Page 84 of Connectio
I cock my brow. “They’re pink.”
“Yes.”
“Why do they have to be pink?”
He gives me the same puzzled look he gave the sleazeball the night we met at Opals. “I don’t friggin’ know. Why is the moon round?”
I’m tempted to tell him it’s not, that it’s actually oblate, but I don’t. There’s a time and place for that type of scientific discussion, and it’s neither here nor now.
I shove the gloves at his chest. “I find it sexist that I’m expected to wear pink boxing gloves solely because I’m female.”
He blinks, then blinks again. “Fuckin’ pink sexist shit,” he mutters under his breath. Will drops them back into his bag and takes out another pair, this time red, and dangles them in front of me. “These better?”
“Yes. Red is fierce.” I snatch them. “They also match my hair.” Slipping my hands into the gloves, I tighten the Velcro straps and fire him a devilish smile. “I’m ready to punch you now.”
* * *
For the next forty-five minutes,Will teaches me various techniques in punching and blocking until I’m drenched in sweat and exhausted.
“Head up,” he says, tilting my chin to look at him. “Lock your frame.”
I slump like a non-compliant puppet, arms and body akin to a piece of flailing string.
“Look, spaghetti arms. This is your boxing space, and this is my boxing space.”
Bursting into laughter, I bend at the waist and prop my hands on my knees. “Oh my God! You just quoted Dirty Dancing again. I swear you have a crush on Patrick Swayze.”
“Maybe I do.” He claps his pads together then holds one up high, prompting me to punch it again.
Still laughing, I stand straight, stretch my back, and barely swipe it. “Are we done? Please tell me we’re done. I’m stuffed.”
Will glances at the clock on the wall then places his padded hand on my shoulder. “Yeah, we’re done.”
“Thank Christ for that.”
“You did good.”
“I did?”
“For a first-timer.” He takes the pads off and hands me my water bottle. “Now have a drink and meet me back on the mat.”
“What? Why? You just said we’re done.”
“You need to stretch.”
I need a shower and a sofa.
Grumbling, I have a quick drink then sit on the mat where the rest of the class has congregated.
“At the end of every session, we need to stretch the muscles to break the release of lactic acid and assist in muscle recovery. Ain’t that right, Dylan?”
“Yep.” He jumps up and does a warrior pose, and everyone else moves into various stretching positions.
I go to get up, but Will stops me.
“I want you on your knees, Elizabeth.”
Taking in his lecherous stare, I bite the inside of my cheek and shuffle to my knees, ready for further instructions that, at first, aren’t forthcoming.
