firm on her feet, then I let my hand fall and my attention shifted.
The quarterback had taken a couple steps back. He was flexing his fingers into fists, rising up and down on the balls of his feet, preparing for a fight I was all too happy to supply him with. I lowered into a defensive crouch, raising my arms into a ready position. I almost felt bad for him, because he had no way of knowing how much training I’d had in hand-to-hand combat.
He was about to be rudely awakened.
I assumed he would try to tackle me, like he had in our last attempt at a fight. I assumed correctly. I could hear the girl behind me gasp and stagger back a couple steps when Micah lunged for me. It was an impressive show of his bulk, but it was a weak move. I leaned the upper part of my body to the side, caught one of his wrists and slammed my free fist into his unguarded stomach. He groaned and doubled over, which made it easy to finish throwing him over one of my bent legs. He slammed into the pavement, landing heavily on his side.
I didn’t straighten out of my crouch, but I did pivot so I could keep a full gaze on him. I couldn’t see the girl’s expression, but she was standing silent and motionless behind me.
Micah Grimshaw rolled slowly off his side, pushing up from the ground to regard me through smoldering eyes, his back to the wall. He was angrier than before but more cautious too. He realized I knew what I was doing, so he would have to be more calculative with his next attack. “Not bad for a sicko,” he panted. “Did Kate teach you how to stick up for yourself?”
I allowed a small mirthless grin to twist my face, and that silent reply was enough to resume the fight. He didn’t try to tackle me again but instead decided that a calmer, circling approach would be better. He was eyeing my arms with new appreciation, seeing the subtly bulging muscles he’d underestimated before. He still had the advantage of size and brute strength, but it was obvious in his motions that he wondered if they would be a match for my obvious skill.
We paced around each other, and I noticed that in each round he inched a little closer. He was going to try and limit my reaction time. It was a worthy goal but a wasted effort. When his fist flew suddenly toward my left temple, I was able to flinch back and slam one hard arm against his wrist, batting it harmlessly away from me. His other fist moved to smash against the right side of my face, and his knuckles managed to graze my skin before I swatted his blow away.
He was angry now—frustrated that he couldn’t hit me. He lashed out with more agility but less purpose. I continued to dodge and deflect his attacks, until the perfect opportunity to strike him arrived. His face was unguarded, and I made use of that by delivering a solid punch to his cheekbone. His head snapped around from the force of the blow, but the pain only seemed to make him more desperate to hit me.
He got his chance a few seconds later when his leg, which had been rooted to the ground up until this point, suddenly swung into the back of my ankles. I had no idea he knew how to use his feet in a fight, so the unexpected swipe served its purpose beautifully. My arms swung instinctively to help retain my balance, and his fist caught my jaw in a harsh uppercut. My neck strained back from the fierce punch and the girl let out a cry as the quarterback shoved me up against the wall.
By the time my head hit the wall, I was already gripping his arms, trying to pry him off me. He thrust his knee up, catching me in the gut. I grunted grudgingly, then curled one of my arms and sent my elbow into his chest. That propelled him backward, but he was still holding my arm, so I was dragged along with him.
I delivered a few staggering punches, and then I had
him
pinned against the wall, his nose bleeding. We were both breathing heavily, our hot faces mere centimeters apart. I was clutching a fistful of his shirt, bunched up harshly near his
The quarterback had taken a couple steps back. He was flexing his fingers into fists, rising up and down on the balls of his feet, preparing for a fight I was all too happy to supply him with. I lowered into a defensive crouch, raising my arms into a ready position. I almost felt bad for him, because he had no way of knowing how much training I’d had in hand-to-hand combat.
He was about to be rudely awakened.
I assumed he would try to tackle me, like he had in our last attempt at a fight. I assumed correctly. I could hear the girl behind me gasp and stagger back a couple steps when Micah lunged for me. It was an impressive show of his bulk, but it was a weak move. I leaned the upper part of my body to the side, caught one of his wrists and slammed my free fist into his unguarded stomach. He groaned and doubled over, which made it easy to finish throwing him over one of my bent legs. He slammed into the pavement, landing heavily on his side.
I didn’t straighten out of my crouch, but I did pivot so I could keep a full gaze on him. I couldn’t see the girl’s expression, but she was standing silent and motionless behind me.
Micah Grimshaw rolled slowly off his side, pushing up from the ground to regard me through smoldering eyes, his back to the wall. He was angrier than before but more cautious too. He realized I knew what I was doing, so he would have to be more calculative with his next attack. “Not bad for a sicko,” he panted. “Did Kate teach you how to stick up for yourself?”
I allowed a small mirthless grin to twist my face, and that silent reply was enough to resume the fight. He didn’t try to tackle me again but instead decided that a calmer, circling approach would be better. He was eyeing my arms with new appreciation, seeing the subtly bulging muscles he’d underestimated before. He still had the advantage of size and brute strength, but it was obvious in his motions that he wondered if they would be a match for my obvious skill.
We paced around each other, and I noticed that in each round he inched a little closer. He was going to try and limit my reaction time. It was a worthy goal but a wasted effort. When his fist flew suddenly toward my left temple, I was able to flinch back and slam one hard arm against his wrist, batting it harmlessly away from me. His other fist moved to smash against the right side of my face, and his knuckles managed to graze my skin before I swatted his blow away.
He was angry now—frustrated that he couldn’t hit me. He lashed out with more agility but less purpose. I continued to dodge and deflect his attacks, until the perfect opportunity to strike him arrived. His face was unguarded, and I made use of that by delivering a solid punch to his cheekbone. His head snapped around from the force of the blow, but the pain only seemed to make him more desperate to hit me.
He got his chance a few seconds later when his leg, which had been rooted to the ground up until this point, suddenly swung into the back of my ankles. I had no idea he knew how to use his feet in a fight, so the unexpected swipe served its purpose beautifully. My arms swung instinctively to help retain my balance, and his fist caught my jaw in a harsh uppercut. My neck strained back from the fierce punch and the girl let out a cry as the quarterback shoved me up against the wall.
By the time my head hit the wall, I was already gripping his arms, trying to pry him off me. He thrust his knee up, catching me in the gut. I grunted grudgingly, then curled one of my arms and sent my elbow into his chest. That propelled him backward, but he was still holding my arm, so I was dragged along with him.
I delivered a few staggering punches, and then I had
him
pinned against the wall, his nose bleeding. We were both breathing heavily, our hot faces mere centimeters apart. I was clutching a fistful of his shirt, bunched up harshly near his
Similar Books
