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Darien announced his entry with a low whistle. “I wouldn’t want to get between you and that bag.”
Paxton froze and dropped his fists to his sides. He ducked his head, strands of dark hair falling in his vision. Whenever he did that, he was a spitting image of Roman when he was his age. The sight reminded Darien of his childhood—the rare visits with his cousins, back before they’d stopped entirely. Back before Travis had moved to Angelthene.
Darien joined Paxton by the punching bag. “Can I give you a tip?”
Paxton wiped his cheek with the back of his fist. “Sure.”
“Throwing power comes from your lower body,” Darien began, “so stance matters.” He demonstrated, positioning his feet apart. Paxton watched, immediately captivated, and mirrored him. “Keep your feet under your shoulders. Your dominant foot goes behind you.”
Paxton shifted so his left was behind him.
Darien said, “Are you left handed?”
Paxton shook his head.
“Then switch feet. Dominant goes behind you—your dominant is your right.” He pointed.
This time, Pax got it, shifting his right behind him, and his left forward.
“Good. Now for the fist.” Darien held up his own. “Your thumb goes on top of your other four fingers.” Paxton proudly held his up for assessment, and Darien nodded once. “Right—good. Roman taught you that?”
Paxton nodded, a little smile pulling at his lips, though his eyes were still heavy with sadness, guilt—and a level of hatred Darien remembered seeing in the mirror when he was Pax’s age.
“Rest your thumb over your middle knuckle,” Darien said. “Like this.” Paxton copied, and Darien continued, “Keep your wrist as straight as possible—never bend it when you hit your target. Got it?”
Pax nodded again.
Darien gestured to the bag. “Go.”
Paxton struck.
“You hesitated,” Darien accused.
“I didn’t!” The kid’s voice echoed.
“You did. Bend your knees a little—a little, not a lot.” Paxton readjusted. “Bent knees make it harder to get knocked over if someone punches you back.” He gestured to the bag. “Try again.”
He threw another punch—a bit harder this time.
“You’re still hesitating.”
“I’m not!”
“If it gets to the point where you need to punch someone, you need to go all the way. No hesitating, no backing out.”
Paxton punched again, but he still wasn’t getting it. Hesitating—he was still hesitating, lightening up on his throwing power in the last second before his knuckles hit the leather. Mercy—the kid had mercy. And mercy couldn’t exist when you were dealing with bullies.
“What’s the name of that kid who had you pinned in the alley?”
Paxton glared at the barely-swaying bag. “Zac.”
“Zac’s a jerk, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“I want you to pretend that this bag is Zac. How tall is Zac?”
Paxton’s eyes flicked up and down the bag. “A little taller than me.”
