I realized suddenly how it must look. Joker was dangerously close to me, and he didn’t back off, even with Heath here. I was still shirtless. And Joker didn’t bother to stop staring at me.
“Just, uh,” Heath said, “making sure everything is okay in here.”
“All good,” Joker said easily, his tone low and almost sultry. “Right, Dante?”
Heath cut his gaze to the floor quickly. He looked a little nervous, like he was waiting for one of us to kick him out of the locker room. Awkwardness hung between us. From the way Heath’s gaze suddenly snapped up to me, then Joker, then back to the floor, I almost would’ve thought he was jealous.
But I had to be projecting my own desires onto him. There was no reason for him to be jealous—he was probably just nervous about his chaperone role. This was kind of a weird situation for a chaperone, I figured. Joker hitting on me wasn’t inappropriate per se, but it wasn’t exactly appropriate for the situation, either—especially when I was here in a teaching capacity.
I tugged my shirt on quickly—it was a tight, long-sleeved shirt that clung to my torso and arms. It was convenient for sparring lessons: reduced skin-on-skin contact, which not everyone was comfortable with, and didn’t get in my way when I was demonstrating movements.
Heath’s gaze snapped to my chest, and the flush on his cheeks deepened. “Cool. Okay. Good. We’re all—uh, we’re all ready. Whenever you are.”
Then he turned and scurried back out the door.
Joker grumbled something, but I didn’t hear him—I was too busy watching Heath run out of the changing room like a spooked cat. I left my boots and clothes askance in the locker room as I hurried to follow Heath out.
Siren, Tex, and Jazz all stood as I exited the locker room. Joker trailed behind me, and he didn’t look disappointed exactly, but he looked a little irritated. Heath was standing near the wall, the flush still present on his cheeks, his gaze fixed firmly on the mats. I immediately wanted to crowd into his space and ease away that tense expression—which was absolutely inappropriate, especially right now, when I needed to be teaching. Not to mention how unwelcome it would probably be. I shoved that urge away and tried to focus on the task at hand.
“All right,” I said as I stepped barefoot onto the mats. “So, as y’all know, I’m Dante, the VP of Liberty Crew, and Blade’s asked me to help out with some additional self-defense skills.”
Heath looked curious, but still a little antsy. The best way to get him to ease up was to emanate ease up myself—that much I’d learned from my classes at the dojo, and the beginning of my time with Eddy. I continued my spiel, speaking casually but with a foundation of confidence.
“The purpose of these classes is not only to develop self-defense skills, but to get everyone a little more comfortable with applying them. No point in knowing how to break a hold if you freeze when you need to do it. So for that reason we’re going to be sparring—a lot. The point is not to repeat the motions until you can do them right, but until you physically can’t do them wrong.” I bounced a little from foot-to-foot, loosening up. “Jazz, wanna help me demonstrate?”
Jazz looked a little surprised, but nodded, and stepped onto the mat across from me.
“Light and easy,” I said. “At least until everyone gets a mouthguard.”
Jazz nodded in agreement. “Anything off the table?”
I chuckled. “Use your judgment.”
“Oh, you might regret that,” Tex said from the sidelines.
I grinned, but otherwise ignored that insight, and then nodded at Jazz as a signal to start. Jazz dropped into a comfortable fighting stance—a boxing stance, it looked like, with his hands in loose fists by his face. His keen amber eyes tracked my hands and shoulders as he threw a few quick, easy jabs to test my reactions.
We circled like that for a few moments, throwing and slipping jabs, learning each other’s speed and style. At least, until Joker called from the back, “Okay, now do something!”
Jazz shook his head a little in annoyance, but threw two quick jabs at my face, drawing my hands up. When I threw a right hand in retaliation, he slipped low and hard to the left, ducking the punch and landing his own right hand beneath my ribs. It wasn’t a hard punch, but it was fast. If he had put power behind