Fighting For Hope

Chapter Three

"Don't let your guard down"

—

HOPE'S POV

Unease chose to coil in my stomach, depraved and eager. As I looked into the eyes of Tyler Rivera, it became suspense.

I was led to a dissimilar surrounding after we were dismissed from school a few minutes ago. Malaise crawled discreetly into my chest. It was as if someone was spying me.

"Can you help teach me how to fight?" he requested. The fragile silence cracked with the sound of his voice.

My expression had immediately changed to incredulity. Disbelief caused my hands felt frosty like in a blizzard. Why did Tyler pick me to teach him how to fight? I knew he was wealthy since students frequently conversed about it. He could just hire a personal boxing trainer.

"My father signed me up for this fighting competition, which would take place next week. Though I could barely punch," he explained sheepishly. "I just need the cash."

"Besides, you can improve your skills if you are willing to teach me too. It's just for a week." The boy was persuasive. "You don't have to speak either, just use actions."

"I won't bother you after." It must have held significance for him to be so indefatigable and assiduous.

It was a short week. And Tyler was right. There would be an enhancement in my skill if I coached him. I will hold a more significant advantage over my stepfather. Still, every situation had its cons. It will cause a difference in our relationship and may result in trust and all things parlous.

Just seven days.

"I can help you with something too." Despair revealed on his face.

Sliding out a piece of paper and a black pen from my pocket, I hesitated. Then, I urged myself to scribble down a few words.

"In thirty minutes, I would expect you to be where we met the day before." My handwriting was curved.

I offered it, then made myself scarce. I hope I will not feel repentant about the decision made.

I departed home before leaving for the gymnasium. I made an effort to arrive earlier. Though I mastered to disregard the nasty opinions of others, first impressions still counted.

I started without Tyler. Shifting my body weight to my right foot, I came close to the punching bag and swung my fist horizontally, then delivered some jabs as the bag started swaying. I moved back while the bag closed the distance and ended with a sidekick when I saw a silhouette enter the room. My eyebrow quirked disbelievingly. He was the last person who I believe would appear ten minutes early, equipped with a book and pen.

It was impossible to denigrate his effort. It made glee swell in my chest in a fulfilling manner.

"I brought my car along. I can give you a lift after," he suggested. I did not turn him down.

The continuous flow of time ushered us to our current situation, where Tyler displayed an arrogant expression after learning how to perform a jab.

I gestured for him to conduct the move, which he promptly responded to by moving his left foot in front of his right. He placed his elbows in place and extended his right arm in a prolonged rate. When he punched, his limbs unconsciously moved. The punch was weak, and the punching bag barely budged.

He then switched his stance and extended his left arm.

It was impossible to win a competition with such low standards. A jab might be a basic move, but it could still affect Tyler's future opponent. It pestered me to know he could not do it accurately.