Mia Lytte's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Six a.m. came and went. Mia waited outside her building with her wraps in one hand and the dog's leash in the other. The basset hound sat on the sidewalk, ears in the dirt, watching nothing. At six-forty, Jake finally shuffled up the block. He wore yesterday's clothes. His eyes were half shut. He smelled like the bar where they'd met. "You're late," Mia said. "And you're drunk." "Hungover," he said. "Different animal." He squinted at the dog, then at her. "Coffee first." "No." She crossed her arms. "I have five days. I don't need a coach who can't stand up. Go home." He leaned against the brick and studied her. Something behind his tired eyes sharpened. "You want to quit before we start. Cute." He pushed off the wall. "Give me the leash." "Why?" "Because you're about to learn something." He clipped the leash to his own belt and handed her a pair of plastic zip ties from his jacket pocket. "Loop these around your wrists. Loose. Hands in front." Mia stared at him. "You're insane." "I fought hungover more times than sober. You think a real fight waits for you to feel good?" He pointed at the ties. "Do it. You'll fight with your hands trapped. Learn to move your whole body instead of swinging arms like a kid." She should have walked away. Instead she looped the ties and pulled them snug. Her hands sat locked at her belly. "Now hit me," he said. She tried. Her arms barely moved. She stumbled forward off balance. "See?" He didn't smile. He was awake now, all business. "Your power comes from your hips and feet. Not your fists. Drive off the back leg. Turn." She tried again. This time she twisted from the ground up. Her shoulder rammed his palm. He grunted, surprised. "There," he said. "That's a punch. Again." For an hour he made her throw shoulders and elbows with her wrists bound. The dog watched from the shade. Cars passed. Neighbors stared at the woman fighting a hungover man on the sidewalk. Mia stopped caring. Every strike felt heavier. Real. He finally cut the ties with a key. Her wrists were red. Her lungs burned. She'd never felt anything so exact in her body. "You reset your feet before you hit," he said, catching his breath. "That's why you fouled. You grabbed because your feet were wrong. Fix the feet, you never hold again." Mia rubbed her wrists and grinned. "You showed up drunk and taught me more in one hour than a week of videos." "Hungover," he corrected. Then he swayed. His face went gray. "I need to sit down." He dropped onto her front step and put his head in his hands. Mia looked at her coach, folded up and sick on her stoop. Four days left. She finally had someone who could teach her. Now she had to keep him standing long enough to do it.