“Okay,” she responded briskly, standing up and breaking the spell so abruptly, it was as if the air had grown colder.
She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Let’s get to work. Tell me — what’s giving you the most trouble right now?”
Frowning, I hesitated. “Uh … everything?”
“Be specific, genius,” she snapped, though her tone carried no actual bite.
“Pass protection,” I admitted reluctantly. “I mean … I’m good at rugby, right? Tackling, holding my ground, moving sideways, juking. But in football, I can’t just square up and hit someone. I need to absorb and redirect contact, but I keep lunging with my weight too far forward. I overcommit. My hips don’t rotate properly and my feet are all wrong. I get beaten on angles I should dominate.”
Her lips twitched, trying not to smile. “Sounds like your body is doing rugby instinctively, but your brain is saying, ‘Football now.’”
I huffed exasperatedly. “Exactly. And it’s so frustrating because I know I can do it, just … not this way.”
She crossed her arms, eyes scanning me like she was diagnosing a patient. “Alright. I can fix this. But first, you need to stop overthinking. Forget everything else and focus only on your body. Watch me.”
She moved to the open space beside her bed, lowering her stance into a position halfway between a guard and a pivot. Her knees were bent and her weight was centered.
“Here.” She seized my wrist and pulled me up from the bed. For such a tiny little thing, she was surprisingly strong. “We’re going to work on footwork and weight distribution. It’ll make you quicker laterally and help you to keep your center of gravity perfect for absorbing hits.”
I lowered my gaze, my ears feeling hot. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I got it right last time and I just don’t want to waste your time, you know?”
“Trust me,” she said softly. “If your feet and hips can survive me throwing punches, they can survive linebackers … or whatever it is we're trying to accomplish.”
I sighed as I observed her demonstrating a pivot-and-shift, twisting her hips and sliding lightly on the balls of her feet as she moved her hands like she was redirecting an opponent.
“Okay,” Tori murmured, lifting her gaze to meet mine. “Slow first … then I’ll speed things up once your hips catch on.”
Stepping closer with a staggered stance and slightly bent knees, she held her hands out in front of her as if framing an invisible target.
“This is your base. Weight centered. Now — pivot.”
She slowly rotated her hips, exaggerating the motion so it was easy to track. “Turn on the ball of your foot. Let your hips follow and don’t force it.”
Tori shifted her body a few inches to the side, guiding imaginary momentum past her torso with a subtle sweep of her hand.
“And this? This is the ‘shift’ part of the drill. You’re not pushing them away. Instead you’re letting their energy slide past you. Redirect, don’t try to block it.”
Then she straightened up a little, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Now watch it in real time.”
Tori's body moved in a tight, controlled flow: a pivot, a shift, a redirect.
“Your job,” she explained, her breath quickening as she reset her stance, “is not to overpower. It’s to move, feel, and react. The weird rugby lunge? Kill it.”
“It’s not weird,” I grumbled under my breath, trying to mirror her.
She tipped her chin at me. “Come on, Pretty Boy. It's your turn.”
I stumbled and kicked air, feeling very much like a bumbling idiot. Tori watched me calmly, analyzing my movements with a keen eye.
“Your brain’s fine,” she asserted finally. “Your instincts just need a re-route.”
I blinked at her. “A re-route?”
She gestured at the floor. “Watch again. Copy me. And this time … don’t think. Just move.”
I dropped into a wide stance with my knees bent and tried to mirror her pivot. My feet were like lead, my weight was too far forward again, and I over-rotated on the first step.
“Stop leaning,” she instructed, stepping closer, her hands brushing my arms as she adjusted my shoulders. “Weight over the balls of your feet. Hips square, but loose. Not stiff.”
