Bound by Tradition (2 page)

Silver was hung around my neck.

That’s when I came out of my competition fog.

Around me the stadium erupted in anger. Fans booed the referees.

I bowed and stepped back from the referee, my world falling apart at the seams. I’d never earned less than gold.

The newcomer stepped forward and smiled widely when the gold medal was looped over her head. She looked toward me, and even though I should have been mad, resentful, angry, I smiled at her. I couldn’t help smiling because she was so happy. It seemed that once upon a time winning had made me that happy. After the bowing and formalities with the judges, she walked over to me and offered her hand. As I shook her hand and congratulated her, it dawned on me that I really was happy for her. My smile wasn’t fake. I was glad she won.

She must have deserved the win. I knew my father would labor over the review tapes for hours. It would be horrible once we got home. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw him, red-faced and ranting at the referees. Okay, it would be horrible beginning immediately.

Embarrassed, I pulled on my hoodie and shoved my earbuds back into my ears. I followed the red-shirted volunteer back to the staging area, hoping to escape his public display of wrath.

Of course, I didn’t get very far. My father was suddenly in my face and creating a scene, demanding to know what happened during my kata. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything at all. I think he wanted me to be as outraged as he was, but I was only embarrassed by him. If nothing else, martial artists are composed and in control of their emotions. Right? I felt like I was in a bad dream.

“You were robbed! I’m filing a protest,” he said. “They saw an Asian and scored her higher.”

“That’s pretty racist,” I whispered under my breath, knowing he would have a cow if he even thought I was flirting with the guy in the parking lot. It wouldn’t matter that the guy hadn’t flirted back.

I didn’t understand how my father could be so racist exclusively against Asians. His best friend through grade school and college was Japanese. From what I knew about it, they were inseparable, at least until the fight that made them ex-friends.

I turned away from him, turned up the volume, and prayed my group would be called back down onto the floor. I’m not sure when he walked away. I’d already zoned.

When it was finally time to go to the ring, I followed the volunteer.

I rarely watched my competitors. At this event, I watched. They performed their second kata, this time traditional weapons. I followed their moves, noting their weaknesses. I waited for the newcomer, expectant, and grew excited when they called her number.

She performed a bo kata. Her polished wooden staff whizzed through the air with an audible whistle; her moves were perfect, and I only came up with one possible deduction in points for an ankle wobble the judges may or may not have seen. She was tough, an amazing opponent, and when she came off the deck, we shared a look and a smile. She knew she’d done well, but there was no sneer in her expression, only happiness. I would have to perform a perfect kata to beat her. A day before, I wouldn’t have doubted my chances. Standing there, I wasn’t so certain.

At the last second I changed my mind on which kata I would perform. It wasn’t the kata I’d perfected for competition. It was a kata I’d perfected for fun. I wanted to feel as good and as happy as my competitor felt when I finished, and although my practiced kata was as perfect as I could make it in all technical aspects and guaranteed a high score, it was boring as hell.

I bowed on deck and stepped forward with a
sai
in each hand. The sai had always been my favorite weapon—a pointed dagger-looking weapon with two curved prongs that isn’t a knife at all. I usually only carried it in my bag for demonstration purposes. I always competed with my bo staff, because a bo-staff kata executed very well would guarantee a win. Sai katas tend to be for show, not competition.

I stood at the ready and bowed again, this time to acknowledge the judges. There was no audible signal to start. The center judge just dropped his head in a short jerk.

I lunged forward two steps, screaming, “Aiiiy!” and the metal truncheons pushed forward as if striking an opponent.

I performed the kata I usually reserved for state fairs and exhibitions. It was flashy and difficult. It would be easy to lose points for minor mistakes, landing wrong after a jump, or worse. I risked falling on my ass after a backflip. I was being irresponsible in my lack of caution. I didn’t pay attention to who was watching; I only knew that everyone was.

I lunged, blocked…and hit my zone. The silence around me was touchable. It seemed everyone was holding their breath for me. The true silence was inside my head. A bomb strike could be going off overhead, and I wouldn’t hear it. This was Zen, this was—

What I used to love about karate.

