21

“You know, you’re asking for help,” he said, “but you’re acting like you’re trying to beat me, not spar with me.”

I smirked. “No idea what you mean.”

“Ha. Liar.” He lunged at me, grabbing hold of my shirt.

I jerked back, and my shirt tore. As bits of cotton drifted away in the wind, Lance and I looked at each other. All pretense of this being a training session had disappeared the moment we heard the fabric tear. It wasn’t first blood, but it was close enough.

Lance grinned. “First point’s mine.”

“The next point won’t be.”

When we stepped toward each other again, we didn’t speak—talking would waste breath. He jumped around, light on his feet. His attacks were quicker, perfectly accurate. When I went harder to get him off his game, he smirked and matched my ferocity. He was so fast, all I could do was duck and weave between attacks. I stepped back, trying to get space between us, but he closed the distance. I had a greater arm span than him. If he gave me the inches I needed, this woul