He showed me the moves—cross, jab, uppercut. He showed me the stances, the body work—I had no idea that punching started with the feet—and made me get the form right before hitting the bag. I was sweating in my t-shirt by the end, but my blood was singing and I was having more fun than I could remember. And Nick hadn’t even insulted me once. Maybe he was in a good mood after doing the Victoria’s Secret model he was banging in my imagination.
“Okay, now we try the real shit,” Nick said, picking up two big white pads and holding them up. “You try and hit a moving target.”
I obediently faced him, getting in a stance. “Shouldn’t I learn how to dodge?” I asked him.
“No, because I’m not fighting you. This is only about you kicking ass. Now go.”
I advanced on him, throwing punches at the white pads as he moved them. He moved back, to the side, then closer again, making me learn to get my footwork right while moving. Sometimes I missed, or things landed sideways, but I landed a few hits before he stopped me. “Fine,” he said. “You’ve got the hand placement, the wrist placement. Now gloves.”
He put gloves on me and we went again. “Oh my God, this is awesome,” I said as I smacked the pads over and over. “I can hit hard without worrying about my hands.”
“Hit as hard as you can,” he coached me as we moved around the mat, probably because my hardest punch was something he could barely feel. He still never made fun, though—not once. It was weird. I had no idea whether any of the big meatheads here were watching, or smirking, and I didn’t care; I just wanted to hit those pads as hard as I fucking could.
“Shout,” Nick told me after a few minutes, “when you hit. It makes you hit harder and it forces you to expel your breath. You’ll see.”
So I shouted “Josh, you suck!” as I threw another punch, and I felt it land with a satisfying thud. Sweat was beading on my forehead and my temples now, making loose strands from my ponytail stick to my neck. I felt exhilarated, powerful, like I could conquer anything. It was better than sex, at least any sex I’d ever had. “You humiliated me!” I shouted, hitting Nick again and again as he moved. “I trusted you! She’s a piece of trash!”Smack, smack.
“Jesus, redhead,” Nick said, provoking me. “You hit like a girl.”
“Iama girl!” I shouted back at him, hitting harder. I was getting the form right now, and I could feel the power in my punches. The words were coming out of me in a rush, not stopping until they were done. I actually started picturing Josh’s face on the boxing pads I was hitting. “We were supposed to get married!” I shouted as I punched him. “We were supposed to follow the plan. Now the plan is shit and I’m going to die an old spinster unless I date Dave from Client Management! And he has a kid and a bunch of baggage!” I stopped, out of breath. My back and shoulders were on fire. I’d be paying for this for days.
It was worth it.
Nick dropped the pads. “Well, fuck,” he commented.
I stared at him. I had a sudden fantasy of walking up to him and kissing him. Ripping his shirt off, pushing him down on the mat, pulling his shorts off, and jumping him. Right here in the middle of the gym. Blowing off steam, you might say, in one big orgasm.
Oblivious, he stepped forward and took one of my gloves in his hand, unfastening the velcro tapes at my wrist. I stared at a drop of sweat in his clavicle as if hypnotized.Sex,my brain said senselessly.Sex, sex, sex.
He took off my other glove, and I raised my eyes to see him looking at me. His expression was unreadable.
“That’s good for today,” he said. “Let’s go get a milkshake.”
SEVEN
Nick
I changed into another t-shirt and a pair of jeans and met her by the front door, my gym bag over my shoulder. She had put her shoes back on but her hair was still tied back, that brown-red color that looked different under different light. I’d be having boner dreams for weeks remembering what she’d looked like throwing punches, all those curves alive and moving.
“Sorry,” I said. “There isn’t a women’s changing room here.”
She shrugged. “I’ll be sweaty, I guess.”
“I didn’t shower. So we’re both dirty.”
She paused at the word. Then she frowned. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
“Too bad,” I replied. “Where we’re going, it doesn’t matter.”
She hefted her bag. “Where are we going?”
I pushed open the door and led her down the street. “Papaya Hut.”
“What is a papaya hut?”
“It’s a place that makes the best milkshakes you’ve ever tasted. And if you’re worrying about fat, don’t. I have no clue what they put in those things, but it isn’t cream.”
“Please,” she said, catching up and following at my shoulder. “Do I look like a woman who worries about fat?”