Down and Out(71)

He lifts a brow, like he doesn’t quite believe me, but he doesn’t say so. Instead he says, “Let’s do it to it,” as he ducks in-between the ropes and walks into the ring.
Declan pulls up a metal fold-up chair and sits ringside as I climb through the ropes and join Marcus.
Once we’re center stage, he looks down at my hands and says, “Make a fist.”
Wow, he wasn’t kidding when he said we were starting with the basics. I clench my right hand and show him.
His lips turn down as his brows lift, like he’s impressed. “Good. Always keep your thumb on the outside of your fist, never in. You’ll break it if it’s tucked inside, got it?”
I nod, wondering who the hell would ever punch like that, but I don’t say anything.
He takes my fist in his hands and runs his fingertips beneath my knuckles, over the flats of my bunched up fingers. “The main reason why people hurt their hands when they punch someone is because they hit here instead of here,” he says, running his fingers over the hard ridges of my knuckles. “Always punch with your knuckles, specifically the first two. If you hit with your ring and pinky knuckles, you’ll more than likely break your hand.”
First two knuckles good, last two bad. Got it.
“Okay, now put your dukes up and show me your stance.”
I spread my feet shoulder width apart, turning slightly so I’m at an angle to him. You don’t want to face your opponent head on. It leaves too much open and vulnerable.
My right foot’s behind me, with my left leading. Keeping my chin down, I lift my hands. Left fist goes in front of my face, just under my cheek. Right goes just under my jaw. Knees bent slightly, I keep my elbows tucked in to my sides.
Marcus whistles, low and long, then glances at Declan. “You seein’ this? Your girl’s a natural.”
For the first time since I’ve met him, Marcus smiles at me. “Atta girl,” he says, his whole face lit up. For someone so serious, he’s got a beautiful smile—all straight, gleaming teeth and sparkling eyes.
I wonder why he doesn’t do it more.
He gets into a matching stance. “A lot of times you see people cock their fist back to ‘wind up’ their punches,” he says, bringing his elbow really far out to show me. “Don’t do that. It leaves you open and lets your opponent know exactly what your next move’s gonna be. You want to keep your motions tight. Start from right here by your face” —he shakes the fist next to his jaw— “and extend it out in front of you, pivoting your body with the movement.”
He does a slow motion punch for me to get the full effect, and I watch his torso turn in time with the extension of his right arm as he pivots on the ball of his right foot.
“Okay, now you try.”
I follow his instructions, turning my body with the punch.
“Faster.”
Repositioning myself to the starting position, I swing again at full speed, pivoting my body with the movement.
“Good.” He jogs over to a corner post and grabs two padded, circular mitts from the mat. Slipping them on his hands, he walks back over to me. “Now hit me,” he says, holding them out.
I reposition, exhale, and swing, connecting with a mitt.
Marcus whoops and takes off his glove, shaking his hand like I’d actually hurt him. He’s full of shit, but I enjoy the ego boost nonetheless.
After taking off his other glove and tossing them aside, he comes back to stand in front of me. “Your goal in this fight is to end it as quickly as possible, but despite what you might think, you shouldn’t aim for the face first. One, heads are solid and made of bone. That shit’s gonna hurt if you hit it wrong. Two, they’ll be expecting it. So you’ll want to target the body first—throat, sides of the neck, ribs, stomach, kidneys, liver—anything that’s open. Body shots are a lot more effective at stunning your opponent and they’re safer for your hands.
“Once you manage to stun them, capitalize on it, be it with another body shot, a blow to the face, a kick to the gut, or what have you. Do not stop raining blows on them until they tap out or knockout.”
Marcus seems pleased at my nod and says, “Tomorrow we’ll go over blocking and start sparring. Right now, I want to start you on strength training.”
Stifling my groan, I nod. Tonight’s going to be a looong night.





I hate to admit it, but Savannah actually looked good out there tonight. Marcus was right, she’s a natural.
That should make me feel better and give me some sense of reassurance that she won’t get too hurt, but it doesn’t. All the training and preparation in the world won’t put me at ease.
We eat dinner in silence. I think we’ve said maybe twenty words to each other in the past 48 hours. I’m sure it’d be awkward if I wasn’t so pissed. As it is, I can barely look at her.
After I’m done, I set the dishes in the sink and head into the bathroom for a shower. I’m tired and tense. Some hot water, followed by falling face-first into my bed and sleeping for eight hours, sounds pretty damn amazing right about now.
I step under the hot spray and reach for my shampoo, sighing when I see my shower caddy. My sink’s not the only thing that’s been overtaken by Savannah. There’s a bright pink bottle of strawberry shampoo, body wash, a purple loofah, a dainty pink razor, and a jar of mango-scented “sugar scrub,” whatever the hell that is. My shampoo and body gel have been shoved off to the side, cramped together at the end of the top shelf like an afterthought.
It’s a perfect analogy for our relationship.