He goes off track again. Forgets the rag, wipes his hands on his shirt, throws a lazy jab. Then another. Then he starts hopping back and forth, doing some animal impression that would get him murdered in a real gym.
Impossible.
"Are you going to teach me or just judge?" he asks.
"Neither. I'll keep ignoring you," I say, but that isn't true. I can't watch this disaster any longer. "First, fix your stance. You're going to snap your knee."
He pauses. Blinks. Then… this is the part that kills me, he actually tries to do it right. He looks so happy I'm paying attention to him. Pathetic.
I put the rag down. Circle him.
"Here," I say, and put my hands on his shoulders to square him up. He flinches. Not scared, surprised I'd touch him. I slidehis left leg back, nudge his hips, guide his hands up to his chin.
I'm basically hugging him from behind.
"You see this?" I say, gesturing at his fist. "Keep it tight. Elbow down. Protect your face, unless you want another nose job."
"Yours is crooked too," he says, frowning playfully. "Did you get hit a lot?"
"Yeah. And I got better."
He nods, fires off a real jab. Not great. Not embarrassing.
"Better," I say, and his face lights up like I've handed him a medal. Puppy being praised.
"Don't get cocky," I say, harder than necessary. "Your guard dropped the second you threw that. In a real fight, you'd be on the floor."
His smile falters. Something twists in my gut. I turn away, grab the rag. "Take five, then finish the last row."
He gets quiet for a second. I feel him looking at me, trying to figure out the shift. Good. Let him wonder.
He doesn't stay quiet long, though. Never does. Picks up the rag, starts scrubbing, but after a minute he's up again. Glances at me, then the mirror, tries a cross. Overcommits, stumbles, lands against my chest. I catch him. Steady him. Push him back upright.
We look at each other.
"Again," I say, and this time he goes slower. Focused.
Five minutes. I correct his form, he mouths off, I knock his guard, he laughs. He’s not athletic, but not weak. Lean arms, sharp. Scars I want to ask about. He keeps shaking his hair out of his face. I want to push it back. Instead, I nudge his calf with my foot. Tell him to anchor.
Somewhere in the middle of a combo, he fakes a left and nearly clips my jaw. So proud of himself he starts jumping up and down. I block it, grab his wrist, twist it behind his back. He yelps, but he's grinning.
Overpowering him like this makes me hard. I hold him a second longer than I need to.
"Ow! Okay, teach, I surrender."
"If you don't want to get hurt, smarten up, moron," I say, still holding him. Not mad. Something else. He's grinning, breathing fast. Alive in a way I'm not used to seeing kids here. Covered in sweat.
I let go.
He spins out, faces me. Neither of us says anything. Standing there, breathing heavy.
"Is this the part where we kiss?" he asks. Voice low, joking, but I see the flicker in his eyes.
"Shut up and finish the mats," I snap, grabbing the rag.
He laughs, goes back to scrubbing.
We go ten minutes without talking, but it's not awkward. Every time I look over, he's focused. When he catches me looking, he smirks.
