I shot her a questioning look. “Tabitha. Do you know what happens in the Rocky movies?”

“No,” she said, dragging out the word. “I never saw them all the way through, but I don’t believe that’s a problem.”

I ducked my head on a laugh. “We’re going a little off script.” I held my palms straight out in front of me. “Do you want to do a punching drill?”

“You mean hit you?”

“Just my palms,” I said. “But you don’t have to.”

She chewed on her bottom lip. Raised her hands up and mimicked my pose. “Show me first?”

I reached for her wrists and very gently nudged them a few inches higher. I dropped into a fighter’s stance. There were times in my life when this pose was as easy as breathing and walking. Easier, usually, than talking to people.

Tabitha made me feel different.

“I won’t actually strike your hand, okay?” I threw a few simple straight punches toward her palms. A couple jabs. A cross. Her eyes lit right up as I did. I did half a minute of what would be considered a warm-up for a total beginner. It didn’t matter. My body still came to life with every strike.

“That looks fun,” she said.

I stopped, bouncing back on my feet. I cracked a smile. “It’s really fucking fun.”

She dropped her hands and made a very sloppy and extremely cute attempt at copying my footwork. “It’s like I’m a natural.”

I turned so we were standing side-by-side. “I imagine you’re very good at everything you try and do.”

“You’ve seen me run so…the answer is yes.”

I held my palms about a foot apart. “Separate your feet six inches, give or take.” I modeled the turn of my hips and shoulders. She studied me closely, rotating the shape of her body to match mine. “Are you right-handed or left-handed?”

“Right.”

I showed her how to hold her dominant hand back, weaker hand forward. Walked her through a basic straight punch and a cross. Then I fell back and examined her posture. “Not too bad. How do you feel?”

She scrunched up her nose. “Badass?”

I held up my palms. “Then show me.”

Her fist landed against my hand. “Good. Again. Try a cross this time.”

Like any beginner, her first few hits were lacking in confidence. But it didn’t take long until I could tell she was getting into it, getting into a rhythm that kept us quiet and focused for a few minutes. The air was heavy and humid, and she was clearly out of breath. Yet each time our eyes connected, she was grinning from ear to ear.

“You’re a pro already. Rocky Balboa ain’t got shit on you.”

“Yeah?” Her ponytail swished back and forth. “You’re not teasing me, right?”

I shook my head. “I’m being serious. You look real strong.”