He needed to be in top shape for his upcoming match; he should have been watching reels and making notes of Calvin Jones’s techniques, but he’d accomplished none of that.The few scraps of sleep he’d been able to snatch had thrown him for a loop: dreams of Sofronia, or Sofie as she was called now, had left him tossing and turning. She ran from him through one fantastic landscape after another, as if afraid he’d hurt her, but when he caught her she didn’t seem to want to be anywhere else. He hadn’t dreamed like that—soft curves and wide brown eyes as he plunged into warmth—since he was a teenager waking up in the night to sticky sheets. It had been her haunting his dreams then, too.He didn’t know why the urge to go to her after the meeting had been so strong or why, when all those skeptical faces had turned to him in the parking lot, he’d wanted it known that his acquaintance with her preceded all of theirs. He hadn’t spoken to Sofie for eight years now, double the amount of time they’d spent together as children, but a stupid little thing like time hadn’t changed the way he felt about her.
