Page 13 of Kingmakers, Year Three

“Maybe so.” I fold my arms across my chest.

“Let’s find out,” Snow says softly.

Instinctively, the rest of the students form a circle around us, giving us plenty of space.

I face the old boxer without fear, only keen interest.

I’ve always believed I could beat anyone in a fight. Perhaps it’s time to prove it.

Everyone is watching: Leo, Ares, Ilsa Markov—Vanya Antonov with ill-disguised malice. He wants me to lose. Fuck him and fuck this teacher.

“Begin,” Snow says.

I attack hard and fast, ferocious and unafraid. I’ll show the old man what I’m made of. I’ll remind him what youth looks like.

I throw a flurry of punches directly at his face, the fastest combinations to ever leave my gloves.

Every single one misses.

It’s like Snow has turned to rubber. His hulking frame dips and glides with eerie speed, slipping away from me like oil on water. His feet are a blur of motion, his body tight and precise as he rolls his shoulders. My blows glance off, even ricochet. I can’t land a clean punch, not anywhere on his person.

It’s a nightmare. All my strength and speed evaporates in the face of his skill.

He’s not even trying to hit me back.

With a grunt of rage, I attack him even harder, sure that if I redouble my efforts, something has to hit. I’m panting and sweating, because this is the secret of boxing: the most exhausting thing you can do in a fight is throw a punch and miss. Impact rejuvenates; punching air will suck the life out of you.

I’m trying to speed up, but instead I’m getting slower and clumsier. Despite countless hours of running and jump rope and bag work, I’m tiring, I’m actually tiring. This has never happened to me before.

And still Snow hasn’t thrown a single punch.

He waits until I realize the awful truth: I’m about to lose.

Then he goes to work on my body.

He hits me with tight, hard punches that feel like rocks propelled into my sides. I know he’s holding back, using only a fraction of his strength. And yet the air grunts out of me, forced from my lungs by the relentless impact.

He begins to taunt me.

“You think because you have abs, you’re ready to box?”

THUD. THUD.

He hits me in the ribs, the kidney, right in the gut.

My eyes water and my breath wheezes out, I’m dizzy and light-headed because I can’t draw a full breath. A punch to the jaw can shut off your brain, but bodywork takes the heart out of you.

“You think because you can beat up a boy, you’re ready to face a man?”

THUD. THUD. THUD.

I try to block the blows as Snow did, but my arms are burning and aching. I can’t even hold my gloves up anymore. I’ve become as dazed and weak as Tristan.

I won’t give up. I won’t be beaten—not by this old man, not in front of everyone.

Roaring, I attack him again with a combination that never loses, my own creation that uses an unexpected overhand right, sandwiched by a jab, a hook, and a cross.

Sure enough, as he shifts to block the overhand right, I’m able to hit him with the cross. The punch is straight and true, direct into his jaw. A punishing blow that should knock him on his ass.

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