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As Luca’s leg swings through the air towards my ribs, I effortlessly block him again and lift my hands to redirect his jab and cross. But once again, when I see his glove moving towards my head, I fight every urge to step backwards and escape it. I raise my hand at the last moment, redirecting his jab and willing my feet to stay put.
But they don’t.
I step back as I block his cross, and then another step back when he comes in with his hook.
“Ty, why are you stepping back?” Max’s voice sounds from the side of the ring again. “You’re giving him an edge, keep your feet planted. You know this.”
I do know this. I know it all. I’ve done this exact drill thousands of times before, and I’ve blocked and redirected countless hits in fights and spars. I know how to do this.
But as I look into Luca’s eyes again, something almost like worry is staring back at me.
Because it’s not rust causing my missteps.
It’s fear.
Fuck.
THREE
“So, I think it all comes down to one simple question. High or mid kick point?”
Luca unlocks his apartment door and I push past him, unable to keep listening to his long, drawn-out answer to a question I never asked him. I’m pretty sure he’s talking about a hockey stick he wants to buy, and I’m trying my best to ignore him.
“And I could alter the kick point with my hand placement on a mid kick point stick,” he says thoughtfully as he opens the fridge to get dinner ready.
I drop onto the couch and rub my forehead, blowing out a breath of frustration. And not just because Luca has been talking about sticks for thirty fucking minutes, but because of what happened tonight. I’m disappointed, angry… confused. I managed to get through our drills, blocking and redirecting everything I needed to, but it was messy, disorganized, and there were times I almost felt like I wanted to leave the ring. And that feeling scares me more than anything.
“But you know what? A low kick point is better when I want a quicker release.”
I turn my head to look at Luca in the kitchen, nodding to himself as he reheats the leftover lasagna from last night. He hasn’t said anything yet about how our drills went tonight, but I know it’s coming. After Max left to work with Noah, Luca suggested another kicking drill and then called it a night, forgoing the flow drill. And I both hate and appreciate that.
“Considering it’s a rec league, I’m not exactly firing those sick one-timers from the top of the circle, you know? So, I think for now, a high kick point is out.” Luca walks over to the couch, handing me a plate of lasagna.
“Thanks,” I murmur, taking it as he sits beside me with his own plate.
He eyes me as he takes a bite. “You haven’t told me to shut up.”
“Want me to?” I ask, bringing my eyes down to my lasagna.
And to my complete fucking surprise, he doesn’t say anything and we just eat in silence.
For a brief moment.
“So…” he trails off, eyeing me again.
I just shake my head and keep my attention on my dinner, not wanting to go there.
He huffs. “Ok. Well, I know what I saw, and–”
“No you don’t,” I snap, shooting him a glare.
Luca cocks an eyebrow and just stares back at me.
I sigh, pushing my lasagna around with my fork. “I just need to get my head back in it. I’ve never been out of training this long, I’m just… rusty.”
He nods thoughtfully, turning back to his plate. “Alright.”
I glare at him again, as he clearly doesn’t believe me.
