Page 111 of Gym Bros
“Yep. There’s a weight room, a break room, a locker room, the coaches’ offices. Tour’s done, though. We’re gonna punch some shit.”
I kick lightly at one of the lower hanging bags. “Is this gonna give me a body like yours?”
“God, I hope not, but if it does, we’ll figure it out.”
I blink up at him, but he’s already turning around and picking something up from the floor.
Those words…they feel ridiculously important in a way I’m not sure I can process with him bent over in front of me, or even when he stands up and hands me a pair of gloves. I flick my gaze up to his as a shuddery sensation moves through me. Fuck, I need him to make a joke or something. But he’s not talking. He’s gotten hold of one of my hands, and he’s strapping the glove on for me. He does the same with my other hand then holds his fists up for a bump.
I do it while my insides swirl. He doesn’t seem to notice I’m swooninghard. We’ll figure it out?Wewill? He puts his hands on my hips and squares off in front of me. “Put your feet shoulder width apart,” he says.
I do because he’s doing it, too.
“Now drop one foot straight back and find your balance between them.”
I mirror him. He moves his right leg, so I move my left.
“That’s fighting stance,” he tells me. He rocks forward and back a few times. “Or we also call it ready position. Feel how you can move any way you want to, but you’re stabilized on the back leg?”
Is he speaking English? “Uh-huh.”
He holds up his hands, palms out, facing me.
“So if you punch with your front arm, that’s a jab. With your back arm, that’s a cross. Give me a jab-cross.”
I aim for his right hand and throw a couple light punches.
He throws one, too, tapping me softly on the jaw. “Forgot to tell you to put your guard up.” He demonstrates, shielding his face with both fists. “This is actually important.”
“Is this how you keep people from breaking your nose?”
“Yep.”
“Or busting your lip? Giving you a black eye?”
“All manner of facial injuries,” he says, “Yes. Also, it’s easier to punch someone in the face from here.”
He makes me try it again and tells me not to lock my elbow, but then he says not to have noodle arms, and I get confused.
“It’s strong and quick,” he says, turning to the bag and giving it several punches in a complicated combination that lasts less than three seconds. “If you lock your elbows you can’t be quick, but you gotta mean it, too.”
I’m better at Kung Fu than I am at this, but he gets me into a rhythm punching the bag. Jab, jab, cross, jab, jab, cross, keep my guard up, jab, jab, cross.
I definitely feel it in my core, which, in part, explains his abs. He coaches and critiques me constantly. Incredibly bossy.
“I don’t know if I ever told you this, but tough love doesn’treally work on me,” I snap at him when he tells me I punch like an old lady.
He responds with, “We’ll test that theory on the mats here in a minute.”
“What’s an arm bar anyway?” I ask.
“It’s a submission.”
“Ooo… Will I need a safe word?”
He snorts a laugh. “I’ll teach you how to tap out.”
“Good luck taking me on the mat,” I say. “I’m very clever on most flat surfaces. Lots of tricks you haven’t seen yet.”
