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“You need to work off some of that pent-up aggression,” she says. “Since your punching bag is on holiday.”
“The cleaners started it,” I tell her, advancing cautiously towards her. “I don’t have any pent-up aggression. And I onlyimpliedI was going to give them black eyes, I wouldn’t actually—”
“I’ll be the one givingyoua black eye if you don’t shut up and start moving.”
I shut up and start moving.
First, Nadine takes us through some basic stretches. Her movements are precise and controlled; it’s clear she’s done them a thousand times before. When we’re warmed up, she tosses me a pair of boxing gloves and slides hers on.
“Let’s see what you’re made of, Greenleigh girl,” she says before shoving her gumshield on. Not a good sign.
She starts us off with jabs and hooks. No pad work to warm up, just punching and blocking. It’s fine—it’s good. It’s better for keeping sharp, and I’m not as sharp as I used to be.
Nadine, on the other hand, moves and hits with lethal precision, each strike deliberate and calculated. I follow her lead, learning her rhythm, finding my own. We pick up speed, then power, each blow a shock through my body.
Nadine seems to notice that I’m warmed up because she begins to throw kicks. Low at first, slow enough to block with ease, then faster, harsher kicks. I match her energy, picking up speed as she does, matching the force of my kicks to hers. The air in the gym grows heavy and tense as my lungs tighten around my breath. I inhale with each blow I throw; I exhale with each strike I take.
That’s when I realise I’m having fun. Not quite the same fun as fighting Luca, which is fun in the way I imagine getting hit by lightning is fun. Exhilarating, electrifying, terrifying. Fighting Nadine doesn’t quite scratch the itch, but it does tickle it.
And maybe I’m having too much fun because as soon as I get a little too confident with my kicks and my punches, Nadine reminds me of the difference between an amateur and a pro. She flips a switch, and suddenly she’s untouchable. She evades each blow, the fluidity of her movements a shocking contrast to the brutal intensity of the counters.
And that’s when my own flip switches. Mine is different from hers. Mine makes me tight instead of fluid, body hunched, guard high. I conserve my energy and my breath, I stand my ground and eat my punches, letting my body absorb the blows, striking only when I can. A pain tank, taking damage, biding my time.
Nadine throws a push-kick so powerful the impact resonates through my arms and into my entire body. I stumble back; it takes me three steps to right my balance.
“Shit, Nay-Nay,” I puff.
She spits out her gumshield and wipes the sweat off her forehead.
“You like pain or something?”
I laugh and bite off the straps of my gloves before tossing them aside.
“I didn’taskyou to beat me up!”
“That’s not what I mean. Why did you stop dodging? You took so many punches you didn’t need to.”
“That’s because sometimes it’s easier to take a blow than to block it.”
“Yeah?” Nadine laughs, takes a sip from her squeeze bottle, and tosses it at me. “Who taught you that?”
“My mum’s boyfriend.” I say it in a light tone before squirting water into my mouth. I drink and toss off my sweaty sweatshirt. “He was the kind of guy who wouldn’t stop hitting until the punch lands, if you know what I mean.”
I jump to my feet and put the gloves back on. Nadine does the same, glancing up at me as she does.
“Was your mum’s boyfriend a boxing coach?”
“Was he fuck.” I laugh, picturing Richard Thornton’s red fleshy face, his protruding gut and clammy hands.
Nadine narrows her eyes, purses her mouth, and then she puts her gumshield away in its plastic case. “Might as well teach you a thing or two, then.”
She runs me through some blocking and evasion drills, shows me a couple of clever ways to dodge into a kick or redirect a punch. She’s good at what she does, extremely sharp and quick, and she’s a good teacher, too, surprisingly patient. I realise I’mactually enjoying myself despite the amount of bruises I’m going to have when we’re done.
After the evasion stuff, Nadine moves us into some ground game, grapples and holds. Not my favourite, but Nadine’s expertise is too impressive to ignore. She effortlessly manoeuvres me into positions, and as she does, she explains how it works, the importance of leverage and technique.
“Like a chess match, but physical,” she says. “You have to know where you want to end up, and you have to know where your opponent is trying to end up.”
I try to pin her, but she throws herself away from me with my arm pinned between her legs. She pulls, and there’s a wrenching in my shoulder, and I say, “Whoa, Nay-Nay!”
