Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t doing the same. His jeans are loose enough for him to have free movement but too tight to hide the rock-solid piece of meat that poked my ass yesterday. Training with a belly full of butterflies isn’t making it any easier.
Somehow, after putting far more effort into this training than I have, Arthur stands strong. Not a single ragged breath or drop of sweat drips from his brow. The only sign I can see from this session is a tuft of his brown hair drooping over his forehead.
He's a machine while I’m huffing lungfuls of air through my nose and mouth, with stars in my eyes from utter exhaustion. I spent years running sprints in high school and college, but nothing could have prepared me for the physical toll our session would bring.
“Almost, but remember, you aren’t trying to hit the pad. You want to smash through it,” Arthur says, patting his padded hands together with three satisfying thuds. “Do it like this.”
He starts slowly, adjusting his body from the receiver’s to the fighting stance. Gloves are above his face, and his massive hands bend the thick padding into half fists.
I gulp at the way his eyes shift from good-spirited trainer to stern killer intent. Their softness engulfed by razor focus and an unnerving stare. He bounces on the balls of his feet, bobs his head side to side, and every muscle in his body tenses as he cocks his shoulder.
It’s an awe-inspiring sight to behold but also deeply terrifying.
A short ha kicks off his action. He snaps his arm forward in front of me. It cuts through the air with no resistance, and a blast of wind blows against my face. He follows with an immediate second punch from his other hand and, like the first punch, displaces the air in my direction.
Good Lord, I wouldn’t want to be hit by that. I can see the brutality in those fists, the pain they can inflict. And for the first time in all my life, I’m not repulsed by it. I’m drawn closer, like a moth to a flame. Intrigued and a little aroused.
Maybe more than a little aroused.
“I don’t think I could do that, even if I wasn’t all out of steam.” I’m still fighting to steady my breathing. If I tried to mimic what he’d just done, I’m pretty sure I’d fall over.
“Need to take a break?” The tension in his body drops, his hands falling to his side. And that killer look shifts back behind a soft smile.
“A few minutes.” I came out here with the intention of standing my ground and showing Arthur I’m not the big softy he thinks I am. Well, I was wrong.
“I’ll grab you a drink. Take a minute to relax, and when you’re ready, we’ll do some groundwork.” He spins on his heels to the camping table Father set up for us.
He pours two tall glasses full from a pitcher, and ice cubes clink against the sides as they fall into their new vessel. I’ve never been more thankful for something to drink.
“Small sips,” he says, handing me a glass. “You’re doing well. Keep it up, and you’ll be cracking skulls like the best of us.”
“You think?” I take my first of four small sips. I don’t bother with another quirky quip about how that’s not what I want to do. I might as well drop the pretense of being a humble helper while I’m doing this whole thing. Knowing how to fight doesn’t have to change who I am inside.
“Yes. You’re a blank canvas. No experience means no bad habits to unlearn. It’ll take time to perfect, but you’ll get there quick.” He swallows most of his glass in one big sip.
I wish I could do the same. But I take my small sips, one after another, to avoid spewing my breakfast over the lawn.
“Have you done a lot of this?” I ask. It’s half to make small talk but also out of curiosity. I don’t know much about the man in front of me, and if we’re going to spend the next few weeks together, I might as well try.
“Sure.” He turns his head away from me, and a brief flash of sorrow darts across his eyes. “A lot of good folks had to learn how to fight or die, and I had to be their shepherd.”
“Was it hard?” His cryptic response brings more questions than answers, but something tells me that’s how he wants it to be.
With a smile and a shake of his head, Arthur finishes the last sip of his lemonade and reaches for mine. “I’ll answer you, but not now.”
“Then when?” I furrow my brow in false frustration, taking one last sip before handing him my glass. I can almost hear the words out of his mouth before he says them.