Kyle is starting to piss you off. He's going easy on you. You can tell. You've seen him in the field plenty. You know he's holding back. It's so frustrating. You're not a civilian. You are more than capable of taking a real punch and not being a little bitch about it. You find yourself going a bit too hard on him during training. Sending the poor bloke away with a bloody nose and a limp more than once. And he still wouldn't hit you back properly.
Then you saw him with Johnny. It was the same. Half hearted hits. If he ever won the spar it would be by taking the scot down in the least damaging way possible. He would do it with Price too. So you came to the conclusion that he just didn't want to hurt his teammates. His friends.
But then you watched him fight Ghost. Neither of them held back. It was brutal. Gaz stumbled away with a bruised eye and a satisfied ache in his muscles that he never had when sparring the others. You didn't understand it. Did he hate Ghost or something? Did he hate you?
"Fucking hit me proper, Garrick." You snarled. Darting forward and nearly crying out in frustration when he dodged your jab again. He'd spent the whole spar dodging away from you and it was pissing you off.
"Hit me proper you fucking coward."
You rushed him again, only to be taken by surprise by a fist connecting to your cheek. Sending you stumbling backwards with a gasp. Eyes wide as you stared at Kyle, who immediately looked guilty. Hurrying to cup your cheeks.
"Fuck, love I'm so sorry..."
You gripped his wrists and twisted. Sending him to the floor and pinning him down.
Turns out, it was. He didn't fight back. Just laid there. Staring up at you. At the blood dripping down your chin. Your cheek already starting to swell. Out of breath and messy. He ached in his pants just picturing the dark bruise that would form over the next few days.