Strike Me Down - Mindy Mejia Page 0,23

didn’t ask.”

Winking, the fighter crossed the tile to sit in the middle of the bench, leaving several feet of space between them. Logan lounged against the wall, legs rolling open as her eyes closed. She didn’t seem interested in further conversation and the white noise of the generator padded the space where awkwardness might have lived between two strangers in a small room.

Nora tried to relax. She leaned back woodenly and rested her hands in what she hoped was a natural position on her lap. After a few minutes spent attempting to calm her heart rate, she noticed something that took her mind off Logan’s proximity and it was the last thing she expected: Logan’s feet.

Logan wore the same sandals put out for everyone’s use next to the steam room entrance, but her arches and even some of her toes had been bound with bandages. White gauze covered most of the skin on her feet and only half her toenails were exposed. She’d worn shoes during class this morning so this damage, whatever it was, had been hidden. Nora scanned Logan’s sprawled legs, arms, and her chest above the towel. The rest of her seemed uninjured.

Not wanting to be caught staring, she made herself look away while considering possible explanations. Callouses, training injuries, some bizarre foot condition. The bandages, blizzard white in the hazy room, kept drawing her attention back despite her effort to appear nonchalant.

The steam stopped hissing, and the sudden quiet seemed amplified by the travertine tile, as if silence could echo. Just as Nora was about to get up and leave, Logan stirred.

“You’re not one of the dawns,” she muttered, waving a hand toward the gym. “The sunrise crowd.”

“No, I usually attend the noon classes, but I wanted to come one last time before … Strike Down.”

Another pause, and Nora hesitated, glancing at the door. Her pulse wouldn’t settle.

“Second to last row, third bag from the left.” Logan’s eyes opened and fixed on Nora. “That’s where you like to stand, right?”

Nora nodded, taken off guard. She didn’t think Logan had ever noticed her. She never thought anyone noticed her.

Something else was different, though, something beyond the strangeness of sitting nearly naked in a cramped space with a celebrity. It wasn’t the bandages or even the improbable fact that Logan Russo had recognized her. Logan’s voice had shed some of its sharpness, her body rounded in places where usually only angles lived—a slope in her shoulder, a curve in her belly. Her face had been scrubbed clean, too. Logan always wore full makeup during Strike sessions, dark eye shadow and mascara for her signature smoky-eyed look, a palette of gloss and contours made into a seamless, camera-ready appearance. The face studying Nora now wasn’t flawless. Lines crisscrossed her temples and the shadows lived underneath her eyes instead of on the made-up lids.

“It’s okay,” she said, seemingly amused by Nora’s concentration. “You don’t have to hold back like you do with your side kicks.”

“I don’t hold back on my side kicks.”

Logan’s mouth twitched, and she shrugged deeper into the wall. “You’re too technical, but that’s a good problem. Some people come in here all fire and no form. It’s harder to get them to slow down and learn the right way to attack before they hurt themselves. But you—you’re all technique and no fire. You’ve never had to fight for your life.”

“Most people haven’t.”

“Most people you know.”

They paused, measuring each other, then Nora surprised herself by leaning forward. “Why kickboxing?”

Logan smiled through the steam, a reaction so bright and big it lit up her entire face even as her eyes unfocused. “Kids and kicks.”

“What?”

“That’s what my dad used to say. Girls’ hips were meant to deliver two things—kids and kicks. He taught me hips were power, the engine behind every punch and roundhouse. It’s all there in the pelvic floor, deep in the glutes, hips and hams, where biology gave us the goods.” Logan glanced over, still grinning in a way that offered a piece of the happiness, inviting Nora to share in it.

“He was your coach?”

“He trained me in our garage every night after work. Made me promise not to deliver a grandbaby before I’d delivered a title belt.” The smile faded as she smoothed the edge of the towel over her leg. “He didn’t have to worry about that.”

Logan cleared her throat, falling silent, but Nora wanted her to keep talking. She could listen to this unpackaged, unguarded Logan all day.

“What happened to your feet?”

“A snake bit