opponent. Though he slows down his speed for instructional purposes, I can tell how tight and precise he remains, even after a decade out of the ring.
“Begin,” Snow barks.
Tristan and I circle each other. Tristan has a decent stance, but he’s slow and hesitant.
I snap out a lightning-fast jab to his face. He fails to slip the punch. My glove connects with his nose and his head snaps back. He stumbles back a step, shaking his head. A fine thread of blood dribbles down over his upper lip. He ignores it, continuing to circle.
Now it’s his turn to jab. He punches out, straight and true, and I slip it easily, responding with an even harder jab to his lip. Tristan grunts, the lip splitting and beginning to bleed as well.
This happens six or seven more times.
I become infuriated that he’s failing to block my punches, and I jab him harder and harder. I’m annoyed that we’re paired together because it’s ludicrously easy to avoid his blows, not a challenge at all. I up the speed of the exercise, until he’s dizzy and stumbling from a dozen direct hits to the head, while he’s failed to strike me even once.
Finally he can’t even keep his hands up, and I hit him with a hard right cross that knocks him on his ass.
“STOP!” Snow shouts.
He stomps across the mats, jaw set and eyes blazing.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands.
“A left jab counter,” I reply. “Exactly as you said.”
“That was a right cross.”
“He’s not keeping his hands up. He needed a reminder.”
“Do you think you’re in charge of discipline in my class?” Snow says, standing only an inch away from me. We’re almost exactly the same height— though he’s ten or twenty pounds heavier—so we’re eye to eye and nose to nose.
“You said everyone here should be experienced. He’s not even in my league.”
“You think you’re better than him?”
“I know I am,” I say, barely holding back a laugh. “I’m better than everyone here.”
“Everyone?” Snow asks, his voice low and dangerous.
I realize too late what I implied. But I won’t take it back now. Maybe I am better than this washed-up has-been. He’s got to be in his mid-forties at least, maybe even fifty. I’m twenty-one years old and a physical specimen. I think I can take him.
“Maybe so,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
“Let’s find out,” Snow says softly.
Instinctively, the rest of the students form a circle around us, giving us plenty of space.
I face the old boxer without fear, only keen interest.
I’ve always believed I could beat anyone in a fight. Perhaps it’s time to prove it.
Everyone is watching: Leo, Ares, Ilsa Markov—Vanya Antonov with ill-disguised malice. He wants me to lose. Fuck him and fuck this teacher.
“Begin,” Snow says.
I attack hard and fast, ferocious and unafraid. I’ll show the old man what I’m made of. I’ll remind him what youth looks like.
I throw a flurry of punches directly at his face, the fastest combinations to ever leave my gloves.
Every single one misses.
It’s like Snow has turned to rubber. His hulking frame dips and glides with eerie speed, slipping away from me like oil on water. His feet are a blur of motion, his body tight and precise as he rolls his shoulders. My blows glance off, even ricochet. I can’t land a clean punch, not anywhere on his person.
It’s a nightmare. All my strength and speed evaporates in the face of his skill.
He’s not even trying to hit me back.
With a grunt of rage, I attack him even harder, sure that if I redouble my efforts, something has to hit. I’m panting and sweating, because this is the secret of boxing: the most exhausting thing you can do in a fight is throw a punch and miss. Impact rejuvenates; punching air will suck the life out of you.
I’m trying to speed up, but instead I’m getting slower and clumsier. Despite countless hours of running and jump rope and bag work, I’m tiring, I’m actually tiring. This has never happened to me before.
And still Snow hasn’t thrown a single punch.
He waits until I realize the awful truth: I’m about to lose.
Then he goes to work on my body.
He hits me with tight, hard punches that feel like rocks propelled into my sides. I know he’s holding back, using only a fraction of his strength. And yet the air grunts out of me, forced from my lungs by the relentless impact.