Page 81 of Stolen Rival
I nod.
“Step forward with your left foot, keep your knees soft and your weight evenly distributed across both feet. Okay?”
I nod again, doing what he says because, despite the fact I enjoy taking the mickey out of him, something in his demeanor tells me that this is something he really needs me to do.
He taps my face. “Tuck your chin to protect your jaw.”
I cover the side of my face with my shoulder.
“Most people think the power from a punch comes from their fist. They would be sorely mistaken. The power for a solid punch comes all the way from your feet; the power is in the rotation.” He grips my hips and turns me back and forward. “Feet, knees, hips, shoulders, fist. The entire body rotates for maximum striking power.”
Why is everything that comes out of his mouth sounding hotter and hotter? The way his jaw is hard set, the way his eyes burn with an intensity as he teaches, the lines in the middle of his forehead that tell me he’s not fucking around.
He takes my hand. “To make a proper fist, fold your fingers and wrap your thumb across the middle sections of your index and middle fingers. Keep both hands up to protect your face, tuck your elbows to guard your ribs, and keep your wrists straight until you strike.”
My mind is a blur of instructions as he rattlesthem off like it’s no big deal, like I already know what he’s talking about, and he’s just giving me a refresher. There’s so much to learn, so much to remember. Since when does throwing a punch require three hundred different steps? I always thought you just flung your arm out in someone’s direction and hoped for the best.
“Start with your striking hand near your chin, elbow down. Rotate your feet, hips, and shoulders toward your target. As you extend your arm to strike, rotate your fist about twenty-five degrees so your palm faces downward on impact.”
I blow out a breath. “Okay, Drill Sergeant. Can you stop barking orders at me, and pretend like I’m not one of your mafia soldiers who just needs a reminder of what they’re supposed to be doing? Let’s say, for the sake of argument, this is my first time. When I punched my siblings growing up, there was no multi-point plan. I aimed, I flailed, and I ran the fuck away in case they wanted to hit back.”
He smirks. “Sometimes running away is the best option. Now, pay attention. The first two knuckles are the ones that make contact. Exhale on impact, and for the love of all that’s holy, do not drop your back hand, or whoever you’re punching will clobber the shite out of you when you do.”
“Maybe I need Liam to come and give me this lesson? You’re not a great teacher, do you know that?”
He ignores my jibe about his brother and shakes his head. He takes me by the wrist, sending little shivers racing through my body at the contact. “As soon as you strike, you reset for the next strike. The longer your hands are away from your face, the more likely that your opponent is going to knock you out.”
“Where am I supposed to look? In their eyes?”
He shakes his head. “Another misconception. Stare at their chest, pretend there’s a logo there or something, but that way you have a better peripheral view in case something else comesat you. Look at my eyes.” He swings his arm. “Now look at my chest.” Another swing. “You’re more likely to see it coming if your eyes are here, not here.” He points from his pecs to his face.
“Anything else?” My impatience is simmering. He’s ignoring my request to go slower, he’s prattling on about technique when I haven’t even thrown a punch yet, and there are so many steps to remember that I’m going to forget them all.
“Yes. Don’t overextend, you’ll lose your balance. Don’t hit with the wrong knuckles, you’ll break your hand. If you don’t engage your core as you rotate, you’ll lose power on the follow-through. Got it?”
I flap both my hands into the air and slap them down against my thighs. “No, genius. Of course I don’t have it.”
A snicker tells me we’re not alone in here, and a glance toward the door shows me two of the security team have joined us. I bet the whole fucking team would love to be here to watch me try to punch their boss. In fact, they’re probably all jealous.
“You took thirty seconds to yammer instructions at me, Patrick. There’s no way I’m remembering any of them. Can you go through it again? Please?”
“No.” He stands in front of me and puts his palms up to face me. “Try punching me first.”
When I throw a punch, he purses his lips. “Again.”
I do.
“Again.”
And another.
He widens his stance, clamps his hands on my hips, and rotates me. “Like this. From the ground, up through your body, and into your hand. It’s all in the rotation,mo mhuirnín.You can do it, focus.”
I try again.
“Better.”
I have no idea how when it felt exactly the same as the last three times I threw my fist at his hand.
