Saint shifts, feet sliding across the padded floor. “Micah, watch how I distribute my weight. Never commit to one foot.”
“Got it.” Micah attempts to mirror the stance, his movements eager but uncoordinated. His front foot slides too far forward, throwing him off-balance.
Jade snorts, flipping his black hair out of his vision. “If you stand like that in a real fight, you’re fucked.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Saint tells Micah. “You’re learning. Nobody starts perfect.”
Micah’s hands come up, fists clenched too tight, knuckles white with tension. “I’m trying, but my body won’t cooperate with my brain.”
“Loosen your fists.” Saint taps Micah’s wrist. “You’ll break your thumb like that.”
Saint demonstrates the proper form, his movements economical.
“Like this?” Micah asks, adjusting his stance.
“Better,” Saint says. “Now, basic block sequence.Remember, it’s not about strength. It’s about redirecting force.”
Jade steps forward, demonstrating a lightning-fast combination that Micah has no hope of following. His hands blur through the air, stopping just short of contact. “Block, counter, step, strike. Simple.”
Micah’s mouth falls open. “That was not simple.”
“Jade,” I warn, “slow it down.”
“Ignore the speed. Focus on the sequence.” Saint demonstrates at half pace, each movement broken down into parts.
His patience never wavers, even when Micah keeps dropping his guard or telegraphing his strikes.
What strikes me most isn’t Saint’s skill. He moves with brutal efficiency when his life depends on it. No, what catches my attention is how contained he is. There’s no desperate energy fueling his movements, no tension hunching his shoulders or cording his neck. His breathing remains even, his focus complete but not frantic.
“Shit!” Micah stumbles backward after missing a block, Saint’s open palm connecting with his chest in a controlled tap.
“You’re anticipating wrong,” Saint explains. “Don’t focus on my hand. Focus on my center mass. The hand is just the endpoint.”
“This is impossible!” Micah complains, but he resets his stance, determination etched in the set of his jaw.
Saint’s lips curve upward. “Come on, you’ve already improved from where you started.”
A month ago, I wouldn’t have believed Saint could be so at ease in Rockford Manor. The man before me bears little resemblance to the bristling bundle of anger I first met, who snapped and snarled at me every time I came close.
Jade lunges forward, testing Micah with a flurry of light jabs. Micah backpedals, arms flailing as he tries to block, trips over his own feet, and lands hard on his ass.
“Fuck!” The curse echoes through the gym.
Saint laughs as he extends a hand to help Micah up. “You lasted three seconds longer than my first time.”
Micah’s frustration melts into hope. “Really?”
“No,” Saint grins. “But you will next time.”
Jade throws a towel at Micah’s head. “You telegraph every move. You’re still thinking too much.”
“How am I supposed to stop thinking and remember seventeen different steps at the same time?” Micah flings his arms wide in exasperation.
Saint positions himself behind Micah, adjustinghis stance with gentle pressure on his elbows and shoulders. “Muscle memory. Your body learns even when your brain’s still catching up.”
I take a sip of water, the condensation on my water bottle chilling my palm. When Jade first suggested resuming training sessions for Micah after the fight with Darrow and Winters, I expected resistance from Saint. Instead, he jumped at the chance to get his body moving.
“Again,” Saint says, stepping back into position. “This time, focus on your footwork.”
