I step into the cage, jumping up and down and stretching my arms. The canvas feels solid beneath my feet. Mac is a granite statue in a gray tee and sweats, his arms extended, holding the thick, padded focus mitts up like shields.
"Is it him on the phone?" Mac asks, his eyes focused.
"Nope, it's Cici," I say.
"Okay."
I move with the predatory grace of a coiled spring, my feet shuffling a quick, hypnotic rhythm against the canvas. Every strike is a thunderclap. The left hook cracks into the mitt with a sound that echoes like a gunshot, followed instantly by a sharp, whipping right cross. My brow is slick with sweat, but a fierce, almost joyful grin is plastered across my face.
"What, she wants to take you to a strip club again?" Mac asks dryly.
I throw a double jab followed by a textbook right uppercut before saying, "It only happened one time, and I regret putting my eyes through that."
Mac chuckles, a brief puff of air.
