#15 from “Prompts, I guess” by @flashex3410 and @dazednerd
15. I just punched you in the face and you’re flirting with me?
Left jab, right cross, jab again, quick right hook. Repeat. The bag rocks slightly in front of me as I pound my bright turquoise gloves into it over and over. I always choose the red bag that reaches the ground in my gym’s “Fit Pit” because it doesn’t move as much as the others. Knowing me, I’d get hit by the bag’s back swing; I know it’s supposed to help you with rhythm, but meh.
Switching my combo to include different hook levels, I barely notice when someone joins me in the Pit. I can see him stretching in my peripheral vision, but I’m focused. Earbuds blast “White Flag” by Bishop Briggs through my brain, part of my Heavy Hitters playlist to get me in the right mood for beating the crap out of the bag. Thoughts focus on pushing all my frustration and angst from the day into the steadily increasing dent in the Title logo.
So when I feel a hand on my shoulder, I don’t really think - I just react. Dropping my left shoulder down, I spin on my right foot and bring my hand across and connect with an unsuspecting jaw. The guy’s head rocks back and to the side with a short cry.
“Shit!” I exclaim when I realize I actually hit a person. “I’m so sorry! You scared the shit out of me! Are you okay?”
Rubbing his bruised jaw - and possibly ego? A girl can hope - he replies with a grin, “Nah, I’m fine. I deserved it.”Â
Only a handful of inches taller than my 5′6″ height, he’s dressed in loose blue gym shorts and a black muscle tank top. He’s built without being huge; well-defined muscle lines his arms and legs, and it’s the right amount to fit his frame. A lot of the guys around here are trying to bulge out of their clothes, which might work for some people, but when your bicep is as big as my head, it’s not much of a turn-on for me.Â
His face is no disappointment either. Dark hair, bordering on slightly shaggy, frames green (or maybe hazel...) eyes and a sharp nose. Nice cheekbones. Strong jaw. I wince at the bruise beginning to show like a five o’clock shadow.
I start as I realize I’ve been staring. Meeting his eyes, I clear my throat. “Did you, uh, need something?” Real smooth, there, hon. Oh well, he’s prettier than you are, anyway.
“I was just gonna ask if you had the WiFi password, but I think I’ll brave the data usage,” he chuckles. “That was a nice cross. Have you been boxing long?”
“About a year or so? Nothing professional, just personal training here and there.”
“Maybe you could give me a few pointers?” he asks with crooked smile.Â
What is it about half-smiles that are so...I don’t know, endearing? Is that the right word? I looked over as his bag, taking in the wraps, gloves, knee pads, and other boxing paraphernalia. “Yeah, looks like you need the help.”
“Well, at least let me buy you a cup of coffee. For scaring you,” he clarifies at my quizzical look.
“Wait,” I say, “I just punched you in the face and you’re flirting with me?”
“Yeah.” He smiles fully. Dammit, he has a dimple on the right side of his mouth. “My name is Blake.” He extends his hand for a shake.
Smirking, I hold my still-gloved hand out for a fist bump. “I’m Amber.”
His grin widens and he knocks his knuckles into the padding. “Nice to meet you, Amber.” Reaching for his own gloves, he asks, “Want to show me that right cross again?”
Oh, this is going to be fun.
“Bring it,” I say, settling into a ready stance. Who knows? Maybe I’ll at least get a sparring partner out of it.
