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A smirk forms at the corner of his mouth, and I see him flex his knees, this time on guard, like he's boxing.
“You're weak, piggy! You'll have to work hard to reach my level,” he steps forward and tests the ground, enough for me to realize that his size slows down his speed, which means my petite stature might help me if I can be faster than him.
“Who do you think you're talking to? Acting like I'm one of your pathetic whores who's afraid to wash dishes in case they chip a nail?” I square my shoulders, standing my ground on the sandy terrain that's trickier than it looks. “I don't only wash dishes, I sure as hell know how to fight like a man.”
“Girls aren't built for fights, especially against guys. It's never a fair match.”
“So Mr. Mommy's Boy is also a misogynist, besides a narcissist? Picture this, being taken down by someone barely five feet tall,” I smirk with a touch of arrogance, but Masse isn't even slightly rattled, he's intrigued more than anything.
I adjust my stance, syncing my hips with my legs, and lift my arms, my fists level with my eyes. It's enough to focus on his composed form, his god-like physique.
I can't help but think, with the beach backdrop, Manasseh's looks like Aquaman, I chuckle under my breath, shaking my head. No time for silly thoughts now; Manasseh needs to be put in his place.
“So, that’s how you wanna play?” Manasseh's enthusiasm shines through his words, a spark igniting in his eyes, as if after all this time, the gray clouds finally cleared from his gaze.
His sturdy body goes soft, but steady. I realize he's not joking anymore as he arches his abdomen, yet relaxes his shoulders and arms, giving them flexibility. He's loose in his stance, following the basic rule, conserving energy, ready to move back and forth, leaving room for offense, all the while flexing with his left foot forward, prepared to launch a right-hand attack. That sends the message that he's not fully serious, because Manasseh always strikes with his left, his stronger hand.
Why on earth do I know this? Maybe because in my last year of high school in Matlock, I'd tagged along to his practices, willingly or unwillingly. I was there because Manasseh knew how to get me to come. I admit he made everything so competitive, it rubbed off on me, and ever since, I've developed a taste for sports.
“Put your right foot ahead, or you'll regret it,” I threaten, waiting for his reaction.
“Earn my respect, and I'll unleash my full arsenal on you, love,” he challenges, all arrogant.
“Then give it all you've got, Mommy's boy,” I throw a swift strike beneath his guard. Manasseh dodges, but he can't evade the second attack, and I manage to land a solid hit, boosting my own confidence and bruising his ego enough to get him 100% invested.
“But don’t cry in the end, angry piggy,” he leans on his right side at last, and starts to stomp menacingly, like Ralph Macchio from the movie Karate Kid.
I step forward and try to hit him under his guard again, but Manasseh takes a step back and easily dodges, moving gracefully, as in a casual belly dance.
He laughs with a cocky expression that tells me he's having a blast, which just makes me angrier.
“Pay attention, or you'll be the one crying at the end,” I puff up my cheeks, but immediately exhale loudly, trying to keep my focus.
“Do you want me to get out the big guns, Becca? I warn you, though. I don't think you can handle it,” he takes a step to the side, and starts to spin around me, like a hungry lion in a cage, the foamy waves crashing against our feet. “From now on, I won't go easy on you anymore!”
“Shut up and move, mommy’s boy,” I try to kick him, but Manasseh parries the strike and loses his balance, losing his concentration, his face turning red.
“Fuck! You're playing dirty!” I see his Adam's apple swinging in the air, and his eyelids twitch a few times, as if something got into his eye, and I can swear it's not from the sand.
“Huh? What do you mean?!” I frown and try to hit him again, this time aiming for his face, but Manasseh quickly dodges, sensing that it's my winning chance, so I swiftly launch another quick strike at his ankle, managing to parry it just in time.
I curse under my breath and see him looking at me, arrogant yet amused. It grinds my gears even more, pushing me to use my secret weapon – the only move left that could possibly work against him right now. I need to profit from the fact that he's somehow lost his focus and climb onto him, executing the rear chokehold maneuver to bring him down.
“I mean that...” he tries to explain, but I don't give him a moment to catch his breath.
In an instant, I pounce on him, ready to deliver another blow to his head. However, I change my mind at the last strategic second, aiming to deceive him, so I put my foot on his knee, which had flexed earlier to block my strike, and I climb onto him.
In a final desperate move, I attempt to get behind him, but as my hands grab his thick neck, Manasseh swiftly seizes me under the knees before I can rotate. I'm left suspended in mid-air, hanging onto him as if my life depends on it.
“Arghhh! This isn't fair!” I burst out angrily. My cheeks flush, and I feel the same rivalry that I used to feel at the London dojo, a rivalry Manasseh instilled in me ever during our childhood.
Every time I trained with Sensei, a master I couldn't defeat even if all hell broke loose, I still never learned my lesson, and the very next day, I'd provoke him again.
“You know what's not fair?” Manasseh keeps my body suspended, supported by his abdomen. “Not wearing underwear in a fight, Becca. Not at all!” he screams, dazed, his gaze slipping down the generous neckline of the loosely tied robe due to his excessive movement, feeling my intimate area pressing against his heated member even through his pants, when he allows me to lean against his bony pelvis.
“Ahhh! Put me down, Masse!” I squeak, trying to hold onto his neck more securely, but the waves crash against the shore again, and we don't realize how far we've went. In his haste to dodge the next wave, my hands slip on his sweaty nape, scratching him as we free fall, collapsing onto the wet and soft sand.
“If we were alone...” Manasseh attempts to say something suggestive, but my hand covers his dirty mouth before he can utter any lewd words. It's braced against his firm chest, his disheveled hair, too embarrassed to stand up.
