Hard Knocks by Zoe Sharp Page A

and stomach with his arms tensed through the straps on the back. He was leaning hard into it, feet braced wide apart. Everybody stopped and watched as the big man moved forwards to take his first swing.
     
    Hofmann smiled very slightly, and hit Blakemore with an explosive uppercut that compressed the thick foam pad almost to its fullest extent. It was a testament to the instructor’s upper body strength that he didn’t so much as shift his feet under the onslaught. Even though he rocked back from the force of the blow and let out a grunt of effort.
     
    Hofmann looked vaguely disappointed, a frown creasing his brow as if he couldn’t compute why the other man was still standing. When someone the size of Hofmann hits you, you generally fall over and stay down.
     
    By comparison, Shirley – who was next – barely made a dent in the pad. Blakemore grinned at her.
     
    I turned my attention to the row I was in. Ahead of me, McKenna flailed wildly at the pad O’Neill was holding, to greater noise than effect. When he’d exhausted himself it was Jan’s turn.
     
    She stepped forwards and I noticed O’Neill’s attention was elsewhere, that he was more interested in what was happening to Blakemore. I don’t know if Jan saw this, but she hit the pad low and right, at a point that corresponded almost exactly to the area I’d seen O’Neill favouring when Blakemore had been playing with him. She was only slightly built, but somewhere along the line she’d learned how to punch, keeping her wrist locked straight, putting most of her body weight behind it.
     
    O’Neill wasn’t prepared for the force of the hit. It rocked him. He had to take a step back to counteract it, to regain his balance. I saw the surprise and anger in his face.
     
    As she walked to the back of the line Blakemore called across, “Hey – Jan, isn’t it?”
     
    She paused, turned.
     
    A smile spread across his face as his eyes flicked to his fellow instructor. “Nice punch,” he said.
     
    Jan nodded briefly and as she turned away she was smiling, too. She knew, I realised, that O’Neill was injured and yet she’d deliberately set out to hurt him. What does that say about you? I wondered. What makes you tick that way?
     
    I was still mulling that one over when it was my shot. O’Neill eyed me warily, but I made sure I produced a suitably lacklustre blow.
     
    He treated Jan’s second turn with caution, too. This time she throttled back so that he nearly over-compensated for her unexpectedly feeble fist. That didn’t serve to endear her any more than the harder blow he’d clearly been expecting.
     
    It was only as we finished up the class, when O’Neill handed his pad back to Blakemore, that he touched a hand to his side. He pulled a face as he moved his fingers gently, like he was testing a tender area of skin.
     
    “You all right?” Blakemore asked him, although there was no concern in his voice.
     
    O’Neill let his hand drop away. “I’m fine,” he said shortly. “Just fine. Leave it.”
     
    With a brooding stare, Blakemore watched him walk out of the gym and vanish in the direction of the instructors’ quarters.
     
    As the rest of us milled out into the main hallway Major Gilby put in an appearance. He informed us, to varying shades of dismay, that we’d each have to present a short talk to the rest of the class that afternoon.
     
    “And what would that be about?” Declan asked.
     
    “I would suggest that it has some relevance to the course you’re on,” Gilby clipped, with a fraction of a smile. “Some modern or historical event that illustrates close protection in one form or another. I want to see your take on the job. There have been plenty of assassinations or attempted assassinations to choose from. Look at all the political hits that have taken place over the past fifty years – Sadat, the Kennedys, Earl Mountbatten.”
     
    He dropped the last name in with a flickered glance at Declan, as though the