Page 43 of Resistance Training
I take a step closer to her, about three feet away from her. “We’re going to do thirty seconds of punching with ten seconds of rest. This is a full-body workout. I want your feet shoulder-width apart. Left foot slightly forward. Good.” I keep my voice calm and authoritative, and I see her thighs tensing up, she wants to clench her legs together. She likes it. “Bend your knees slightly—you’re too stiff.”
“That’s what she said,” she quips, bending her knees a little too much.
“Don’t bend them that much. Put your weight on the balls of your feet, not your heels.”
“I am.”
“I can literally see that you’re not.”
She rolls her eyes and makes an adjustment. “There’s no music.”
“I’ll turn on the music if you make it through the HIIT. I need you to focus.” Positioning my mitts at shoulder height, I say, “Remember the jab, cross, and hooks we did during the warm-ups?”
“Yessss,” she hisses. So annoyed with me already.
“I’m going to call out combinations, and you’re going to do them. You’re going to punch these focus mitts. I will determine the pace and the combinations. You keep your eyes on these mitts, not me, not your gloves. Are you ready?”
“Beyond ready,” she says, glaring at the mitts.
I call out combinations, starting out simple, and she punches the mitts like she’s afraid to break a nail. “I saidpunchthe mitts,not delicately tap them. It’s not going to hurt your hands—come on. Jab.”
She sighs an exasperated sigh but puts more force behind the next jab.
“Good. Jab, jab, right hook. Come on, harder. Okay, active recovery for ten.”
She jogs in place.
“Don’t jog—shake out the arms and shoulders. Keep it loose.”
She huffs as she shakes out her shoulders and I accidentally stare at her cleavage, and I will not make that mistake again.
“Keep breathing,” I say, as I realize I was holding my breath. “We go again for thirty. I want to see a jab, jab, cross. Hands up to protect your face.” She starts jabbing at the mitts. “Elbows in—don’t flare them out like that.”
She frowns as she makes the adjustment, putting more power behind the next punch.
“Good. Again. Jab, jab, cross. Keep your core tight.” She glares at me. “Eyes on the mitts.”
She growls. Actually growls at me. “Oh my God, so bossy—why couldn’t you channel your fire rage into becoming a massage therapist or a hair stylist?!”
“Drop your elbow,” I tell her during the active recovery. I lean in to gently touch her left elbow, guiding it into position. “Keep it tight to your ribs. That’s your defense.”
Once she’s got the hang of it, I start stepping to the side, forcing her to pivot and follow me. I move around her, making her turn to keep facing me, calling out combinations. Like a choreographed dance, I step back so she has to step forward; I angle the mitts higher, lower, to the sides. Her focus is incredible. She reads my movement intuitively, following me, and fuck, it’s so hot. Her coordination is fantastic. I can control the tempo and direction, create a flowing, rhythmic sequence for thirty seconds, and then for ten seconds, we’re both breathingheavily, just staring at each other. It’s like a physical chess match—I test her, she rises to meet me. She’s glowing with perspiration. By the end of the tenth round, it feels primal and intense.
After ten seconds of heavy breathing, I lower the mitts and say, “Okay, let’s?—”
And she punches my right pec. Hard. “Shit! Sorry!”
I cough, from the surprise of it more than the impact. “Nope. No problem.”
“You didn’t tell me to stop!”
“Yup. We’re stopping.”
“Oh, are you okay?” She pulls her right glove off, such concern in her voice. “I’m so sorry.” She places her hand flat on my pec. “I didn’t hit you that hard, did I?”
Not physically, no.
I stare right into her eyes and say, “I didn’t feel a thing. Grab a mat. I’ll put on some music.”
