CHAPTER EIGHT
“Are you sure about this?”
I watched uncertainly as Ty wrapped my right hand with a thin cotton band.
“Trust me,” he replied, not bothering to look up. “You’ll thank me for this later.”
I sighed and continued to watch as he meticulously worked the band. The stretchy fabric, wrapped around my wrist and then woven between my fingers, was taut and supportive, but not to the point where it constricted my circulation.
When he was finished, Ty secured the band and reached for my other hand. He gave it the same treatment, and then stepped back to admire his handiwork. He nodded once, satisfied.
“Follow me,” he called over his shoulder as he walked toward the back corner of the room.
When I decided to follow Ty into town, the old gym on Elm Avenue was the last place I expected to end up, but stranger things had happened, and it seemed a moot point to question his confident smile. So, despite how awkward I felt with my hands wrapped up like burritos, I dutifully followed behind him.
Half a dozen cylindrical black bags were suspended from the ceiling by thick metal chains. Ty walked among them, running his hand along the synthetic fabric, until finally selecting a bag toward the end of the row. “Here,” he said, handing me a pair of thick padded gloves. “Put these on.”
“More?”
Ty chuckled. “The goal is to blow off some steam, not break your hands.” He helped me pull the gloves tight and then wrapped the Velcro safety bands securely around my wrists. “All right, you’re good to go.” He stepped away from the bag. “Go ahead. Hit it.”
I eyed the heavy bag. “How’s this supposed to help again?”
“Just try it.”
I huffed but rolled up on the balls of my feet, the way I’d seen boxers do on television, and took a tentative swing at the bag. It was surprisingly satisfying. I took another swing.
“Keep your wrists tight,” Ty instructed over my shoulder. “It’ll give you more control.”
I adjusted. “Like this?”
“Exactly. Now, don’t be afraid of the bag. Really hit it.”
I nodded and took another swing, this one with more force. The resulting smack echoed in my ears. I hit the bag again. And then again.
“Maintain control of the bag. Don’t let it swing back and forth so much.”
I adjusted my stance again, following Ty’s directions, and threw another punch. And another.
Every time my fist made contact with the bag, it was gratifying, like taking a deep breath after being underwater. The tension drained from my body with every swing. Beads of sweat rolled down my spine, and the muscles in my arms were starting to ache, but I didn’t stop. Over and over, I hit the bag. The adrenaline coursed through my veins, forcing every ounce of frustration out of my body with each resounding smack.
I took another swing. Faster this time.
Another swing. Harder than the last.
Everything else faded away. It was just me and the bag.
It wasn’t until I was completely spent that I sank to the floor, my chest heaving, my arms throbbing and achy.
“Lainey?”
I swallowed hard, an ache settling in my throat.
“Are you okay?” Ty knelt next to me, a warm hand on my shoulder, his eyes full of concern.
“I’m fine.” He didn’t look convinced. “Really, I’m okay. It’s just . . . that was amazing.” I rocked back on my heels and looked up at him with a wide smile. “To be able to let go like that, to just take it all out on the bag . . .”
Ty nodded. “It sure beats yelling at guys you barely know in the parking lot, huh?” He winked at me, smiling.
I winced. “I’m really sorry. I don’t usually blow up like that, but things have been crazy lately and . . .”
“You don’t have to explain. I get it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah,” he replied, plainly. “I do.”
He didn’t bother offering anything else in the way of explanation, and I blinked, feeling slightly frustrated as I watched him walk back toward the bags.
For the last hour or so, I’d been trying to figure Ty out, trying to determine what was behind those piercing eyes and crooked smile. But every time I was close to forming some sort of conclusion about him, he would say something that would completely change my mind. I wanted to write him off as just some typical teenage guy with a cocky sense of humor and an affinity for dark-colored t-shirts, but it was becoming very obvious that this guy wasn’t as typical as I thought.
“So,” I asked, eager to keep the conversation going, “do you come here a lot?”
“A couple times a week.” He smiled again. “I help train some of the new guys, and Mike, the owner, lets me work out for free.”
“Oh, so are you like some professional fighter or something?”
“No, nothing like that.” Ty laughed. He got up and walked over to a red Igloo cooler and poured each of us a small paper cup full of water. “It’s just in my blood.” He handed me one of the cups. “My father taught me.”
I took a sip of my water. “And now you can kick butt and take names?”
He laughed. “Yeah, I guess. Something like that.”
“Want to show me some of your moves?” I nodded toward the bag.
Ty raised an eyebrow. “What for? You’ve seen me fight.”
“True, but come on,” I prodded, handing him the padded gloves. “Don’t all badasses jump at the opportunity to show off for a girl?”
Ty thought for a minute and then laughed. “Only for the pretty ones,” he said with a wink as he took the gloves from my outstretched hand.
The tips of my ears began to burn, and I gulped down another sip of water to hide the goofy grin on my face.
Jumping to his feet, Ty walked to the corner of the room and grabbed two cotton bands. He wrapped his own hands in record time and strapped the gloves securely to his wrists.
He stepped up to the bag and took a deep breath. He walked slowly around it, almost like an animal stalking its prey, his shoulders tensed in preparation. Then with another deep breath, he struck the bag.
