Tyed

Seriously? There are like forty people in this room.

“What’s up, Josie?” Ty asks. He brought his irresistible mouthwash and Hot-Dude smell with him. Why’d he have to do that?

“She’s getting it.” Josie wheezes, tossing another blow. “But she hates it when I call her Barbie.”

Ty’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree when he hears my new, humiliating nickname.

“Suits her. Have you seen her car? Perfect name.” He winks at me and then glues his mouth to my ear. "Stop firing aimless shots when you spar. Plan ahead, and don't hold the pad so tight. You're wasting your energy," he says and walks off.

“Oh, boy, you’re in trouble now, Barbie.” Josie laughs and throws another punch at me. This time she doesn’t hold back on her strength.

My body bounces backwards from the blow, but the pad absorbs the hit. This time I don't wince. Josie whistles her approval, circling me with an interested expression.

“How do you mean?” I ask. I'm pretty sure it's her turn to hold the pad, but I'm not in a hurry to send more useless punches.

“I know Ty and I know how he is around girls. He likes you. But watch out. This one will eat you alive.”

Are these people for real? Who talks like that?

I blush, biting my inner cheek.

"I think it's my turn now, Josie." I hand her the pad.

Josie looks disappointed, but she knows she milked the situation long enough. We change positions and I study her for a few seconds, debating how to go around it. I can throw aimless punches, or I can try and mimic the guy to my right. I've been watching him throughout class and he seems to know what he's doing.

I choose the second option and send a roundhouse kick and then a jab, trying to aim straight to the middle of the pad.

“Whoa, Barbie!” Josie's eyes widen, almost in slow mo, as she tumbles backwards slightly.

According to Josie, I just threw a combination.

Ty is looking at me, arms folded over his chiseled chest. The whole class stops to see how the newbie kicked ass against all odds. Confidence washes through me.

"Good?" I pant. I will never be able to do this again. Ever.

"Great!" Josie smirks.

“So can you stop calling me Barbie?” I ask.

"Sure thing." She wiggles her eyebrows and cocks her head in Ty's direction. "But he won't."

Chapter Four

Jesse unwraps my hands from the tight boxing gloves while I’m babbling about my so-called combination. An uninformed person would suspect I had just taken down Arnold Schwarzenegger and Muhammad Ali together. I wince when I realize my knuckles are bright red and keep fidgeting with my fingers to help the blood circulation flow.

“You did good, Blaire,” Jesse compliments. “You should hit class more often.”

I smile and squeeze his hand. Jesse is nice, but I think I'll stick to running and hitting yoga classes every once in a while. I'm still freaked out by MMA, and it'll never be my scene. Plus, I'm pretty sure I was running on zero oxygen throughout the majority of class. Now I'm not a doctor, but this can't be good, right?

The room is beginning to empty out, but people are still milling around Ty, asking him questions. Especially girls. My hair is plastered on my sticky temples and my cheeks are flushed.

My tight yoga pants and pink top are soaked, but I feel absurdly invincible.

Finally, Tyler walks back to us, taking a sip of his protein shake. There are still a few people scattered around the room, talking about head kicks and whatnot. Tyler stares at me, his eyes unwavering.

“Everybody out,” he orders, raising his voice. “Barbie stays.”

The chatter stops and everybody’s curious eyes are fixed on me. I fold my arms, trying to look indifferent, but my blush betrays me.

Jesse shakes his head, laughing to himself, and stands up from the stools we sit on. “Watch yourself, Blaire. This one takes no prisoners.” He walks away, slapping backs and herding people out of the room.

Everyone seems to accept Ty’s order and dashes off with no argument. He wears authority incredibly well. Another thing to add to the list of things I find irritating about him.

I watch the door closing behind the last person to walk out and close my eyes, inhaling all the oxygen I can get into my lungs. I can handle him. I can handle Ty Wilder.

Of course I can handle Ty Wilder.

I’m a (kind of) strong, (semi) independent woman, and I can. Handle. Ty. Wilder.

Jesus Christ. I so can’t handle him.

He paces around me like a tiger, checking me out head to toe, and doesn’t even attempt to hide it.

His eyes are scanning me like he’s trying to decide whether he likes what he sees. I’m acutely aware of my body, and I instinctively suck in my stomach and straighten my posture. When I realize what I’ve done, I’m horrified. Every feminist bone in my body instructs me to get the hell out of here, but Brain is momentarily kidnapped by Hormones and has duct tape plastered to its mouth. I’m melting like candlewax from the intentness of his gaze. I’m freakin’ mute. Just as well, since I doubt I’d make much sense when he is so incredibly close.