Page 72 of Red River

My laughter seemed to crack his armor—just a little. A tiny opening, but still, it was a step in the right direction. He looked at me, surprised, and his face relaxed just a fraction.

"Alright, that’s enough of that for now. But don’t worry, we’ll come back to it," I teased. Then, I picked up the focus mitts. "Now it’s time for punches. Just the basics."

I started explaining the mechanics of straight punches—the jab and cross. I could tell from his expression that he was disappointed. He’d been expecting something flashier, like spinning kicks or whatever fancy moves he’d seen in those movies he mentioned. But those flashy moves only looked good on screen. In a real fight, it was all about simplicity and efficiency.

I strapped on the mitts and had him start throwing punches. He was actually doing pretty well—good coordination.But he kept forgetting to bring his hands back to guard after each punch. So, I reminded him by smacking him lightly on the ear with a mitt. It didn’t hurt him, but it sure pissed him off.

"Hey! What the fuck, dude?"

"You keep dropping your guard."

"You could’ve just told me!"

"Oh, yeah? Think a bully would politely remind you in a fight? Or would he just punch you in the face? Pretty sure a soft mitt to the head is the better option." I grinned.

He huffed in irritation, but I was almost certain he was trying not to smile. He fought against it with everything he had.

But I was patient. I knew that sooner or later, I’d break through. And when that happened, he’d be able to… rebuild himself.

Two hours later, we stepped out of the training room, both drenched in sweat. I hadn’t gone full throttle on him—he’d already taken a beating today—but I was impressed by how fast he picked things up. The kid might actually have a knack for it.

Was there a light at the end of the tunnel for us? I firmly believed that through pain and frustration, he’d find strength and stability.

It was the only way.

I knew that well because I’d been there myself.

RIVER

I have to admit, I was tempted to eavesdrop on whatever Archer was doing with Igor. I sat in the kitchen while Oliver made dinner, but I couldn’t focus.

Oliver kept glancing at me, occasionally throwing out supportive comments along the lines of, "It’ll be all right. Igor’s the new kid—these things take time, especially in small towns with tight cliques. He needs to fight for his position, and he will. You’ll see."

I listened with one ear, but my mind was preoccupied with whatever was happening in the basement.

Lake was messing around on his keyboard, and Aiden, Milo, and Van were yelling from the obstacle course outside, making my head feel even more like a beehive.

Eventually, I gave in. I crept downstairs as quietly as possible. The gym door was shut, which was actually a good thing—if I stood right outside an open door, they might hear my heartbeat. Now, I could press my ear against it and listen.

I heard dull thuds—the kind of sound you get from someone punching something with gloves on.

"Keep your wrist straight, or you’ll have a hard time holding a fork tomorrow," Archer’s calm voice carried through the door.

No way. Archer actually convinced Igor to train? I stood there, stunned, listening to the exchange.

"Do I really have to keep throwing straight punches? Philip hit me with a hook," Igor’s voice was strained, slightly out of breath.

"I see you’ve got so many ideas about how to train."

"No, that’s not it," Igor protested. "It’s just… these punches feel short. Weak. Like they don’t have any momentum."

"If Philip used the hook, it means he's not an experienced fighter. If he were, he'd know that hooks are easy to see coming and easy to block."

"Why?"

"Because the person throwing them has to wind up first, take a swipe."

"Yeah, but they’ve got power," Igor shot back.

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