Page 30 of Under Pressure

“Yeah.”

We go into our boxing stances again, and after a minute, I ask, “Do you normally spar with a partner?”

He nods. “My buddy Ethan. Or I use the punching bag.”

I eye the set of punching bags hanging over on the east side of the gym. “Can we try that?”

“Sure.” He holds the ropes open for me to climb through. He looks graceful as he does it, but I’m this close to getting tangled up and flipping over before I finally make it through.

“Do you use the gloves on the bag?”

“For you, yes.” He grabs my hand, slipping off the boxing glove to examine my knuckles. His fingers are warm and sure in their grip on mine. I hope he doesn’t notice how sweaty I am. “You’d tear your hands up trying to punch without protection.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve built up enough callouses.” He approaches a bag and gives it a one-two punch, the heavy thud of his fist hitting it along with the quick movement startling me. He grins. “Give it a try.”

I slip my glove back on and mirror his posture, then strike it.

“Here.” He comes up next to me and takes hold of my arm. “Hand, wrist, and forearm should all be straight.” He touches each place on me as he speaks, a wave of shivers racing over my skin. “Imagine it’s one solid line, like it’s going through the bag.”

He slides his hand up my arm, the goose bumps running rampant now. I swallow heavily, hoping he doesn’t comment on it. “Tighten everything up to your shoulder just before you make contact with the bag, keeping your elbow loose at that point. Hit it like you mean it and don’t linger. Pull away as soon as you hit. Try it again.”

I ground my feet and follow his instructions, feeling the difference this time. How much more solid the connection is.

“Why didn’t you say any of this when we were sparring?”

He shrugs. “That was just to blow off steam. I didn’t think you were serious about boxing.”

“I could be serious.” I punch the bag again.

“Yeah?” He grins. “Would you come here when the place is full of guys? Get in the ring with a heavyweight?”

“Definitely.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Oh, crap. I didn’t expect him to call my bluff.

He’ll know you’re a fraud. A big scaredy-cat. Weak.

I stay silent, focusing on the bag, imagining punching through it like he said as I connect with it. Knocking out that inner voice.

“What are some other moves?” I pant, my breaths picking up the more intensely I hit.

“You’re doing jabs and crosses right now, but you’ve also got hooks and uppercuts.” He steps over to another punching bag. “Bring your arm around in an arc to hook.” He demonstrates with his body first slowly, then full speed, the movement fast and fluid. “And from underneath for an uppercut, like you’re catching the underside of their jaw. Then you can combine them.” He hits the punching bag in a sequence of blows, his body quick and brutal.

I stare at him, seeing him in a new light. So much of how I know him is in a cerebral way. His mind has always impressed me, first in that shared class last year and now with our research study. But this physicality is something different. Objectively, I’m aware of what his body looks like. He’s muscular and obviously in shape. Hell, I had that body pressed against mine the other night and it felt damn good.

But personally seeing what he’s capable of is different. The strength. The raw power. Another wave of shivers rushes over me watching him. The intense concentration he has on his face. The way the muscles in his arms flex and release. Is there such a thing as a boxing fetish? Because I could seriously watch this all day.

“Mia.”

I startle, realizing he’s stopped and facing me. “Um, yeah?” I touch my chin lightly to check if there’s drool. No, I’m good.

“I asked if you wanted to try next.”

“Could you show me the moves again?” I’m not admitting I was watching him more than actually paying attention to the technique.

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