Sparks in the Ring

Jorie staggered backward, her feet slipping on the mat as she flailed to regain her balance. "Whoa, whoa, WHOA!" she yelped, her arms windmilling wildly before she toppled onto her butt with an unceremonious thud.

Owen leaned against the ropes, struggling to contain his laughter. "And here I thought you were aiming for the punching bag, not the floor."

Jorie shot him a glare from where she sat, dusting herself off. "It's harder than it looks, okay? The bag swung back at me!"

"It's a punching bag, Leonhart," Owen said, crossing his arms and grinning. "That's kind of its job."

"Oh, shut up, Knight," she muttered, climbing to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed, but Owen couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or exertion.

"Alright," he said, tossing her a towel. "Let's try this again. And this time, maybe don't let the bag win."

Jorie caught the towel and threw it over her shoulder. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Maybe a little," Owen admitted with a smirk. "But in my defense, you're the one who decided to challenge physics in a fight."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the faint smile tugging at her lips. "Whatever. Let's go again."

Owen stepped up, adjusting the bag so it hung steady. "Okay, stance first. Feet apart, knees slightly bent. And don't close your eyes when you throw a punch this time."

"I wasn't closing my eyes!" Jorie protested.

"Yes, you were," Owen said, raising an eyebrow. "You looked like you were bracing for an asteroid to hit you."

"Fine," she muttered, taking her stance again. "This time, no blinking. Got it."

Owen stepped back, motioning for her to start. "Alright, give me three quick jabs. Let's see that research pay off."

Jorie inhaled deeply, then fired off three punches in rapid succession. The first two hit the bag solidly, but the third went wide, and her momentum spun her around like a clumsy ballerina.

"Graceful," Owen teased, clapping slowly.

Jorie planted her hands on her hips, glaring at him. "Are you just here to make fun of me, or are you actually going to help?"

"Hey, I'm helping," he said, holding up his hands defensively. "But this is a lot more fun than I expected."

"Well, at least one of us is having fun," Jorie grumbled, leaning against the bag to catch her breath.

"Come on," Owen said, grabbing a pair of focus mitts from the rack. "Let's switch it up. Maybe aiming at something that doesn't swing back will help you stay upright."

"Gee, thanks," Jorie said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she slid on her gloves.

Owen slipped on the mitts and held them up. "Alright, aim here. Left jab, right cross. And remember, it's about speed and control, not just power."

Jorie took her stance, her brow furrowing in concentration. She threw a quick jab, followed by a cross, and Owen nodded in approval. "Better. Now keep going. One-two, one-two."

As she picked up the rhythm, her punches became sharper, more focused. But just as Owen was about to compliment her progress, she threw a wild uppercut that narrowly missed his chin.

"Whoa!" he yelped, stumbling back. "Easy, Tyson! I'm not the enemy!"

Jorie froze, her eyes wide. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry! Did I hit you?"

"No, but I think you just shortened my life by a few years," Owen said, lowering the mitts and giving her a mock scowl. "You trying to knock me out or what?"

Jorie bit her lip, trying not to laugh. "Maybe you should've ducked."

"Maybe you should aim," Owen shot back, but his grin gave him away.

As they reset, Jorie couldn't help but laugh under her breath. Despite the bruises to her ego (and nearly to Owen's face), there was something oddly fun about all of this.

"Alright, Leonhart," Owen said, stepping closer. "One more round. Let's see if you can throw punches without trying to decapitate me this time."

"Deal," she said, grinning. "But no promises."

As the two squared off again, Jorie felt a flicker of confidence. She wasn't perfect—far from it—but she was getting better. And if nothing else, she'd found someone who could match her banter punch for punch.