I narrow my eyes.
“Okay fine,” he laughs and runs to the wall. “I’ll skip, too.” Picking up a remote on his way back, he sets the clock to automatically count down. “Are you good now?”
No. “Yep.”
“Go.”
It takes thirty-nine seconds for me to realize three minutes is a stupidly long time when you’re dreading every single second of it. I constantly catch the rope on my toes, or on the floor, or on thin air, and every time I have to reset makes it harder to start again.
I look up at fifteen seconds left on the clock, and without panting at all, Bobby skips and says, “Ten sit-ups, ten pushups. You have a minute between rounds, so the sooner you finish your reps, the sooner you get to actually rest. Ready?”
No, I’m not ready.But despite my pleas, in spite of me, the stupid clock beeps and Bobby drops to the floor and counts out nine pushups before I even drop my rope.Shit.I struggle through the ten on my knees, and flipping over and impersonating a beached whale, I let out a whoosh of air and work on my sit-ups.
Panting and sweating when I climb to my feet, my anger rockets through my now racing blood when the clock beeps and robs me of my rest. Scrambling to my rope and starting almost twenty whole seconds after Bobby, I silently skip and count out the time.
The second round isn’t as bad, I guess. Going by Kit standards. I stumble less often, and counting each time Bobby’s feet leave the mat, I lull myself into some form of zen state. His movements are so fluid, so smooth, so controlled. I envy his fitness.
His smirk draws my attention to his face. “Like what you see?”
I do. Very much. But I can’t answer him; both because I’m embarrassed for staring, and because I can barely breathe, anyway.
The clock beeps and sends us both back to the mat, and though I’m still slow, I finish my set with fifteen seconds left to rest.
Wooh!
I sigh when the third and final round begins, and I start stumbling all over again. If Bobby notices, he doesn’t say anything. I’m too stubborn to not finish, so I push through and get it done. What feels like twenty minutes later, the buzzer goes off and we drop for the final set of pushups and sit-ups.
My arms shake like jelly, and my stomach cramps every time I try to sit up, but at least I didn’t die.
“Good job.” He leans over me with a sexy grin, takes my hands, and pulls me up. “Go grab a drink and hang your rope. We’ll stretch, then get started.”
Get started?I’m ready to finish!
Like a good, obedient girl, I trudge over and hang my rope, then dragging my feet on the mats and coming back to stand by his side, I open my water and guzzle.
“Whoa.” He reaches across and lowers my arm. “You’ll make yourself sloshy and sick. Small sips.”
Slow sips. Tiny wussy sips. I watch him through narrowed slits and take stupid little sips. Tossing my bottle to the floor and following him back to the middle of the matted area, I sit when he sits. Facing each other, he stretches his leg out to the side.
Thankfully, years of running track at school means I know how to do this part. I’m pleased to find my flexibility is still good, and I make sure to stretch my groin muscle out. Remembering a soccer game from forever ago when I tore the muscle, I move up to one knee, and bend the other in front of me. Pushing my pelvis forward, I close my eyes and smile at the liquidity of my movements.
A moment ago, the room held the noises of panting breath and movements on the mat, but when everything falls silent, I open my eyes to Bobby’s blank stare. His dark hair hangs long over his brows, and sweat beads on his top lip.
Boldly pushing my pelvis forward, I smirk. “Like what you see?”
His blank eyes snap to attention, and jumping up from his stretch, he ignores my words and jogs to a stereo in the far corner. Angry rap pulses energy through the room, and jumping up from the floor, I bounce on the spot.
I’m ready to start hitting shit.
“Let’s start with the pads. You’ll need to put on your gloves –” He pauses and runs his fingers through his hair. “You probably don’t own gloves, do you?”
“Nope.”
Moving to the wall he threw his gloves at earlier, he holds the black and white beat up leather out for me. “Here. You can use mine.” I pull the first glove on and work to hide my reaction at plunging my hand in a warm, sweaty bath. I don’t show my discomfort. I refuse to be a girly girl. I refuse to look like a wimp in front of him.
Fastening the Velcro around my wrist, I turn back for the second glove only to find myself stuck on how to get it on.
I don’t want to ask for help, but…