Blue Moon #3 (Story of Us Series - Into the Blue) - Sydney Jamesson Page 0,11
options. “Which will it be?”
He stutters, “But … but it looked like you and your mate were out partying…”
“Yes it did, and the two most important words in that sentence are, ‘Looked like.’”
“So you’re not fucking around?”
“Jamie!”
His mouth twitches. “So it wasn’t for real?”
Oh fuck. What the hell.
“It wasn’t for real. Just DON’T ask me about it or say another word, or I swear to God I’ll call you a cab and throw you in it myself. Am I making myself clear?”
He raises his chin. “Absolutely.”
“Good.” I shake my head and exhale loudly, putting a stop to this inquisition once and for all. “Put the head gear on. Based on your form so far and your inability to defend yourself, I’m about to hit you.”
He pulls it down over his Mohican haircut and fastens the chinstrap; his flattened fringe almost covers his eyes.
I rest a gloved hand on my hip. “Are you planning on feeling your way around?”
He wrinkles his nose and pushes his fringe aside. “No. I can see you fine now.”
“Really? And what can you see?” I tip my head and wait for his answer.
“I see a guy who loves his wife and wants people to think he’s fucking around for some crazy reason.” His mouth becomes a half circle, following the line of the chinstrap.
“Good. Beth’s fine. Our marriage is fine. That’s all you need to know.” I raise my gloves showing him that I’m about to start. “Do the gloves feel okay? Are your thumbs out of your fists?” I bang my gloves together, causing a smacking sound to echo around the room.
“Yes. They feel okay.”
I pause to ask, “Do you want to wear a mouth guard?”
His blue eyes widen. “Why? How hard are you planning on hitting me?”
Damn kid.
“I’m not planning on hitting you, but I just thought it might make it impossible for you to speak.” I give him a wink and take up my position. “Let’s concentrate on your movement to start with. Hold up your hands and try and block me. Once I have an idea how well you move, we can take it from there.”
He raises his hands as high as his elbows.
“When you see my arm move, like this, anticipate where the glove will land and block it. Okay? Protect your face and your head.” I arc my arms in front of me for him to observe the movement. On his face I see total concentration.
“Now that you have the hang of it, I’ll speed up. Keep breathing and find your rhythm. That’s it.”
For fuck’s sake. If I moved any slower I’d be stationary.
We keep at it for a couple of minutes. I throw weightless punches and he raises his arms to block them with his gloved hands. It isn’t until a minute in I notice that he’s fixed to the spot. “Why the hell are your feet glued to the floor?”
“Because you said to move my arms. You didn’t say anything about my feet.”
“I didn’t think I’d have to.” Seeing as we’re standing here doing nothing, I scratch the side of my head with my glove. “You really have no idea, do you?”
“You only just worked that out? Why do you think I’m here—for your charming company?” He rubs at his nose with his gloved wrist.
He makes me laugh out loud. “How the hell have you managed to get to fourteen and not learned to defend yourself? It’s unheard of.”
“Just unlucky, I guess. I don’t have a dad giving me any lessons, my sister has asthma and my mum’s too tired to fight when she gets home from work. Why do you think I like photography so much?”
“So you can hide behind your camera?”
“Right.”
I tap his right side with my left glove. “Come on, let’s start over.” Even though I barely touch him, he winces and straightens himself out quickly, disguising his pain. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing.” His cheeks flush to the colour of his gloves.
I place my left hand under my right arm, grip the glove and release my hand from it, to lift up his T-shirt. To my horror there are two or three nasty bruises; orange-sized shadows, outlined in blue and yellow. “How did you get these?”
He shrugs his shoulders.
I lower his T-shirt gently. “Did they knock you down, then kick you while you were on the floor?”
That’s what it looks like to me.
He hangs his head in shame. “I didn’t even get a punch in.”
My hand fits back into the glove snugly. “Does your mum know?”