She didn't want to engage. She didn't want to participate. "Come on, killer," Trent said, walking toward her. He tossed one of the red focus mitts at her. It hit her in the chest and dropped into her lap.
It was damp with someone else's sweat. Holland stared at the mitt. She felt a profound heavy resistance in her bones. She slowly stood up, picking up the pad. It felt foreign and cheap in her hands.
"Put them on," Trent commanded, sliding into a loose, arrogant stance, bouncing lightly on his toes. "I'll go 10%. Just hold them up at face level. If you get scared, just close your eyes. Holland slid her hands into the mitts.
The Velcro scratched her wrists. She raised her hands, setting them at a standard neutral height. She didn't say a word. She just looked past Trent's shoulder, fixing her gaze on a smudge on the mirror behind him. Trent began to move.
He was fast. Holland would give him that, but it was a chaotic, uncontrolled speed. He threw a quick jab cross combination. Smack. Smack.
The force reverberated through Holland's forearms, but she absorbed it effortlessly, shifting her weight half an inch to ground the kinetic energy through her heels into the mat. Trent frowned slightly. Most beginners got knocked off balance by his punches. Even when he pulled them, he assumed he just hadn't hit hard enough. A little higher, kid, he barked, tapping his own chin.
I'm not aiming for your chest. Holland raised the pads an inch. She was actively trying to look incompetent. She let her shoulders slump, her stance narrow and wobbly. She wanted this over with.
She wanted to go back to her empty apartment and sleep. Trent threw another combination, a double jab, followed by a heavy right hook. Smack, smack, crack. He put real weight into the hook. It was a bully's punch designed to intimidate, to jar the pad holder's shoulders, and assert dominance.
Holland felt the vibration shoot up to her collarbone. She let her left arm collapse slightly, acting as though the blow had overwhelmed her structure. She stumbled back half a step, biting the inside of her cheek. "Whoa! Hold your ground! " Trent laughed, looking over his shoulder at the other black belts.
A few of them chuckled. "You got to brace yourself. Put your weight into it. Okay, Holland muttered, her voice flat, devoid of any inflection. Let's try some kicks, Trent said.
Hold them together against your stomach. Holland brought the pads down, crossing her forearms over her solar plexus. She hated holding for kicks, especially from amateurs. They never had control. Trent stepped back.
He didn't bother setting up the strike. He just planted his left foot, wound up his hips, and threw a massive sweeping roundhouse kick with his right leg. Holland read the movement before his foot even left the floor. Hips are too open. Knee is swinging wide.
It's a baseball bat swing. No snap. The shin crashed into the pads. Trent had thrown it with at least 70% of his power. He expected to send the scrawny girl flying backward into the heavy bags.
Instead, Holland didn't move. In the fraction of a second before impact, muscle memory took over. Her brain bypassed her desire to play the victim. She exhaled sharply through her nose, dropped her center of gravity, and braced her latissimus muscles, creating an immovable wall of bone and tension. The heavy thud of shin on leather echoed through the gym.
Trent's leg bounced off the pads. He stumbled backward, his standing foot slipping slightly on the slick vinyl, struggling to regain his balance. A heavy silence fell over their corner of the mat. Trent's face flushed red, a dark, ugly crimson creeping up from his thick neck. He looked at Holland.
She was still standing in the exact same spot, the pads held securely against her stomach. Her expression was completely vacant. Though internally she was cursing herself. Stupid. Just fall over.
Now you've bruised his ego. I said hold them, not shove back, Trent hissed, stepping forward aggressively. I didn't shove, Holland said quietly. Don't talk back, he snapped. He was embarrassed.
An embarrassment in young men like Trent always metastasized into anger. He pointed a gloved finger at her face. Put them up head level. Now Holland raised the pads again. She felt a cold, hyperfocused clarity beginning to wash over her, chasing away the fatigue and the nausea.
It was the feeling of a switch flipping in a dark room. Jab, cross, hook, uppercut, Trent called out the combination. He didn't pull his punches this time. He was swinging with bad intentions, trying to break through her guard, trying to make her flinch, to make her cower. Smack, smack, smack, smack.
Holland caught every strike perfectly, parrying the force just enough to protect her own joints while letting Trent exhaust his shoulders. She was breathing evenly, a stark contrast to Trent, who was already starting to suck wind through his teeth, his movements getting sloppier, wider. "Hold them still," Trent yelled. Though she hadn't moved them an inch, he lost his temper. He abandoned the combination.
Instead of hitting the pads, he threw a wild looping overhand right, aiming directly for the gap between the mits. It wasn't a drill anymore. It was an assault disguised as a mistake. Holland saw the punch coming. It moved in slow motion.