Sylvie
“Fight?” I asked nervously.
“Gotta do it eventually,” said Aedan. He sounded as reluctant as I did. Why? It wasn’t like I had any chance of hurting him. “It’s like driving a car. You can practice the pedals and changing gears as much as you like, but eventually you’ve gotta get on the road.”
Up until now, we’d only tried very light sparring with me pulling my punches, or he’d come at me gently and I’d tried to block.
Not actual fighting. I swallowed and looked up at him, scared, as he slipped a helmet on me.
It was oddly claustrophobic, even though my whole face was exposed.
I couldn’t hear properly. My head felt heavy. “I’m not sure about this,” I said.
He nodded somberly and pulled on his gloves.
In the real fight, of course, I’d be bare knuckle.
But I couldn’t train like that without messing up my hands, so gloves it was.
I still hadn’t mastered getting the second glove on so I did what I always did and used my teeth to pull its strap into tight.
I caught him looking at me. “What?” I mumbled, the strap clamped between my teeth.
He shook his head as if to say, nothing.
We squared up to one another. “We’ll go for three minutes,” he said, looking at the clock. “Just like the real thing. Remember: keep me away, okay? That’s where your advantage is—at arm’s length.”
I nodded.
And it began.
He let me warm up a little to start with, letting me circle him and get into my rhythm.
Fighting, I was learning, was a lot like dancing.
It’s okay as long as you’re in the flow, but once you lose it, you’ve lost it and it’s hard to get it back again.
As the seconds ticked by, I felt myself loosening up, darting in and out of range.
I was starting to really see the differences between us.
He was all solid, hard power, his powerful shoulders and biceps hinting at the damage he’d do if I dared to get within range of him.
I was faster than him—there was just no way he could dance around like I could.
But I didn’t wield anything like the same power.
My only hope was to whittle him down slowly.
It was like being a bee, buzzing around a grunting, pawing bull.
I had to land a hundred good hits; he only had to land one.
But I couldn’t hit him.
Not even once.
It wasn’t like hitting the bag, or hitting pads, or even the times we’d sparred and he’d told me to try to tap one of his gloves, or his side, or the side of his head. This was me, actually trying to land a punch on him.
“Come on,” he grunted. “Come at me.”
I shuffled closer. Backed off. Shuffled closer again. I could feel my heart racing. Hit him?! I didn’t want to hit him. He was...Aedan. There wasn’t anyone I wanted to hit less.
“Forget it’s me,” he told me sharply, as if reading my mind. “Pretend it’s someone else, if you have to.” His jaw tightened. “Make me some guy who’s hurt you.”
My mind went back to The Pit. The scrape of the concrete wall against my naked ass. That bastard’s hand, cupping my sex.
I flew at him, aiming hooks at his kidneys. He blocked one and deflected the other, but had to step back a little, lowering his guard. I knew what I had to do next—go for the face. I launched a jab at that gorgeous, hard jaw—
And my fist skirted wide. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hit him and I couldn’t pretend he was someone else. Not when I felt like this about him.
His mouth drew back into a snarl. “Come on!”
I went for the head again, but my hits were half-hearted. Hitting him was like trying to injure myself—my brain just refused to do it.
“You better come at me,” he grunted. “Because I’m going to come at you.”
And then he did.