Chapter 10
Rafe
Eamonn took Rafe to a soccer field across campus, which Eamonn called a football pitch. (“Because that’s what it’s called! Notsoccer field, dude.”) Rafe practiced making a fist on their way to the field, curling his fingers at his side while they walked. He looked back on his life, and he had never thrown a punch before. Well, there was one time he was stressed out about a test and punched his bedroom wall, but that hurt him more than thewall.
“Why are we going all the way here?” Rafeasked.
“We’ll have space and some peace, so you won’t feel embarrassed or have any onlookers. Most students don’t come to this pitch since it’s a bit of a walk. It’s got a greatview.”
Rafe didn’t mind the view right now, walking behind Eamonn, glimpsing his back muscles in his long sleeve T-shirt.
Eamonn pushed aside some tree branches and welcomed Rafe to the field—er, pitch. It was a perfectly mowed piece of land surrounded by woods, like a guy with a bald head and hair on the sides. The first amber flecks of sunset dashed across the sky, giving the grass and the goalposts a golden glow. They walked up to the goalie net, which Rafe marveled at for itssize.
“You’ve never seen agoal?”
“I played soccer when I was a kid. I’ve never seen a professional game. This is an intense goal. You need two goalies to coverit.”
“Nope. Justone.”
Leaves fluttered in the breeze. It was just the two of them out there, and all they could hear was the faint sound of car engines in thedistance.
“Make a fist,” Eamonnsaid.
“We’re startingnow?”
“No. First it’s tea time. Yes! Fist.Now.”
Rafe held up the most non-intimidating fist in theworld.
“You’re not showing off a bloody wristwatch. Make it tight, like you actually want to scaresomeone.”
Rafe hardened his fist and put on his best fightingscowl.
“Better. Keep your thumb on the outside of your fist or else you’ll break it. Here.” Eamonn moved Rafe’s thumb in between his index and middle finger, just below where the fingers curl under. His fingers moved with determination, and they sent a buzz through Rafe’s body. His hand lingered on Rafe for an extra second before pulling back. “That’s muchbetter."
You will not get hard during boxing practice. That isunsportsmanlike.
“And now I just…” Rafe flung out his fist, but it was more like a coordinated dance move than incitement ofviolence.
“When you punch, try to angle your wrist slightly, so that the flat middle part of your fingers are what makes contact first. And shoot out your arm so that it aligns with the direction you’re punching. That will add maximumimpact.”
“Are guys really thinking about all this when they throw a punch? Aren’t they usually drunk or just intent on causingdamage?”
“Do you want to be smart about it or fight like a soddingdrunkard?”
“I guess the former, although the latter soundsfun.”
“Right.” Eamonn’s lips curled into a cheeky smile. “Wanker.”
Rafe punched his chest, but his first merely bounced off Eamonn. The guy didn’t even blink. Rafe had seen some definition under his shirts, but now he was certain Eamonn’s chest must’ve been a fortress ofmuscle.
“Good start.” Eamonn stood in front of him and held up his palms. “Do it again. Hitme.”
Rafe lazily held up his fists and threw a punch, which grazed Eamonn’s rightpalm.
“Come closer. You’re too faraway.”
He took a step toward Eamonn, toward his scruff and chest ofmuscle.
