Page 135 of The Clinch
“Left hand home.”
“Move your feet.”
“Again.”
By round four, my triceps are burning hard enough that the right starts to feel expensive. My forearms are swollen. My hands are hot. Every deep breath finds the shot Lukas dug into my ribs.
Ray drops the mitts long enough for me to drink. I take two pulls from the bottle before he speaks.
“She look nervous?”
I lower the bottle. “Who?”
He gives me a look.
I spit into the bucket. “A little.”
He takes that in, like it confirms something. “And you?”
I set the bottle down. “What about me?”
“You looked worse.”
Lukas laughs from the ropes, toweling off. “Careful, Coach. He’s in love. Could be concussed.”
I turn my head slowly enough to make it clear I’m choosing not to answer that.
Ray doesn’t smile. “Good,” he says, like Lukas never spoke. “Use it.”
Then he lifts the mitts again. I hit them harder than necessary.
The bag rounds are worse. Not technically. Physically.
The bag gives you nothing back except resistance. No reads. No openings. No mistakes to punish. Just six rounds asking whether you still have discipline when there’s no one to out-think.
By the third, my shoulders feel packed with wet sand. By the fifth, there’s nothing left except structure.
Hands up. Feet under me. Rotate. Recover. Again.
“Last thirty,” Ray calls.
I plant and throw until my arms blur and the bag turns meaner.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Body. Reset.
Again.
By the bell, my legs feel heavy and delayed, full of lactic acid and bad intentions. I step back and suck air through my teeth.
Lukas sits on an overturned bucket, wraps loose, watching me with the easy relief of a man already done.
“You always get prettier when you suffer,” he says.
I bend, brace my hands on my thighs, and breathe. “Shut up.”
Ray points toward the turf. “Finishers.”
The turf is where whatever’s left gets exposed.
