Page 155 of The Wild Card

“Okay.” She turns to face me, hands on her hips. “What’s the plan here? Are you going to teach me to fight?”

“I’m going to teach you to defend yourself. Fighting is about offense. Defense is about getting away.” I move to the center of the mat. “The goal isn’t to win. It’s to create enough distance to escape.”

She joins me on the mat, shaking out her arms like she’s preparing for a fight. The tank top rides up slightly as she stretches, revealing a sliver of stomach. I force myself to focus.

“Okay, Coach. What’s first?”

“First—” I position myself in front of her. “We work on breaking holds. If someone grabs you from behind, your instinct will be to struggle. That’s wrong.”

“Struggling is wrong?”

“Struggling wastes energy and telegraphs your movements. Instead—” I step behind her, wrapping my arms loosely around her waist. “You want to drop your weight, create space, then strike.”

She’s tense against me, but not from fear. I can feel her breathing quicken, feel the warmth of her back against my chest. “Crew.”

“Yeah?”

“Is this part of the lesson, or are you just looking for an excuse to hold me?”

“Both.”

She laughs, and some of the tension breaks. “Okay. Show me what to do.”

I walk her through the technique—dropping her center of gravity, twisting to create space, using her elbow to strike backward. She’s a quick learner, and after a few tries, she executes the move almost perfectly.

“Good. Again.”

We run through it five more times. Then I teach her how to break a wrist grab, how to escape a chokehold, how to use her body weight against someone bigger.

Every technique requires contact. My hands on her wrists. Her body pressed against mine. The brush of her hair against my face when she twists out of a hold.

By the time we’ve been at it for thirty minutes, I’m barely holding it together.

“Okay,” she says, breathing hard. “I think I need a water break.”

“There’s a water station with cups by the door.”

She pads across the mat, and I watch her go—the sway of her hips, the way the workout clothes cling to her curves. When she bends to fill a paper cup with water, I have to look away.

Get it together, Jensen.

“You know,” she says, walking back toward me, “when you said you were taking me on a date, I didn’t expect a workout.”

“This isn’t the date. This is the prelude.”

“There’s more?”

“Dinner. And after.”

“After?” Her eyebrows rise. “What’s after?”

“You’ll see.”

She stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell her shampoo. Coconut. Always coconut.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very mysterious, Agent Jensen?”

“Once or twice.”