She rests her hands on her hips with half of her hair falling out of her ponytail. She’s stunningly beautiful in the most powerful way, and I have a feeling she never sees it.
“Ever get tired of rules, Matthews?” Those blue-green eyes issue a challenge. She steps away from the heavy bag. “Come here.”
I stare at her, wondering if she’s beckoning me to do what I think she is.
“Come. Here.” It’s a demand this time. “I won’t let you scuff up your delicate hands.”
I narrow my eyes at her, wondering if I’ll really let this woman dare me into striking the bag and going against the fully detailed clause in my contract.
I stand, deciding to hell with it. I’ve been following the rules long enough.
She takes another step back, letting me move between her and the hanging bag.
“Everyone thinks you should enter a fight with your fists, and only dumbasses go for the face.”
I huff out a laugh, peeking over my shoulder at her, but her expression tells me this is serious business.
“Put your hands up.”
I do what she says, and she slips around my side, inspecting me while I stand looking like the mascot for The Fighting Irish.
“Open your hands and take this foot back a little.” She taps my right foot with the toe of her shoe. “Now, you’re going to thrust the heel of your palm into the bag.”
“How come you hit it with your fists?”
“I know what I’m doing, and I don’t get paid millions for my hands to work. Now, come on. Show me what you’ve got.”
I side-eye her.
“Matthews, this will feel so damn good.”
She moves to the other side of the bag, standing in front of me.
“Show me how much you hate whatever is going on inside your head right now.”
I stare at her.
“For once, break a rule and do something that just might help you instead of them.”
I force my palm into the bag, and she presses her body against it, keeping it in place.
“Do it again, but twist at your waist and follow through with your whole body.”
I do as she says.
“Again,” she says, watching me.
I’m ashamed to admit it wasn’t long ago when I’d have stood here feeling like an idiot letting a woman show me how to hit with my palms. But with Ryder, there isn’t an ounce of condescension. She’s teaching me just like she’s let me teach her about football.
“Throw one with the other hand,” she says, readjusting her hold.
I nail the side of the bag, but my hand slips, and she dodges it, a slight smile appearing.
For fifteen minutes, she demonstrates and instructs as sweat drips into my eyes. She lets go of the bag while I take a second to catch my breath.
“I’m sorry about what happened earlier,” I say, as she peels back the Velcro on one of her wraps and unwinds it.
I wipe the sweat off my face with my shirt, remembering the look of disbelief on Nick’s face. “Is Lyla ok?”
