[i]"Did it ever occur to you that I like to hit the gym too you little snipe?"[/i]

-Is what Jordan thought in his head. This kid might not know it, but he had balls, being so standoffish when Jordan was just trying to help. The gym teacher hadn't enjoyed his bouts of counselling prep for this job, and had often fallen back on his prior training in the military, but he now found himself straining to remember what he'd been told to do in situations like this. It was difficult to tell whether that comment had been motivated by hatred, or hurt, or exhaustion. All he could scrounge up was the unhelpful [i]"Try to make a connection with the student, and build bridges." And how the hell do I do that? This kid's a pyromaniac when it comes to burning down bridges![/i] Jordan decided to go with the middle play, and go from there. 

Jordan tore a chunk of banana bread from the loaf, and extended it in offering to the student. "I forgot my manners, but what's your name? In case you missed it earlier, I'm Jordan."

Jordan waited for him to either accept the bread and respond, or do the cliché thing and bat it out of his hand like a child. And once the piece of bread was in hand or on floor, Jordan continued.

"I was having trouble deciding if you really were as angry as you said you were, and appeared to be, but now I'm thinking I'll stop analyzing you, and just ask you. What's wrong? Was I really so far out of line, trying to help you with your punches? I get not wanting to be pestered sure, but from one man to another, what's a helpful word of advice?" 

Jordan decided to leave him with that, and, needing to work out a little stress himself, jogged over to the storage room and dragged out another bag. He hung it, steadied the mass of sand, and smiled to himself. He took a breath, clenched his fists tight, and then relaxed his fingers slightly. His feet naturally slid into place, giving him a solid footing, so that when he bent his knees, it was as though he'd settled into the perfect place to throw a punch. [i]Far too formal for a real scrap, but definitely ideal for training, and certainly helpful for getting into the right headspace.[/i] Jordan drew back his arm, and then let it come back to his side, his breathing in sync with the arm movement, and he did this two more times. On the third draw, he activated, like a shot from a gun. The air whooshed out of his lungs, and his fist collided with the bag, in a single instant the energy of his arm driven through his shoulder taken from his core fed up from his legs which were rooted to his well-planted feet on the gym floor. The sound of a [i]THOOMP![/i] echoed through the gym, and the bag rattled on the chain, bouncing and shaking slightly. 

Without missing a beat, Jordan had drawn his arm back to his side and thrown a second punch with his off-arm, the sound not quite so loud, but still clear. He punched, and punched, and punched. The sand yielded far quicker than stone, and his calloused knuckles thanked him for that, but Jordan laughed wildly, and punched more and more. His punches were like thunderclaps, he felt his whole being concentrated on that small two by four centimetre space, a weapon of pounds per square inch that could level a man. The years melted away, and Jordan could remember the glory days as though he were living them. His squadmates were laughing, clapping him on the back, and he heard the pounding of the guns, the screeching of jets overhead, and most of all, he remembered the covert operations in exotic lands, where he'd cursed any god that came to mind, all while being a mere handsbreadth from discovery, only to receive the signal and let bloody havoc loose. It was heaven. It was hell. It was happin-

Jordan's knuckles clicked as he hit the sandbag, now solidified to stone, and he saw his own bag was smeared with streaks of crimson. He stopped, breathing hard, sweat trickling down his face, and rose out of his stance. His blood was up, but in a flash, the years came back, he remembered his injury, nothing as simple or matter-fact as creaking knuckles, nothing anywhere near as mundane as that. The time settled down onto his shoulders again, and he felt exhaustion rear its head for the umpteenth time that day. [i]Am I getting old? ... Nah, I'm just getting overexcited.[/i] Jordan cracked his knuckles, and turned on his heels, fetching a pail of water, some soap and a rag from the office. He set about wiping down his bag, changed it back to sand, and dragged it back to the storage room. He squeezed the rag out, and wiped his face. If the student had stayed, Jordan would pick up his banana bread, polish off the last few bites, and nod to him, before going back to his office. His notes weren't quite ready yet. Sleep could wait another half an hour. 

[@Zelosse]