It was once my escape.

I started training after my mother died, and it gave me a focus other than grief. I loved karate for no other reason than that.

I’m not sure when karate stopped being my escape and started being my prison, but in a significant moment of clarity I realized that is exactly what it had become.

I did a perfect backflip, and the crowd went wild, breaking into my silence. I landed, lunged, striked, blocked, and mourned.

I wasn’t sure what I was mourning: my mother, my lost childhood…

I was very solemn when the kata ended. I faced the judges and bowed. I didn’t have to look up at the crowd to see I was receiving a standing ovation.

It wouldn’t matter. Because I’d done my share of refereeing in the past and knew how things were done. I bet the score would be low, even if the performance was technically flawless. My kata wasn’t on the
approved
list.

That seemed inconsequential to me, because
I’d flown
. I’d felt good and powerful. For just a moment I’d been free.

I left the deck to stand with the other competitors and awaited the judges’ decision. Scoring was always subjective, always a wild card. I could still have a chance.

The newcomer took my hand and whispered, “God that was amazing! You have to teach me that.”

I refrained from telling her that her kata was better.

As competitors were called forward, fourth place, third place, I knew I’d either really bombed and wouldn’t medal at all, or still had a chance at first.

I didn’t hear my name, insomuch as I heard the instantaneous riot of boos.

Second place. Again. My father was going to kill me.

Had I sabotaged myself on purpose?

“First place, Suki—”

The crowd’s cheers drowned out her last name, but I at least had a name.
Suki
. I could find out more about her. She stepped forward to accept the gold medal, and when the judge placed it around her neck, she bowed but then immediately took the medal off and tried to exchange hers with mine. I didn’t let her.

The crowd was intense, loud.

“It’s not a popularity contest, Suki. You won with skill.”

“You’re a hundred times more skilled than I am.”

The crowd went wild seeing the exchange, and I hugged her, thinking I might have actually made a friend.

Camera flashes went off like fireworks around us.

I stretched my neck out and saw my father coming. I raced in the opposite direction. It wasn’t that I was afraid of him. I just needed time to process. I’d never taken second in my life and to do so twice in one day…it would be bad, very, very bad.

I hit the double doors that led into the bright Las Vegas sunshine and hurried through them. They closed, blocking out the noise coming from inside. It hadn’t seemed that loud until I was outside and faced with silence.

Heading toward the parking lot, I didn’t have a plan. I needed air. I needed time to think.

And I’d left my bag in the gymnasium, no money even for cab fare.

“Hey, Stephanie, wait up!”

I turned, knowing the voice wasn’t my father’s, thinking it might be one of the other students from our school, but it wasn’t. It was the guy from the parking lot earlier. He was lugging my backpack over one shoulder. “You left this ringside.”

“Uh, thanks,” I said, looking around him as I accepted the bag to see if my father was still in hot pursuit. I saw him, but he’d strangely stopped at the open doors. He was watching me but then turned suddenly and went back inside. That made me frown.

“You okay?”

“Terrific,” I answered sarcastically.

“You were amazing, if that helps.”

“I lost,” I said harshly.

“I wouldn’t call second losing, especially against Suki Miura.”

“Miura?”
Damn it, I know that name
. “Which means Gichin Miura is probably her father,” I said more to myself than the guy. I shook my head, irritated he was staring at me.

“Is that a problem?” he asked.

I laughed cynically. “No. I have nothing against Suki. She was great. My father will never let me hear the end of this one. He and Gichin Miura are rivals or something.”

“Rivals?”

I shrugged, not sure why I’d explain, but starting to anyway. “He was my father’s best friend once upon a time. They went to school together, trained together…” I pushed my lips together. Why was I elaborating on my father’s decades-old feud? Where was my family loyalty? “It doesn’t matter.”

I turned to go, not sure where I was headed. Maybe back to the hotel. I stopped in my tracks, realizing the guy standing beside me looked too much like Suki for it to be a coincidence.
Great
. “You’re a Miura too.”

