Chapter 13
Elijah led me to a large shelving unit with cubbies of gloves on display. He looked at my hands, then plucked a pair from the third cube. He handed them to me, and as I was about to pull them on, he said, “Wait, I need to wrap you first.”
“Wrap me?”
“It’s not as intimate as it sounds,” he replied.
“Good to know.”
He took a black tube of rolled cloth out of a basket, then held one of his hands, fingers splayed out in front of him, nodding for me to do the same.
I tucked one of the gloves beneath my opposite arm and held out my hand.
He unraveled the roll of cloth and began wrapping it around my hand and then between each finger.
He was leaned over my hand, his floppy hair brushing my cheek, his sharp, clean scent clouding my space.
His touch was gentle yet firm, his fingers brushing my palm with each pass.
My stomach gave a flip and I thought, This is more intimate than you think it is, sir.
I quickly reminded myself that it had been a while since I’d been touched by a man in any sort of intimate way and that was the only reason I was having any sort of reaction to his touch.
“How does that feel?” he asked, straightening up and meeting my eyes.
My cheeks heated up as if he had heard my internal dialogue. “What?”
“Is it too tight? Too loose?” He clenched then unclenched his hand.
“Oh.” I mimicked his movement. “It feels fine. Just right?”
“Is that a question?”
“Well, it’s my first time,” I said, quieter than I meant to, which made it come out sultry, flirtatious.
One side of his mouth raised into a half smile, and he nodded toward my other hand.
I readjusted the gloves I held and presented him with my other hand.
As if he really did know what had been going through my head, his movements seemed slower this time, deliberately sensual.
After each pass, he squeezed my hand, as if testing his placement.
But he hadn’t done that on the other side.
When one drag of his fingers across my palm produced a chill through my entire body, I tensed and let out a small gasp.
“Too tight?” he asked in a low voice, tucking the end under itself.
I pulled my hand away. “You’re the worst.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The smile in his eyes contradicted his statement.
I fisted, then released my hand, testing the comfort, like I had with the other side. “It’s good,” I said, not willing to give voice to his games.
He helped me slide on each glove, then tied them. Like I suspected everyone who had ever put on a pair of boxing gloves in all the world did, I flared my elbows and punched the ends together twice.
He stared at me, raising his eyebrows, like that wasn’t the innate human reaction to putting on a pair of boxing gloves.
“Okay, Hulk,” he said. “Let’s go.” He spun around and led me to what I assumed was the most beginner punching bag in the entire gym.
Or maybe all punching bags were the same. I had no clue.
“Okay, I’m just going to go over a few basic moves with you.”
“Sounds good.”
He stood, one foot in front of the other, hands up by his face, bouncing in place. “This is boxing stance.”
“Do I have to bounce like that? Is that required?”
He smirked. “Yes.”
“Punching is as much in the hips as it is in the arms. Your hips will rotate, your weight will shift depending on which hand you’re punching with. I also want you to let out a breath every time you connect. Loud enough that I can hear it.” He demonstrated a loud breath. “Yes?”
I nodded.
“Let’s start with a jab. Hands up by your face, rotate your hips, shift weight, connect.” He demonstrated each word with the accompanying action. “Now you.”
I stepped up to the bag, self-conscious at first, but attempting to ignore it. I punched.
“Were you trying not to do anything I just showed you?”
“I thought I was.”
He stepped in front of me, put his hands an inch beneath my elbows without touching, and raised his eyebrows. “Am I allowed to touch you here or is that lying with my body?”
I smirked and then looked around. “Wait, is Dr. Franklin here? Are you trying to convince her we’re a couple?”
His hands still hovered.
“Yes, you can touch me,” I said with a sigh.
“Say it again,” he said in a gravelly voice that took my breath away. I hid my reaction by play-punching him in the chest.
“Ouch,” he said, pretending it hurt. “Okay, hands up.” He pushed up on my elbows, directing them into position. “That’s how you keep yourself from getting punched in the face when you have an opponent.”
“I will never have an opponent.”
“Probably not, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t learn correct form.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Ooh, I like that title.” He met my eyes with a teasing crinkle at the corners of his. “You can keep calling me that.”
I rolled my eyes but then let out a laugh.
“Okay, so remember: Rotate hip, shift weight, punch, connect, breathe.” He showed me again.
This time, I actually tried and when I connected, he was right, it felt different, a stronger connection with the bag.
“Good,” he said. “Better. Again.”
And so I did. I punched some more. He stood behind me, giving me small corrections, in the form of either words or a light touch to my elbow or hip, until he was no longer giving me corrections.
Next, he taught me something called a hook and then a cross with my dominant hand.
I repeated those over and over. Then combined them.
Sweat formed along my hairline and dripped down my temple.
I wiped at it with the back of my forearm.
It had been a while since I worked out, and it honestly felt good. He was a good teacher. Patient.
“Shoulders down, not so bunched up,” he said, his hand going to my shoulder. When I didn’t relax, he said, “You’re tight.”
“Yeah.”
“Can I?” he said, again asking permission to touch me.
I nodded.
He rubbed his thumb in circles along my shoulder and neck. I sucked in some air.
“You have knots all along here. Do you lift weights?”
“Yes,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. I lifted my mom every day, and she was the reason my neck and shoulders were in the state they were in.
