Page 34 of Beyond Protection
I dropped my bag and started the real warm-up.
It was a sequence I learned in college. Dynamic stretches. Band work. Movement prep that told my nervous system we were about to do violent things with precision.
My body responded with gratitude.
I moved to the heavy bag. Started with jabs. Hand to target. Force to impact. The chain rattled.
My rhythm built. Jab. Cross. Hook. Combinations my body knew before my brain could name them.
Sweat started. Good sweat. Work, not fear.
Eamon watched. It wasn't hypervigilant scanning. Something else. Presence focused on me—like gravity.
The bag became every inappropriate interview question. Every camera at the wrong angle. Every message describing my deterioration.
"Good," Eamon said.
I pressed my forehead to the bag, chest heaving.
"Water," he said.
He held out a bottle I hadn't seen him carrying. Room temperature. Perfect.
I drank half. "When did you—"
"While you were stretching at Ma's." He stepped back. "You need anything else?"
What I needed was a batting cage. Then, a hundred balls to field.
What I had was this room, my body, and a man watching me.
"No," I said. "This works."
I moved to open floor space. Footwork drills—the patterns I'd run ten thousand times. Lateral movement, forward burst, plant, and throw.
Left, right, forward, plant. The pivot generated torque. A weight transfer translated my hip rotation into arm speed.
My sneakers squeaked on the concrete. Eamon's attention was almost physical. Not invasive, but intent.
The fans never saw this part. They saw the ESPN highlights and the MVP ceremony.
After twenty sprints, I stopped. Hands on knees. Sweat dripping. My heart rate was north of reasonable.
The room spun.
Eamon touched my shoulder—not grabbing, just there. Solid weight. His palm was warm through the thin, damp cotton of my t-shirt, fingers wrapping around the curve of muscle.
"Easy," he said. "Breathe."
I breathed. Focused on his contact, the specific pressure of each finger. How still his hand stayed even as my chest heaved.
After a minute, I straightened. His hand slid away slowly, thumb dragging slightly across my shoulder blade before it dropped.
"Sorry." My voice was rough. "Pushed too hard."
"You needed to."
"Doesn't make it smart."
