Page 82 of Forever Relentless

“Can I?”

“Absolutely. Gloves are over there if you need them.”

I felt my shoulders relax as I started taping my hands. “I don’t need them.”

With my hands taped lightly, I stepped into the familiar stance, toes angled slightly, weight balanced on the balls of my feet. The bag hung still, and I hit it once. Not full force, just another testing jab. The leather gave under my fist with a dull thud, swinging back towards me, and I let it return before I struck again.

Jab, cross, again. The impact vibrated up my forearm, into my shoulder. I circled left, threw a hook at the bag’s body, and the chain groaned overhead as it shifted harder this time, the weight making it swing wider.

My mind ticked over as the small itch of restlessness I’d felt under my skin started to soothe itself out.

I thought of the fucker who bullied Tate and called him names that hurt my sensitive, gentle brother. I drove a straight right into the center seam, and the bag snapped backward.

It would’ve been easy to lean into it, to let it swing wild, to let my anger dictate the rhythm, but I didn’t let my control slip. A one-two, a side step, a body shot, keeping my footwork clean and my breathing steady. The leather smacked against my knuckles again and again, a dull percussion that matched the pace of my thoughts.

I stepped into the arc of the bag’s swing and hammered two short hooks into where the ribs would be if this bag had bones. It swayed harder with each impact, the chain rattling louder with each blow.

I pivoted and drove my elbow into the side of the bag, then reset, stance square again.

The first time I’d felt how easy it was to hurt someone, I’d stepped back.

That was the rule.

I’d also understood, in that moment, that I was the kind of person who could choose not to.

I remembered the words of wisdom from my old coach, ‘You don’t cross the line unless you mean to live there.’

I didn’t want to live there; I was just afraid of how easily I could.

I fired a combination harder now — jab, cross, hook, cross — each punch landing with more of my weight and force behind it. The bag jumped under my assault, swinging wide enough that I had to adjust my feet to stay in front of it.

Sweat ran down the side of my face, stinging my eye. My shoulders burned. My lungs worked harder. This was a good burn. This pain made sense to me as much as the pain on the field.

The bag swung back toward me too fast this time, and I didn’t step aside.

I let it hit my chest and shoved it away with both palms, teeth clenched.

“Move,” I muttered under my breath.

The bag wasn’t what I was trying to move.

I hit it again, harder than I had all night. The crack of my fist against leather echoed off the walls.

For a moment, the side of me that wanted to surrender surfaced — the one that remembered garages, concrete floors, and how people curled up when struck perfectly.

It would be easy, so easy to move toward that, but I stepped back instead and forced my breathing to slow.

I counted to four on the inhale, six on the exhale.

The bag swung to a slow stop.

I stepped in and threw one final combination, controlled, clean, and sharp, and then I stopped.

The bag kept moving long after I did, a heavy arc cutting through the air. I watched it, knowing that was the difference. The bag moved because I’d set it in motion. It didn’t get to decide how hard I hit.

I peeled the tape from my knuckles and flexed my fingers. My skin split in one place, just enough to sting, but not enough to draw attention in practice tomorrow.

“You look like you know what you’re doing,” the guy who’d shared his tape with me said.