"In your dreams, lass. Get them hands up!"
It went on like this for some time. Occasionally the kickboxers would glance over at us. Once I slipped on my own sweat, and Jacky thankfully paused and called for one of his towel boys who hustled over and wiped down the mat.
"You sweat like a man," said Jacky, as we waited. "I like that."
"Oh?" I said, patting myself down with my own towel. "You like the sweat of men?"
He glared at me. "My wife sweats. It's exciting."
"Probably because you don't. She has to make up for the two of you."
"I don't know why I open up to you," he said.
"You call this opening up?" I asked. "Talking about sweat and boffing your wife?"
"Consider yourself privileged," he said.
We went back to boxing. We did two more three-minute rounds. Near the end of the last round, I was having a hell of a time keeping my gloved fists up, and Jacky didn't let me hear the end of it.
When we were done, Jacky leaned his bulk against the taut ropes. He removed the padded gloves from his hands. The gloves were frayed and beaten.
"Second pair of gloves in a month," he said, looking at them with something close to astonishment.
"I'll buy you some more," I said.
"You're a freak," he said. He studied his hands. They were red and appeared to be swelling before our very eyes. "You hit harder than any man I've ever coached or faced. Your hand speed is off the charts. Good Christ, your form and accuracy is perfect."
"Except that I drop my hands."