Anne Lynn watched from the sidelines, sitting on exercise mats that had been stacked up high enough to act as a counter. Petite, had as much energy and optimism as an overflowing soda float had bubbles, always smiling, and I somehow couldn’t resent her her optimism. I couldn’t resent her for enjoying this little diversion.

“Two-three, two-one,” Ethan said, then while I was pulling back to launch into that, said, “Nevermind.”

“Nevermind?”

“Try to cut down on how long it takes you to act. I’ve seen you fight, I know you can do this instinctively, but I want you to do it instinctively while fighting better. Give me a two-one, again.”

I started—

“No. Stop. Instinct.”

“Instinct sucks.”

“Instinct keeps you alive.”

“Just—let me think on this. Let me do my thing.”

“Okay.”

I’d been through enough sparring lessons in my life. With my mom, with my dad, with Uncle Neil. My training sessions with Aunt Sarah had been more about flight and formation, or about problem solving. I’d run through a set series of movies for a video. I’d done a series of physical sparring tests when interviewing for the Wards program.

That was without getting into regular gym classes, regular training with the basketball team, track and field, after school activities my mom had had me do, clubs, and summer camps.

I’d been down this road a hundred times with a half-dozen different instructors or sets of expectations. People with something performance-level they wanted out of me that would try to teach, trick, bludgeon, or otherwise ingrain into me.

Every time I told myself I could be better there were common things I tracked, analyzed, and focused on improving.

Mental state. Footing. Breathing.

“Okay,” I said.

“One—”

Flight got me moving without needing to adjust my footing. Hand-strike, favoring the heel. I hit the bag.

“—three,” he said, at the same time the impact happened, switching it up.

I pushed away using the heel-strike, used flight to put just a bit more extra distance between myself and the bag, turned my head slightly, then launched forward again. My footing had been good as I landed, good as I launched forward, and flight just added to the velocity as I planted a heavy kick square in the center of the bag.

“Oof,” Ethan said. “I thought you’d stopped or backed off and wasn’t quite ready for you.”

“There’s a bit of that, isn’t there?” I asked. I smiled.

“Decent foundation,” he said “One-two?”

I hit the bag. Heel strike into elbow strike. A kick of flight sped up the rotation and close of distance. I winced a bit as pain shot through my tricep.

“See that?” Ethan asked Anne Lynn.

“It looks off, like I’m watching an animated fight and they missed something.”

“I meant your patient,” Ethan said, sounding amused. “She winced. Something hurt.”

“Tattler,” I mumbled.

“What hurt?” Anne Lynn asked.