I watched, awestruck, as he moved around it, his arms darting and swinging in perfect precision. His face was a mask of pure concentration, his eyes blazing with intensity. The muscles in his chest and back strained against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. His movements, though clearly practiced and purposeful, were full of power and intensity and looked almost graceful. The intricate patterns of his footwork and the staccato rhythm of his fists making contact with the bag were mesmerizing.
I knew nothing about fighting, what made someone good or bad, but from where I stood, Ty wasn’t just an amazing fighter—he was a force of nature.
I didn’t realize my mouth was hanging open until Ty delivered a final punch to the bag and whirled around to face me, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes shining and bright.
“Wow,” I managed to force out, snapping my lips back together.
Ty waved his hand in dismissal and walked over to the Igloo again and downed several cups of water.
“No, seriously.” I stood up. “That was amazing.”
He shrugged. “My dad was a good teacher.”
“I can tell. Does he still train with you?”
Ty’s face fell. “No, he, uh . . . he passed away.”
My stomach lurched, like someone had knocked the wind out of me. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”
“It’s okay,” Ty interrupted. “Really.”
I nodded, though I still felt like a jerk for bringing it up. “I am sorry though.”
Ty sighed and walked back toward the bag, placing his hands tentatively on the fabric, his face pained and thoughtful. I watched him, chewing my bottom lip and silently berating myself for bringing it up. His expression was one I knew well.
I wasn’t sure whether I should say something or just keep my big fat mouth shut. “It’s just my uncle and me,” I finally blurted out.
Ty turned his head, his eyes asking the obvious question.
“Car accident,” I confirmed. “When I was little.”
This time it was Ty who looked sympathetic.
“I don’t remember them much,” I continued softly. “But my uncle says that my laugh is exactly like my dad’s. And that I’m stubborn like my mom.”
A few long seconds passed by.
“He loved corny jokes,” I continued, not really knowing why. “And my mom was a really terrible baker.”
Holy shit, Styles. Could you have made things any more awkward? I looked down at my hands, heat rising in my cheeks. I stood up, trying not to meet Ty’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I told you that.”
“I’m glad you did.” There was something in Ty’s voice that made me look up again. He was still staring, but there was the hint of a smile across his lips. “My dad had a thing for 90s sitcoms.”
The look on his face resonated deep within my core, and I realized that what I heard in his voice, what I was seeing in his eyes, was something I’d never experienced with anyone before: understanding. I smiled back.
My heart was beating ninety to nothing, and I fanned my face with my hand.
“So the street fighting,” I said, wincing at the shrill squeak of my voice. “Why do you do it?”
Ty cocked his head.
“I mean,” I continued, seeing his confusion, “from what I just saw, you could kick someone’s ass in like five seconds. But back in the alley, you let them think they could win.”
“You think I was holding back?”
I rolled my eyes. “I heard you laughing.”
This time it was Ty’s cheeks that turned pink. “You heard that, huh?” He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh . . . would you believe me if I said it was fun?”
I pointed at the punching bag. “That thing made me feel like a million bucks, and while I’ve never done it myself, I can see how smashing someone in the face might be equally if not more satisfying.” I giggled at the sheepish expression on his face.
Ty cocked his head and moved to stand in front of me. “You know something, Lainey? You surprise me.” He quickly held up a hand. “In a good way, I mean.”
My smile grew bigger. I wasn’t offended at all. “I could easily say the same for you.” Flirting was not my forte, but somehow I was managing to hold my own. It made my stomach jump around like a game of double Dutch.
“Here,” Ty said, pulling my bundled hands toward him. “Let me.”
With nimble fingers, he expertly unwrapped the bands from my hands. My heart was already beating fast, but as his fingers skimmed my skin, it began to race.
“Thanks,” I said, when he was finished. “For bringing me here today.”
“Of course.” Ty’s voice was low, and it sent a shiver dancing across my skin. As I drew in a shaky breath, he reached out and carefully tucked a loose strand of hair from my ponytail behind my ear. His fingertips grazed my earlobe, and a sharp jolt of electricity shocked us both.
Ty jerked his hand away, and I reached up to smooth my hair. “Sorry about that,” I said. “Damn static cling.” I laughed, but the sound was all wrong.
Ty looked at me for a moment with wide, almost surprised eyes. Then a shadow crossed his face, and he stalked to the corner of the room where we had stashed our belongings. “I should probably be getting you back to school,” he called over his shoulder, not bothering to look at me again.
What just happened? I looked down at my empty hands—the hands that seconds before I had imagined entangled in the dark locks that now swept over his eyes. I was hardly an expert on guys, but I’d felt a connection with Ty, and from the look in his eyes, he felt it too. So what had gone wrong? The emptiness pounding in my fingertips was hard to ignore. Frowning, I shoved my hands in the front pockets of my jeans.
“Yeah,” I replied, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. I’ve got some studying to do, and Maggie is probably freaking out right now.”
I wanted to say something, apologize for making things weird if that’s what happened, but I had no idea what to say.
Ty turned to me, what looked like a strained smile on his face. “You ready?”
I nodded and followed him toward the door, my usual stress mechanism kicking in.
Awkward. Adjective. Meaning to feel displeasure or embarrassment; uncomfortable.
Ty didn’t say anything else, so when he held the door open for me, I let out a sigh and stepped into the bright sunlight.