Chapter One
Hidden under my hoodie, sunglasses on, I prepared to step from the SUV driven by my father. I checked the route between parked cars to strategize the fastest means into the gymnasium. My main goal: avoiding fans at all cost. You’d think I was a celebrity for all the attention I got at martial arts events, but I wasn’t. I was a nothing, a nobody. My only skill was winning.
I’d been competing in martial arts events since I was four. Kata , kumite , and kobudo —Japanese words that mean choreographed karate moves, fighting, and traditional weapons. Karate was as natural to me as breathing. Compete was just what my family did. Our family name had become iconic at some point. My name was known . You would think after a while I would have gotten used to the attention, the adoration…the jealousy, the animosity…
But how could anyone ever get used to living under a microscope? That was how I saw my life. I couldn’t even say this part of my life because there was no life for me outside of the dojo. Martial arts and competition had ruled every waking moment from the time I’d pulled on my first starched gi and competed in my first tournament. I was four and won regional recognition. We—my father and I—ate, drank, and lived every moment in preparation for events.
Competition created news coverage, and as a professional instructor, my father used the free publicity to drive sales…and I was the dojo’s poster child. I tried to understand my father’s point of view. I was his legacy, and every parent wanted his child to walk in his footsteps, right? But more and more I was becoming resentful. I wanted something else for my life other than what I had. I had no idea what—just something.
My father parked farther from the doors than I would have liked, but as I stepped from the backseat, I forgot my irritation when I glanced up to see the most gorgeous male I’d ever seen in my life. He wore his dark hair knotted at the base of his neck, so I couldn’t be certain how much length there was to it, but it seemed long . He pulled off his three-quarter-sleeve jersey, the kind where the sleeves are one color and the body of the shirt another color, in this case blue sleeves and yellow for the main shirt. I really didn’t give a damn about the shirt and only noticed because the flash of color drew my eyes to his perfectly, deeply tanned six-pack abs. Wow . I was having a hard enough time remembering to breathe when his groin muscles flexed, leading my gaze along the shadowed ridge to the edge of his low-rider jeans.
I tilted my head, licking my lips, thinking no guy could be that hot in real life. In an airbrushed AF ad maybe, but not in real life. I checked him out from head to toe and smiled when I saw he was wearing cheap bright yellow flip-flops. Side note: sexy toes. Really sexy toes. A glint of gold turned out to be a toe ring. That explained it. He’s gay.
Straight guys are never that hot . Gay guys on the other hand, unavailable to the likes of me, were almost always that hot. I sighed with a heavy heart.
It was a nice dream.
He chose that moment to look my way, and I ducked my head, but not fast enough. He winked, smirking. Yeah, ha-ha, joke’s on the straight girl.
I smiled, laughing at myself. I stared a moment longer—might as well enjoy the view—and noted that he was Asian to boot. Cruel, cruel joke, Universe. Cruel, cruel joke. Some girls loved blonds, some girls loved redheads, but me…anyone of Far Eastern descent really made my blood boil. Oh well, best to look away, I decided, before Father realized I was being distracted and made my life ten times worse with a public lecture. The last thing I needed was a parking lot scene, and Stephano Ricci wasn’t known for his irrational tirades for nothing. Unfortunately I was just as well-known for being the cause of most of them.
I caught the hot gay guy watching me as I grabbed my backpack and garment bag from the backseat. I smiled
Hidden under my hoodie, sunglasses on, I prepared to step from the SUV driven by my father. I checked the route between parked cars to strategize the fastest means into the gymnasium. My main goal: avoiding fans at all cost. You’d think I was a celebrity for all the attention I got at martial arts events, but I wasn’t. I was a nothing, a nobody. My only skill was winning.
I’d been competing in martial arts events since I was four. Kata , kumite , and kobudo —Japanese words that mean choreographed karate moves, fighting, and traditional weapons. Karate was as natural to me as breathing. Compete was just what my family did. Our family name had become iconic at some point. My name was known . You would think after a while I would have gotten used to the attention, the adoration…the jealousy, the animosity…
But how could anyone ever get used to living under a microscope? That was how I saw my life. I couldn’t even say this part of my life because there was no life for me outside of the dojo. Martial arts and competition had ruled every waking moment from the time I’d pulled on my first starched gi and competed in my first tournament. I was four and won regional recognition. We—my father and I—ate, drank, and lived every moment in preparation for events.
Competition created news coverage, and as a professional instructor, my father used the free publicity to drive sales…and I was the dojo’s poster child. I tried to understand my father’s point of view. I was his legacy, and every parent wanted his child to walk in his footsteps, right? But more and more I was becoming resentful. I wanted something else for my life other than what I had. I had no idea what—just something.
My father parked farther from the doors than I would have liked, but as I stepped from the backseat, I forgot my irritation when I glanced up to see the most gorgeous male I’d ever seen in my life. He wore his dark hair knotted at the base of his neck, so I couldn’t be certain how much length there was to it, but it seemed long . He pulled off his three-quarter-sleeve jersey, the kind where the sleeves are one color and the body of the shirt another color, in this case blue sleeves and yellow for the main shirt. I really didn’t give a damn about the shirt and only noticed because the flash of color drew my eyes to his perfectly, deeply tanned six-pack abs. Wow . I was having a hard enough time remembering to breathe when his groin muscles flexed, leading my gaze along the shadowed ridge to the edge of his low-rider jeans.
I tilted my head, licking my lips, thinking no guy could be that hot in real life. In an airbrushed AF ad maybe, but not in real life. I checked him out from head to toe and smiled when I saw he was wearing cheap bright yellow flip-flops. Side note: sexy toes. Really sexy toes. A glint of gold turned out to be a toe ring. That explained it. He’s gay.
Straight guys are never that hot . Gay guys on the other hand, unavailable to the likes of me, were almost always that hot. I sighed with a heavy heart.
It was a nice dream.
He chose that moment to look my way, and I ducked my head, but not fast enough. He winked, smirking. Yeah, ha-ha, joke’s on the straight girl.
I smiled, laughing at myself. I stared a moment longer—might as well enjoy the view—and noted that he was Asian to boot. Cruel, cruel joke, Universe. Cruel, cruel joke. Some girls loved blonds, some girls loved redheads, but me…anyone of Far Eastern descent really made my blood boil. Oh well, best to look away, I decided, before Father realized I was being distracted and made my life ten times worse with a public lecture. The last thing I needed was a parking lot scene, and Stephano Ricci wasn’t known for his irrational tirades for nothing. Unfortunately I was just as well-known for being the cause of most of them.
I caught the hot gay guy watching me as I grabbed my backpack and garment bag from the backseat. I smiled
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