I stepped up to the bag, self-conscious at first, but attempting to ignore it. I punched.
“Were you trying not to do anything I just showed you?”
“I thought I was.”
He stepped in front of me, put his hands an inch beneathmy elbows without touching, and raised his eyebrows. “Am I allowed to touch you here or is that lying with my body?”
I smirked and then looked around. “Wait, is Dr. Franklin here? Are you trying to convince her we’re a couple?”
His hands still hovered.
“Yes, you can touch me,” I said with a sigh.
“Say it again,” he said in a gravelly voice that took my breath away. I hid my reaction by play-punching him in the chest.
“Ouch,” he said, pretending it hurt. “Okay, hands up.” He pushed up on my elbows, directing them into position. “That’s how you keep yourself from getting punched in the face when you have an opponent.”
“I will never have an opponent.”
“Probably not, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t learn correct form.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Ooh, I like that title.” He met my eyes with a teasing crinkle at the corners of his. “You can keep calling me that.”
I rolled my eyes but then let out a laugh.
“Okay, so remember: Rotate hip, shift weight, punch, connect, breathe.” He showed me again.
This time, I actually tried and when I connected, he was right, it felt different, a stronger connection with the bag.
“Good,” he said. “Better. Again.”
And so I did. I punched some more. He stood behind me, giving me small corrections, in the form of either words or a light touch to my elbow or hip, until he was no longer giving me corrections.
Next, he taught me something called a hook and then a cross with my dominant hand. I repeated those over and over. Then combined them. Sweat formed along my hairline anddripped down my temple. I wiped at it with the back of my forearm. It had been a while since I worked out, and it honestly felt good. He was a good teacher. Patient.
“Shoulders down, not so bunched up,” he said, his hand going to my shoulder. When I didn’t relax, he said, “You’re tight.”
“Yeah.”
“Can I?” he said, again asking permission to touch me.
I nodded.
He rubbed his thumb in circles along my shoulder and neck. I sucked in some air.
“You have knots all along here. Do you lift weights?”
“Yes,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. I lifted my mom every day, and she was the reason my neck and shoulders were in the state they were in.
“How doIget a special lesson with the owner’s son?” a voice over my left shoulder said, too close.
I turned to see a woman standing there in short-shorts and a sports bra. Her dark hair was slicked back into a ponytail, and her brown eyes were on Elijah, not me. She was beautiful.
“I thought you didn’t do lessons,” she said.
“Hey, Mercedes. I don’t.” For the first time since I’d met him, Elijah’s confidence seemed shaken, like this gorgeous woman standing by us had knocked him off his game.
