Faster.
Closer.
Relentless.
It went that way for I don’t even know how long. I was breathing harder now, muscles tightening with each movement, every catch sending a jolt up my arms as I adjusted, corrected, adapted without fully understanding how.
“Again.”
“No,” I said, my chest rose and fell sharply as I shook my head. “This is pointless. I’m not built for this. I’m not fast, I’m not… whatever it is you want me to be.”
I tossed one of the objects back at him with more force than necessary. “I’m not you.”
“Okay, fine,” he said, rolling his shoulders like this was all mildly entertaining to him. “Tackle me instead then.”
“What?”
He didn’t elaborate.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, already moving anyway, because if there was one thing I wasn’t going to do, it was miss an opportunity to hurt him—or at least try to.
I lunged.
I was fast, faster than I would’ve been before, but it didn’t matter. He sidestepped me like I was nothing.
One second I was upright—the next, I was flat on my back, the air knocked from my lungs, staring up at the grey sky.
“Again,” he said.
I pushed myself up, glaring. “I wasn’t ready.”
“You were.”
I went again.
This time, I aimed lower, trying to take out his legs from under him.
He caught my arm mid-movement, twisted and suddenly I was spun around, my back pressed to his chest, my own arm pinned in a way that made it very clear how easily he could snap it if he felt like it.
“Balance,” he said, voice low in my ear. “You’re throwing yourself without thinking.”
Then he let go and I stumbled forward, catching myself just before I hit the ground again.
“Again.”
I grit my teeth and resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the word ‘again’.
But fine.
Again.
Every attempt ended the same, with me on the ground or effortlessly immobilised by him while he was barely winded.
But I kept going because somewhere along the line I had begun to want it, I wanted to get the upper hand, win against him.
I tried speed and he countered it.
I tried unpredictability and he read my every move anyway.