Page 71 of Unmade

Cute.

I nodded at him. “Lift your elbow. You wanna pack more force behind that punch.”

His glare weakened as he scanned my body briefly before turning away again. “A heads-up next time would be nice.”

“Your enemy won’t give you a heads-up,” I pointed out. I pushed away from the doorframe, dropped my T-shirt and water bottle on the mat, and walked over to him. “Use my hands.” I positioned myself in front of him and showed my palms. “Start off slow so you can analyze your impact.”

He took a deep breath and raised his guard again, and this time, he lifted his elbow more.

“That’s good. It gives you more strength, right?”

He nodded and made impact against my right hand with a light smack.

“Okay. Keep going.” I let my gaze travel the length of him, inspecting his stance. “Don’t forget your footwork. Find a balance between stability and flexibility. You wanna put more weight on?—”

“The ball of my foot, I know,” he said, giving me another light punch. Elbow up, good. “Can we spar for real?”

That wasn’t a good idea. Except…as his instructor, I was supposed to encourage more of those suggestions.

“Sure.” I lowered my hands and rolled my shoulders. “Do you wanna use any protection?”

He smirked. “With you? No.”

I felt my eyebrows lift. Was that an innuend?—

“Let’s go,” he said, moving his laptop. “I wanna take advantage before you run off again.”

Aw, did he miss me? Was I not paying him enough attention?

That actually spoke volumes, because I was making damn sure I didn’t give him less time of day than any of the other recruits.

It made me smile. Sue me.

I raised my guard. “Come at me, boy.”

He narrowed his eyes, and that was his first mistake. He shouldn’t be so expressive during a fight. He flinched forward with his fist up, and I sidestepped him quickly, only to deliver a light side-kick to his hip.

That was just the beginning.

Over the next several minutes, we fought in sets of four or five strikes before we backed off to start over. This was personal to him; he wanted to advance, he wanted to impress me, and he wanted to prove himself. All natural urges during training, but it did make him easier to predict.

My main task was to dodge his blows and show him how I could evade whatever he threw at me, and it was evidently pissing him off.

He was lucky I didn’t strike back. Much. Every now and then, I had to demonstrate a maneuver or two.

“Goddammit,” he cursed. He flew at me again, ready to kick things up a notch, and he shoulder-checked me in the chest with enough force to shove me backward a few steps. But in doing so, he left much of his body exposed. I punched him lightly in the gut, then delivered a palm to his temple.

“Where are you aiming?” I asked. “You’re too good to just throw punches and see what sticks. You need to go for the jugular, Leighton. Hit me in the liver, kick me in the knees, go for the balls, hammer-fist my nose?—”

He growled and came at me once more, and I shook my head and shoved him away from me.

“I can anticipate every move, recruit,” I told him. “What’re you doing? You’re much sharper when you fight Miguel. Save body checks for when your arms are exhausted and you’re becoming desperate.”

Fury flashed in his eyes, and he swung around and tried to go for a roundhouse kick, and that actually pissed me off. I grabbed ahold of his foot and twisted it sideways, to which he cried out and tumbled to the floor.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again,” I snapped. “Operator Tenley warned you—Coach and I warned you too. No goddamn kicks to the head. They require too much energy, and your enemy can take you down in a second.”

I fully expected him to jump to his feet to start again. Instead, he threw an arm over his face and remained flat on his back, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

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