Blaze

Thirty-Eight; James

The sweat slides down my brow, a drop of the salty liquid breaching my lashes and burning my eye. My chest is heavy, my breathing fast, shallow and labored. The lactic acid in my muscles exceeds my body's limits, and my aching hamstrings and quads beg for a break. But I still don't stop.

I run far past my five mile goal. I run past the half-hour limit on the gym's treadmill. I run in an attempt to escape the tension that has taken residence in each of my muscles and to tame the herd of thoughts stampeding through my mind. But it's not enough. So I don't stop.

I switch playlists and turn the volume all the way up. I run as hard as I can, trying to lose myself in the beat, but it doesn't work. My body is exhausted, but my mind is still racing. Running is too easy; I need something that takes focus.

I move to the punching bag, carefully wrapping my hands before I start methodically striking the leather-covered sandbag hanging from the ceiling. I focus, starting out with a simple 1-2 jab-right cross combination. Then a jab-jab-cross, followed by a jab-cross-left hook. After a brief warm up, I add uppercuts and move on to more complicated combinations.

My mind starts to wander and I imagine Blaise in that tiny skirt and knee socks. I shake my head and focus on my footwork in an attempt to remove her from my thoughts. I take care to move my feet between each combination, but for no more than three seconds before I punish the bag again. I remind myself to stop and plant my feet before I throw the next combination of punches. I practice several more times. Move, plant, punch, punch, punch. My muscle memory takes over, and my mind starts to wander again.

What if I had said yes? What if I had kissed her? What if I had stayed? Would she still be in my head?

I'll probably never know now. She has avoided me all week, coming into the office late or calling in sick to deal with a "personal emergency", and I don't know if it's because she's embarrassed after Friday night, if she's purposely distancing herself, or worse, there's something seriously wrong.

My fists hit the bag with a thud, letting me know I'm distracted, growing tired and lazy. I'm pushing with my shoulders more than punching with my fists, so I focus on my form. I relax my shoulders and strike quickly, the collision of my fist with the heavy bag now snapping instead of thudding, and smile in satisfaction.

I continue until the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and a tingle races up my spine. I get the feeling I'm being watched, so I turn and my gaze immediately crashes with hers.

Lightening.

It's like an electric current moves between us. I can barely see her face under the shadow cast by her baseball cap, but I can see enough to notice her blue eyes widen. She hesitates and takes a quick look over her shoulder, like she's considering turning back, but after a moment sighs and nods her head toward the bag hanging next to mine.

"You want some company? I really need to kick the shit out of something." It's the last thing I expect her to say.

She pulls out a roll of tape, sits on the floor, and methodically wraps her hands. I watch her fingers work as she slowly wraps the tape around her left wrist. The confidence and competency of her movements suggest she's done this before.

"You box?"

She looks up at me and grins and my heart stops again. Fuck. This is stupid. I should leave.

"A little." She stands and turns to drop the tape back in her bag, and I notice the black spandex leggings for the first time. Maybe I can stay a few minutes.

"What are you working on today?"

She shrugs. "Nothing in particular. I just want to hit something." She turns and executes a nearly perfect jab-jab-cross-uppercut combination. She takes a step back and finishes with a powerful roundhouse kick. The strike of her heel on the bag causes a small cloud of dust to disburse in the air. I whistle.