Balancing Act (Noah/August)

Self-defense. The perfect pacifist fallback plan.

At least that’s what I thought before I learned from the trainer just now that sometimes, a good self-defense means a good offense. Therefore, we are sparring.

This isn’t my first rodeo. Yesterday, I exchanged blows with Andromache, the hot redhead sociopath from one. Maybe some people wouldn’t call that failed couple of missed hits a fistfight, but I am doing it, because I sure as hell don’t want to be in a match with one of these Careers without any experience to speak of.

As the trainer demonstrates a few critical stances and moves (that I really wish I had known yesterday), I listen intently, arms crossed over my chest. The boy he’s explaining everything to is a buff-looking guy with super glossy dark curly hair– Noah I think, from Two. Noah mirrors the trainer’s movement with impressive precision; that practiced eye of someone who is accustomed to instruction like this.

I watch with a mixture of admiration and envy at the way he copies everything so perfectly. His body moves smoothly into the perfect stance for grappling with the trainer, in one motion, almost like a dancer. Meanwhile I’ve spent so much of my lifetime bent over a workbench, I bet my joints would squeak like creaky old door hinges in comparison. I think I’ve already developed a neck hump. This guy’s posture is movie-star grade.

The longer I stand here watching him, the more uneasy I feel. His level of focus is way beyond anything I’ll be able to achieve. I can tell from the look in his eyes that this guy has what it takes to win all of this. And that is very bad news for me.

But when he’s the one in the ring staring back at me, I see kindness in his eyes, even as he readies his stance to fight. Kind and serious. It’s almost worse. Because then it becomes a contest of who deserves to win more–me or him? A flash-forward scene plays in my mind, the two of us encountering each other in the arena.

I want him to be my friend.

I’ll need to fight him instead, just like this.

I stare back, swallowing hard. He nods at me.

”I’ll go easy on you,” I joke with a sideways smile, meeting his eyes. It’s obvious that I’m joking, right? Please don’t break all my bones before the Games, I’m thinking, looking at his huge biceps.

I approach him in two strides; all I can manage is a half-hearted uppercut. It misses–I’m not sure I wanted it to connect?--and the force of my own punch throws my body sideways.

”Any advice for a beginner?” I squeak hopefully, pulling my elbows inward to protect my ribcage from the inevitable.