“Guilty,” he admitted. “Suki is my sister, and honestly, we’re both insanely curious about you. Do you want to go for a drive?” He patted the side of his Jeep. “This is mine. We could get something cold to drink…maybe you could blow off some steam before you actually go back inside?”

“Blowing off steam would be great.” I turned to face him, taking a closer look at my would-be rescuer. “Got a first name, Miura?”

He mock bowed. “Shiro Miura, at your service.”

“So you know about the feud between our parents?”

“Probably more than you.” He opened the Jeep door for me. I didn’t climb in.

“When you smiled at me in the parking lot this morning, like you knew me, it was because you did know who I was…that our parents
have history
. I just didn’t know who you were.”

“I wanted to say hello, to tell you who I was, but you kept disappearing. That’s why I followed you out here. I thought it might be my last chance to introduce myself, and I really needed to.”

I gave him a confused look. “Why? Just because our parents knew each other a long time ago? That’s just weird.”

He smiled sardonically. “Weird doesn’t even begin to explain it.”

Chapter Two

It seemed like there was a split second before he leaned in to kiss me that I knew it was going to happen, but then we were kissing.

“You’re not gay?”

“Gay?”

“I thought… Nothing, never mind.”

He leaned in and whispered, “I’m not gay,” then placed his hand beneath my elbow to help me climb into the Jeep. I narrowed my eyes as he climbed in beside me. “Why would you and your sister be curious about me, when I didn’t even know the two of you existed? I think you have a lot of explaining to do after you buy me that cold drink.”

The cold drink came from a drive-through on the way out of town. I just didn’t realize that we were driving out of town until we were.

“Can you grab the map in the backseat?” he asked. “I think it’s on the floor.”

I turned and then started rummaging. There was a lot of rubbish on his floor. And rope. Lots of rope. “Do you climb?” I asked, grabbing the map.

“Climb?”

“The rope,” I clarified. “You have a lot of rope in your backseat.”

“Nah. That’s for my sport. My sister has always been the family martial artist. I took a less traditional familial path.” He smiled, and it was a beautiful smile, filled with wickedness and teasing.

“I feel like I’m missing something here.”

“My grandfather is an erotic rope master.”

“Shibari?” I guessed, rolling my eyes. “Like BDSM?”

“I use shibari for the classes I teach, but in Japan there are other words to describe it. Rope art has gained popularity in this country because it fits well into the parameters of the kink community, but in Japan it is taken very seriously. And what does a nice girl like you know about BDSM?”

I blushed. “Seriously?”

“Okay, okay, I know, age of the Internet, pop-up porn ads. We grew up with the visual.” He looked at me with a sideways glance and asked, “But have you ever played?”

By the sound of his voice, I believed anything I’d admit to would seem childish, and really there was only that time I handcuffed an insurance salesman to a bed in Phoenix. And that cowboy in El Paso kind of lassoed me to a bed. I stifled my chuckle.
Olé!
There was no room for a nice girl in that hotel room. “Nice girls don’t kiss and tell.”

He smirked and turned off the main road.

“Where are we going?”

“Desert National Wildlife Refuge.” He reached behind my seat, grabbed a photo album, and handed it to me. “And while we drive you can settle the curiosity in your eyes about me.”

I didn’t open the album, although I was dying to. “Maybe I’m not that curious.”

“That kiss back in the parking lot is evidence to the contrary.”

“You kissed me!”

“You definitely participated, and I never start anything with anyone unless what I do on the side is fully disclosed. There’s no room in my life for jealousy.”

“Whoa, slow down. Jealousy? Starting things? I think you misread that kiss.”

“Did I?”

I stared down at the book and took a deep breath. “Yes, definitely.”

Very softly he said, “That’s too bad. It would have been nice to have gotten to know you better.”

I didn’t look at him, couldn’t look at him. Why even get my hopes up of finding a guy to date. My life had no time for it, and I’d only be pretending if I alluded to anything different. “Why are we going to a wildlife refuge? I really can’t be gone too long.”