"Whoa! Hold your ground!" Trent laughed, looking over his shoulder at the other black belts. A few of them chuckled. "You got to brace yourself. Put your weight into it."
"Okay," Holland muttered, her voice flat, devoid of any inflection.
"Let's try some kicks," Trent said. "Hold them together against your stomach."
Holland brought the pads down, crossing her forearms over her solar plexus. She hated holding for kicks, especially from amateurs. They never had control.
Trent stepped back. He didn't bother setting up the strike. He just planted his left foot, wound up his hips, and threw a massive, sweeping roundhouse kick with his right leg.
Holland read the movement before his foot even left the floor. 'Hips are too open. Knee is swinging wide. It's a baseball bat swing. No snap.'
The shin crashed into the pads. Trent had thrown it with at least seventy percent of his power. He expected to send the scrawny girl flying backward into the heavy bags. Instead, Holland didn't move.
In the fraction of a second before impact, muscle memory took over. Her brain bypassed her desire to play the victim. She exhaled sharply through her nose, dropped her center of gravity, and braced her latissimus muscles, creating an immovable wall of bone and tension.
The heavy thud of shin on leather echoed through the gym. Trent's leg bounced off the pads. He stumbled backward, his standing foot slipping slightly on the slick vinyl, struggling to regain his balance.
A heavy silence fell over their corner of the mat. Trent's face flushed red, a dark, ugly crimson creeping up from his thick neck. He looked at Holland. She was still standing in the exact same spot, the pads held securely against her stomach. Her expression was completely vacant, though internally she was cursing herself. 'Stupid. Just fall over. Now you've bruised his ego.'
"I said hold them, not shove back," Trent hissed, stepping forward aggressively.
"I didn't shove," Holland said quietly.
"Don't talk back," he snapped. He was embarrassed, and embarrassment in young men like Trent always metastasized into anger. He pointed a gloved finger at her face. "Put them up. Head level. Now."
Holland raised the pads again. She felt a cold, hyper-focused clarity beginning to wash over her, chasing away the fatigue and the nausea. It was the feeling of a switch flipping in a dark room.
"Jab, cross, hook, uppercut," Trent called out the combination. He didn't pull his punches this time. He was swinging with bad intentions, trying to break through her guard, trying to make her flinch, to make her cower.
Smack, smack, smack, smack.
Holland caught every strike perfectly, parrying the force just enough to protect her own joints while letting Trent exhaust his shoulders. She was breathing evenly, a stark contrast to Trent, who was already starting to suck wind through his teeth, his movements getting sloppier, wider.
"Hold them still!" Trent yelled. Though she hadn't moved them an inch, he lost his temper. He abandoned the combination. Instead of hitting the pads, he threw a wild, looping overhand right, aiming directly for the gap between the mitts.