“How do I get a special lesson with the owner’s son?” a voice over my left shoulder said, too close.
I turned to see a woman standing there in short-shorts and a sports bra. Her dark hair was slicked back into a ponytail, and her brown eyes were on Elijah, not me. She was beautiful.
“I thought you didn’t do lessons,” she said.
“Hey, Mercedes. I don’t.” For the first time since I’d met him, Elijah’s confidence seemed shaken, like this gorgeous woman standing by us had knocked him off his game.
Her eyes went from Elijah to me, her expression saying, Then what do you call this?
“Family friend,” he said. “Onetime thing.”
“I’m Sutton,” I said, because it was obvious he was too nervous to introduce me.
“Hi,” she said, smiling, which made her even more beautiful. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m going to get a drink,” I said, pointing my gloved hand toward the drinking fountain on the far wall. Giving them a few minutes alone might help. Nobody wanted to flirt with an audience.
When I reached the fountain, I tried to take off one glove, but it was tied on tight.
I could pull on the end of the bow with my teeth, but that seemed unsanitary for a public glove.
I didn’t need that communal string in my mouth.
This was obviously a team activity—putting on and taking off boxing gloves.
I gave up in my attempt and pushed the long bar of the drinking fountain with the glove.
It worked. As I bent over to get a drink, I wondered how often this thing was cleaned.
It had been a while since I’d used a public drinking fountain.
But I was thirsty. Next time, I’d bring my reusable water bottle.
No, not next time. There wasn’t going to be a next time.
Like he’d said to Mercedes, this was a onetime thing.
I took a drink and turned to see how Elijah was faring and if I needed to give him more time, but he wasn’t where I’d left him.
My eyes scanned the room and found Mercedes setting up at a punching bag alone, pulling gloves she obviously brought from home out of a bag.
They seemed to Velcro on, not tie. I kept looking and finally found Elijah at the wall of cubbies where we had started earlier.
Maybe he was ready to take my gloves and call it a day.
I approached him, stopping in front of him and holding out my hands so he could untie the bow.
“What?” he asked. He held two square pads.
“Are we not done?” I asked.
“We can be. I thought I’d do one more exercise with you, but if you need to leave, that’s fine.”
“No, I just thought … One more exercise would be good.”
“Okay, good.” We walked to an open area of the gym.
“Why don’t you do lessons? You’re obviously good at teaching,” I said.
“If I told you, you might know too much about me. And that would be dangerous, right? Now that you’re back in the game.”
“True,” I said. “Never mind.”
He laughed, then slid his hands into the straps at the back of the square pads he held.
“What are those?” I asked.
“These are for you to punch.”
“I’m punching something you’re holding? That seems dangerous.”
“It’s not,” he said. “I’m going to call out punches and combos, and you do them. We can go as fast or as slow as you need.”
“Slow,” I said. “We need to go slow.”
He met my eyes. “Whatever you need.”
My stomach clenched and I nodded.
And that’s how it went for the next five minutes. He called a punch, I executed, and then he called another. Our speed slowly increased until it was a steady rhythm in a predictable pattern.
“Does Mercedes make you nervous?” I asked as I kept punching.
“What?”
“Mercedes? You have a crush on her?”
“No, I don’t,” he said.
I wanted to say, Yeah, right, but I sensed that would make him defensive. Jab, cross, hook. Double jab, cross. Jab, cross, hook. That was our pattern. His hands seemed to meet me halfway to each punch and absorb some of the power. I wondered if his hands hurt, I was hitting as hard as I could.
“Why do you ask?” he said with a smirk. “Are you jealous?”
His question made me stutter-step, and instead of doing a double jab, I only did a single with my left and moved to the cross before he was ready. My right hand connected with his jaw.
“Oh shit,” I said as he stumbled back. His foot caught on a duffel bag that seemed to appear out of nowhere on the floor, and he went down.
I rushed forward, trying to take off my gloves as I went, but they were still stuck on my hands.
I used my teeth to untie one string this time, trying not to think about the germs, and then tucked that hand under my left arm and yanked.
One hand was finally free, and I used it to free the other.
He had landed on his ass, and he sat there for a moment, arms draped over his knees, a stunned expression on his face.
I dropped down to my knees in front of him. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry.” I studied his face where I had connected. “KO?” I said quietly, really the only boxing term I knew. Knockout. At least I thought that’s what it meant.
“I’m not unconscious,” he said.
“Is that why you don’t teach lessons?” a deep voice called from the other side of the gym.
He waved as if acknowledging the truth of the statement.
“I’m an idiot,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
He gave a breathy laugh. “You’re not an idiot. I should’ve had my hands up.”
He had a light pink mark on his jaw, and my fingers instinctively went to it, ever so gently tracing a line around it. “Do you have ice? We should put ice on it.”
“I’m not going to put ice on it. It was a tap.”
“A tap?” I said, looking around for an ice machine or a door leading to a place where one might exist. It had not been a tap. I obviously wasn’t a pro, but all my weight had been behind it. I’d felt the hit, heard it.
“We don’t have an ice machine,” he said.
“You should really have one at a boxing gym. For injuries.”
“We’re too tough to care about injuries.” He pushed himself to standing, then reached down to help me up.
When I was on my feet, I pointed to the front door. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” he called, but I was already fast-walking away.