The Bet

24) Training

  "This is stupid," I pouted to myself, discretely putting less effort into punching the heavy bag I've been told to pummel.

"What'd you say?" Her melodic voice cut through the sound of my punches connecting with the bag, sounding way closer than I thought she was.

I immediately cleaned up my form.

  Miss Camila chuckled at my response, coming around the punching bag and into view.

  I, very bravely, stayed pouty while she watched me and my form — which is excellent, by the way.

  She rolled her eyes at my grumpy state. "It's called conditioning, Angel. Haven't you heard of it?" She supplied sarcastically.

  Her sass would have made me even grumpier, if her nickname for me didn't give me such a warm feeling and I wasn't the bottom bitch here.

"I know what conditioning is," I grumbled. "We've just been doing it for a week! It feels a little excessive," I complained.

I'm ready for something other than sprints, jump rope, and the bag. I'm ready to fight.

"You were out of the game for a month, Pretty Girl. Did you really expect to jump right back into it?" She argued as she grabbed me a towel once I finished my set.

I took it with a huff. "It's worked for me before. I've always been able to get back to the same level quickly, if not in a week, then certainly within two. That's definitely not going to happen going at this pace, though." I informed her.

She hummed. "Well I'm not trying to get you back to the same level, Angel. I'm trying to make you better."

  Ouch.

  I crossed my arms. "I was already pretty good," I mumbled.

  "I'm trying to make you great," she raised a brow, a warning brow.

  I can tell I'm pushing it with the arguing. She's not used to me being so impatient and confrontational, but my ego is hurt, and I'm tired, and cranky, and poor, and sparring will fix like eighty percent of that.

That's why I have to keep pushing. "Do you think you know what I'm capable of, and I don't? I know what to do and how to bounce back. I've done it like a million times!" My hands found their way to my hips as I glared at her, finally unlocking what has got me so worked up.

  She thinks she knows what's best for me, and I don't. I don't think anything makes me angrier.

  Miss Camila's jaw tensed at my tone.

  . . . But maybe I could have brought it up more gently.

  With a swift step, she closed the distance between us.

  I took a quick step back, preparing myself to make the split-second decision of running or fighting back in case of an attack, but instead of having to go through with either, she took a calming breath and locked her gaze on mine, poising herself to talk about it.

  I immediately felt like there was a hole right in the middle of my chest. What kind of psycho would jump to the conclusion I just did about someone they're interested in?

  Fortunately, instead of falling into any rabbit holes about it, I was distracted by her unfortunately melodic voice. "I think you're focused on getting that money back fast, instead of getting better safely."

I fought the urge to roll my eyes, because I'm angry, not stupid.

"I think you're thinking about Mikey's future while hitting that bag, and I'm thinking about how you're going to get destroyed if that's what you're distracted with in the ring. I think you don't care what happens to you in that ring, and I do, and I think all of that qualifies me to have an opinion." Her frown and volume grew, and the muscles in her shoulders, exposed by the sport's bra she's wearing, tensed by the end of her spiel.