mix of nerves and anticipation pure trouble. Especially when I was trying to protect my foolish fucking heart.
We’d taken hours with dinner, sharing conversation and pizza. I passed the cheese fries to Ames, mostly because I didn’t want to get stabbed. We had built up appetites and demolished the pie in a sitting, and there was barely a crumb left. Far shittier than I normally ate with my steady lean protein and veggies diet, but today was all about indulgence from start to finish.
“You didn’t need to pay,” Ames said, pouting.
“No, but I wanted to.” I popped down a few bills and rose from my seat. My ass ached from sitting for so long, but honestly, the time had flown by. Night had coated the city in shadows, and the streetlights stretched out in either direction, casting their hazy beacons throughout Philly. With the honks of the traffic, the casual passersby, and the skyscrapers lit up, the city barely felt different than it did during the day.
“What direction is your place?” I asked.
She pointed to the right. “That way.”
“I’m walking you home,” I said, leaving no room for argument.
Ames fixed me a look. “I’m a big girl, Taylor. I can handle the eight-minute trek back.”
I crossed my arms, not budging. “And I’ve got ten years of living in the city on you.”
“Pulling out the age card, are we?” Ames said as she grabbed her bag and slipped the strap onto her shoulder. It was bubblegum pink with a unicorn, bursting with rainbows across the background.
“What’s that, a Lisa Frank purse?” I teased.
She wrinkled her nose. “Who the hell is that?”
I clutched my chest, feigning drama. “Ouch. Lord, I know I’m old, but damn.” As much as I joked, Ames was a decade younger than me, and it fucked with my head how goddamn hot my baby sister’s best friend had turned out. Still, she’d lived enough to make her own decisions, so I wouldn’t waste time second-guessing her. “Come on.” I tipped my head toward the road. I started in the direction of her apartment before she could argue with me.
As we walked down the sidewalk, a comfortable quiet settled between us. Cars zipped by, the flare of their high beams casting patterns on the pavement, and a metal and stone scent lingered, fitting with the slight chill the evening brought.
Ames shivered a bit as she tugged on her “not Lisa Frank” purse. Clearly, the lack of sleeves on her tunic and her shorts weren’t cutting it in the warmth department. I was tempted to plaster my body to hers, but I unzipped my duffel instead.
“Here,” I said, snagging my spare hoodie and passing it over.
