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I roll my eyes and keep walking. “Bye, Gavin.”
“Wait up. You’re looking at Ace’s new trainer. Come spar with me. Your boyfriend’s not the only one who can throw a jab.”
I snort a laugh. “I told you he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Who is he, then?” Gavin wonders.
“We gonna gab, or are we gonna jab?” I taunt, wanting to do anything other than talk about Mr. Psycho.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.” He gestures to the boxing ring.
“Not much,” I admit. “I’ve only had one training session with Russell. Any word when he’ll be back?” I fish.
“Nope,” he tells me as I follow him to the ring. “You’re stuck with yours truly. First, give me three minutes of warm-up.” He pulls a jump rope off the hook, handing it to me.
“My old nemesis,” I mutter.
“I’m sorry?”
“Oh, nothing.” I grab the jump rope and try my best, but I still suck at it. He calls time, and I’m not nearly as winded; I guess my weekend of marathon sex with Fabio has increased my stamina.
“What’s that scowl for?” Gavin asks.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “What’s next?”
“Let’s wrap your hands.” Gavin walks over to a shelf of supplies, returning with two small rolls of material. “I’ll let you try out these elastic cotton hand wraps; if you like the feel, you can buy your own for next time in the front office. Hold your right hand out for me.” I do as instructed, and Gavin makes the elaborate process look easy as he wraps the material around my hand in a figure-eight motion.
“How long have you been boxing?” I wonder.
“Off and on for years,” he answers, finishing up my right hand by wrapping the leftover material around my wrist twice before securing it. “Make a fist,” he instructs, and I do so. “You want your knuckles, wrist, and fingers to be wrapped nice and tight, but not too tight. How’s that?”
“Feels good, I think.”
“Did Russell teach you how to shadowbox?” Gavin asks when he finishes wrapping my left hand.
“Yes,” I tell him.
“Good. Face the mirror and throw some hooks, jabs, and uppercuts.”
I get into fighting stance and watch myself throw punches in the mirror. Taylor was right, I’ll begrudgingly admit. Boxing is sort of fun. Especially when I envision my target being Fabio’s pretty face.
“Hands up. Don’t let them drop!” he snaps, and I get back into the correct position.
After a while, it becomes not so fun when my arms feel like jelly, but I keep going until he calls time. “Good job.”
Wiping my sweaty brow with my arm, I awkwardly grab my water bottle and take a swig, my heart pounding in my ears. “We finished?” I ask a bit too eagerly.
“Nope.” Gavin walks over to the wall to select a pair of small gloves and returns, helping me put them on. Holding a pair of mitts, he motions to the ring. He easily climbs up to the ring and under the ropes, and I step up to an elevated ring, climbing through about as gracefully as a drunk elephant. “Let’s see you throw some punches.”
He raises the left mitt, and I throw a right jab, smacking the padding with a satisfying thud.
“Good, but extend your punch all the way; I want to see full arm extension. That keeps me back; otherwise, you throw short punches, and I’m inching up on you, ready to strike.” He demonstrates, and I make the necessary corrections.
“Jab,” he orders, and I strike. We do it again and again. He switches it up to a hook, and a double jab, and then confuses the hell out of me when he barks, “Double jab, jab, cross, roll, and hook.” He swings the mitt at my head, and I duck just in time.
“This is too advanced; let’s bring it back to kindergarten boxing, please,” I beg.
“This is kindergarten boxing,” he corrects me. “I said roll, not duck.” He swings at my head again, and I curse as I duck.
