Page 16 of Best Kind of Trouble
She takes the position, just as I described it, and glances back at me for guidance. “Lift your other hand up to protect your face.”
“You think the heavy bag is going to hit back?” she asks dryly. This time she’s joking intentionally, not being naïve the way she was about the bike.
“Might do, if you hit it hard enough.” I pause, studying her stance. “I’m going to touch your arm now, Briar. Is that okay?”
She turns her head, her gaze fiery. “Don’t start treating me like I’m made of glass. If you do, then I know I’m in trouble.”
I nod in agreement and adjust her arm, careful not to let my hands linger.
“Okay, one last step…”
I pull out my cell phone.
Her eyes round when she notices what I’m doing. “Let meguess, you’re going to take a video of this so you can show Hannah and make fun of me later.”
“Nope,” I say, “but that’s not a half-bad idea.” Then I play “Eye of the Tiger” on my phone.
Her laughter sounds delighted this time—and I’d bet everything I own that this particular sound has never filled this particular space before.
“It’s a rite of passage,” I explain. “It’s played on everyone’s first fight at Bell’s. Owner’s rules.”
“And my first fight is against a bag of sand?”
“Nah, that thing’s full of cut-up shirts and fabric scraps from the lost and found.”
She rolls her eyes as she pokes the bag. “It isn’t.”
“It is. Maybe a few mouse carcasses. Now, put your whole body behind your punch. The strength comes from your core, not your arm. You want to twist your hip and rotate your shoulder as you strike. Give it your all.”
She scrunches her nose, which is cute as hell, then rounds up and hits the bag. It moves about four inches.
Her eyes widen, and she jumps a little on her feet. “I hit it, and it moved.”
I nearly laugh, but she’s so damned proud of herself I’m not going to piss on her parade. “You’re a regular Rocky. You want me to keep the music on for round two?”
She glances at the phone, considering, and nods. “Yeah, I’ve always liked this song.”
I’m smiling as she positions herself to throw another punch. This time, the bag moves five inches.
“You hit it harder,” I point out.
She beams at me. “I did, didn’t I?”
The song ends, and I restart it, getting a smile from her.
After she does another rep, I point to her other hand. “How about we switch it up?”
I help her get situated, and she practices a few rounds with her left fist. When I catch her thinking a bit too hard about it, I say, “Harder. Imagine my face is printed across the bag.”
She’s laughing as she punches fictional me in the nose.
She pulls back from the bag and smiles broadly at me—and I can’t do a damn thing to keep myself from smiling back. “You broke my nose.”
“You think?”
“At least a sprain.” My grin spreads wider. “Let’s keep going.”
She seems to be hitting her stride, and it doesn’t take long for me to guide her into a rhythm of alternating between hands, jab and cross, jab and cross, breathing with each punch. As she attacks the bag, I sense something changing in her. She’s feeling less broken by what happened to her tonight, more motivated. It’s…well…I’ve got no desire to look away.
