Keeper(20)

I adjusted. “Like this?”

“Exactly. Now, don’t be afraid of the bag. Really hit it.”

I nodded and took another swing, this one with more force. The resulting smack echoed in my ears. I hit the bag again. And then again.

“Maintain control of the bag. Don’t let it swing back and forth so much.”

I adjusted my stance again, following Ty’s directions, and threw another punch. And another.

Every time my fist made contact with the bag, it was gratifying, like taking a deep breath after being underwater. The tension drained from my body with every swing. Beads of sweat rolled down my spine, and the muscles in my arms were starting to ache, but I didn’t stop. Over and over, I hit the bag. The adrenaline coursed through my veins, forcing every ounce of frustration out of my body with each resounding smack.

I took another swing. Faster this time.

Another swing. Harder than the last.

Everything else faded away. It was just me and the bag.

It wasn’t until I was completely spent that I sank to the floor, my chest heaving, my arms throbbing and achy.

“Lainey?”

I swallowed hard, an ache settling in my throat.

“Are you okay?” Ty knelt next to me, a warm hand on my shoulder, his eyes full of concern.

“I’m fine.” He didn’t look convinced. “Really, I’m okay. It’s just . . . that was amazing.” I rocked back on my heels and looked up at him with a wide smile. “To be able to let go like that, to just take it all out on the bag . . .”

Ty nodded. “It sure beats yelling at guys you barely know in the parking lot, huh?” He winked at me, smiling.

I winced. “I’m really sorry. I don’t usually blow up like that, but things have been crazy lately and . . .”

“You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he replied, plainly. “I do.”

He didn’t bother offering anything else in the way of explanation, and I blinked, feeling slightly frustrated as I watched him walk back toward the bags.

For the last hour or so, I’d been trying to figure Ty out, trying to determine what was behind those piercing eyes and crooked smile. But every time I was close to forming some sort of conclusion about him, he would say something that would completely change my mind. I wanted to write him off as just some typical teenage guy with a cocky sense of humor and an affinity for dark-colored t-shirts, but it was becoming very obvious that this guy wasn’t as typical as I thought.

“So,” I asked, eager to keep the conversation going, “do you come here a lot?”

“A couple times a week.” He smiled again. “I help train some of the new guys, and Mike, the owner, lets me work out for free.”

“Oh, so are you like some professional fighter or something?”

“No, nothing like that.” Ty laughed. He got up and walked over to a red Igloo cooler and poured each of us a small paper cup full of water. “It’s just in my blood.” He handed me one of the cups. “My father taught me.”

I took a sip of my water. “And now you can kick butt and take names?”

He laughed. “Yeah, I guess. Something like that.”

“Want to show me some of your moves?” I nodded toward the bag.

Ty raised an eyebrow. “What for? You’ve seen me fight.”

“True, but come on,” I prodded, handing him the padded gloves. “Don’t all badasses jump at the opportunity to show off for a girl?”

Ty thought for a minute and then laughed. “Only for the pretty ones,” he said with a wink as he took the gloves from my outstretched hand.

The tips of my ears began to burn, and I gulped down another sip of water to hide the goofy grin on my face.

Jumping to his feet, Ty walked to the corner of the room and grabbed two cotton bands. He wrapped his own hands in record time and strapped the gloves securely to his wrists.

He stepped up to the bag and took a deep breath. He walked slowly around it, almost like an animal stalking its prey, his shoulders tensed in preparation. Then with another deep breath, he struck the bag.

I watched, awestruck, as he moved around it, his arms darting and swinging in perfect precision. His face was a mask of pure concentration, his eyes blazing with intensity. The muscles in his chest and back strained against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. His movements, though clearly practiced and purposeful, were full of power and intensity and looked almost graceful. The intricate patterns of his footwork and the staccato rhythm of his fists making contact with the bag were mesmerizing.

I knew nothing about fighting, what made someone good or bad, but from where I stood, Ty wasn’t just an amazing fighter—he was a force of nature.

I didn’t realize my mouth was hanging open until Ty delivered a final punch to the bag and whirled around to face me, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes shining and bright.

“Wow,” I managed to force out, snapping my lips back together.

Ty waved his hand in dismissal and walked over to the Igloo again and downed several cups of water.

“No, seriously.” I stood up. “That was amazing.”

He shrugged. “My dad was a good teacher.”

“I can tell. Does he still train with you?”

Ty’s face fell. “No, he, uh . . . he passed away.”