Senseless

canoodle

Nash's lessons continued for days. I could feel myself getting stronger and quicker, my reflexes honing in to the point of almost never getting hit. It was easy to tell that he threw punches fast, but wouldn't actually hit me. Kind of annoying, really. We both refused to talk to one another. I wouldn't acknowledge his presence unless it was during a lesson, and he returned the favor. I liked to think it was driving him insane, but I knew it wasn't. He acted perfectly fine, with Blair making daily visits to his house and leaving looking quite flustered. I almost cared.

On Friday after cheer practice, I looked in the mirror and let out a breath. I'd dressed up every day only to have the look ruined by cheer and the lessons. Nash didn't call it boxing or wrestling. All he said was fighting. I think it was just a mixture and he didn't really put a name with it.

Maybe boxling. I'd talk to him about it.

That is, if he ever acknowledged me. Even in practices, very few words were spoken. He seemed perfectly content to ignore my presence. We'd spar, and he'd help with the bag and form and all that jazz, but he didn't speak at all other than that. It made me realize how little I knew about him and his life. He could probably figure almost everything out about me just by having one conversation; I was an open book. He was the exact opposite.

If I wasn't quite intrigued before, I was then. It seemed so easy for him to be in silence. He owned it, too, like he was in his element by not speaking. His dominant aura was enough without him speaking, really. It could make even the strongest, most unfeeling person feel uncomfortable.

On my way to the gym, I saw him in his driveway on the phone. It made me think of the night I'd heard him talking in Italian to that man. Shaking my head, I finished the ride and walked into the gym. He was obviously still at home, so I just went in and wrapped my hands. I hated wrapping them, because I preferred being able to actually feel when my fists hit the bag, but I'd usually start by wrapping and just take them off somewhere along the way.

I began warming up and stretching. I didn't suppose stretching was a must, but he was taking a while. After I finished, I began throwing crappy, not-trying punches at the bag. He finally showed up and cocked an eyebrow at the small hits.

"Really?"

"What took so long?"

"We don't really have a designated time," he shrugged. We didn't establish one, but we just always got there around the same time. "Don't just swing. Actually put some force behind it."

"No, really?" I gave him a flat look.

"And don't turn your body to the side when you punch." I sighed and did as he told, actually trying with my next hits. "Quit tucking your thumb." I did so, not even realizing that I was doing it. It didn't hurt while you punched, but it caused some bruises that would hurt later. "Did you warm up?"

"Yeah," I panted out in between punches. Since it was Friday, I put more force and stress and annoyance into it today. After all, I had a whole weekend of stress-free time, so I might as well get all of it out for the week. He watched silently and began warming up, doing extra things like pushups and sit-ups. I whirled around and planted a kick I'd learned in cheer on the bag.

"That was new," he commented.

"Yeah," I said again, putting all the strength I had into hitting the bag. I'd had quite a stressful week, really. Since my little revenge act on Monday, everyone had been gossiping more than anyone would ever expect. I knew if someone who didn't draw as much attention to themselves had done what I did, it would have been the topic of conversation for only a few seconds. It was aggravating that they would cram a whole weeks worth of gossip in at any chance they got.