by Jesse Jordan
“How important is footwork and technique to you?” Christina asks as we head downstairs. “I thought boxing was all about power, but watching you practice, it's not quite that.”
“Not at all. Yes, I have high power, but I would prefer to not get hit. Footwork and speed make a big difference in that,” I answer her as we go behind the mess hall and head towards the gym. “What about you, do you play a sport?”
“I swim,” Christina says, a little shyly. “I do okay.”
“Then you understand that technique is as important as physical ability,” I tell her. “Today, I will explain as I train, let you understand more. Have the pictures proved useful?”
She blushes slightly, and I have to smile a little. “I do not mean it in any way that might be embarrassing, Christina. I am merely interested in your artwork.”
“It's not very good,” she protests, then stops. “When I'm finished, I'll show you.”
“I would appreciate that.”
We reach Arvin Gym and I start my training. I walk her through the drills I am doing, explaining how each is useful in different situations. Christina watches, and her questions are intelligent and show an understanding that most women do not have. I try to ask questions back, I want to be friendly, but she is very reserved, not showing much about herself. As I promised her, it is a short workout, only about forty five minutes, and as we walk back, she is still full of questions.
“So when you pivot on your right foot though, aren't you sacrificing your power and position to your opponent?”
“It is a calculated risk,” I reply, smiling. This is not my seductive smile, but a genuine one. I like Christina Logan, even if she is one of those women that my superiors say I should not spend my time on. “The pivot puts me in a position my opponent may not be expecting, and it switches my feet. They may not be expecting a punch from such a position. And an unexpected punch always hits harder than one that you can prepare for.”
The sun is mostly down when we get back to the barracks, it is relatively late into the evening, and the sky is a beautiful shade of orange red that I enjoy. Christina stops, looking back behind us at the way the sky is lit up. “Wow. That's just... there's a lot of ugly things at the Academy, but there is color and beauty if you look hard enough.”
I do not think the comment was meant for anyone else to hear, but still, it is loud enough that Jeff Douglas, another one of the Cows, overhears. He laughs cruelly as he walks by. “Like you'd know.”
Christina turns her head, and I can see Jeff stop, raising his eyebrow. He is my platoon sergeant this semester, he does have some power and is now afraid to throw it around. He looks at me, then at Christina, and smirks, cocky. “Well, at least you've found someone to tolerate your ass.”
I know Christina should say something back. But, she again does not, instead shutting herself inside. I am tempted, but I know that he would most likely write me up for something, he is the sort of person who would use his power in cruel, bullying ways if the opportunity presented itself. Jeff walks away, and I look at Christina, whose face is stony, not the pretty, wondering face I saw just minutes ago. “Wait.”
“What?” she asks, turning back to me. “I really should get to work on my engineering homework. I'm not very good at math, and need the extra time.”
“I understand, but still, wait,” I reply. “It is past dinner time, yes? So, that was my fault, I let my training extend too long. So come, let us go have a sandwich or pizza at Grant Hall. Please? My treat.”
Christina's face opens again, and her smile warms me inside. “O… okay. You have money on you?”
“I carry my wallet all the time. Old habit from home,” I answer, giving her another smile. “Come, Christina Logan. Teach me more about American food.”
She chuckles and we go to Grant Hall. Inside, we order our food at the little store there, and sit down at one of the tables. I have a hamburger, some milk and an orange, while Christina has just a salad and some iced tea in a bottle. “Is that all you are eating?”
“I didn't do too much today, and I can afford to work on my figure some,” Christina says. “You, on the other hand, look very familiar with American food.”
“It is one of the good and the bad things about living here. In the Ukraine, getting McDonald's would be considered a luxury that only happens once in a while. Here, it delivers to you,” I answer, chuckling. “Terrible hamburgers though. Grant Hall does much better, I think this is real beef. I am not so sure about McDonald's.”
Christina laughs and starts her salad, while I eat my burger. As she does, she keeps glancing at my orange and milk hungrily, until I take it and tear it in half, handing her the wedges. “Here. You are not very good at hiding your hunger.”
“Thanks. You know Ivan, that's something I've noticed about you. You have nearly perfect English, but you don't use contractions. You are instead of you're, things like that. Still, it's impressive, I doubt I'd ever be that good at Russian or Ukrainian,” she says, continuing on with her salad. “How'd you learn so well?”
“I was very motivated. This sort of opportunity is the first of its kind to my country. I did not wish to pass it up. As for contractions, it is more pronunciation than anything else. I find that Americans understand me better if I do not use them. May I ask you a question?” I ask her, while finishing off my burger and popping a wedge of orange into my mouth. At home, oranges would be treats, yet Americans pass up delicious things like this for pre-processed crap food in foil wrappers. Why?
“Sure, I guess,” Christina says, sipping her tea. “About swimming?”
“That, and more,” I say, finishing my orange and drinking half my milk. I love milk, again, why Americans waste their money and calories on so much Coca-Cola is beyond me. “Why did you not stand up for yourself when Jordan and Jeff said things today?”
Christina chews her lip, it is cute, and finally shrugs. “I guess I just don't see it as worth my time. I cannot change their opinion on me. Besides, after two years of things like that, I'm tired of trying. I mean, Jeff's one of the guys that Major Franklin likes, and Jordan's pretty, a studette athlete. I can't compete with that.”
“I think you can, and you should. You know, back home, your roles would be switched.”
“How so?” Christina asks, smirking. “Are Ukrainian academics that different from American that I'd be the one with good grades while they suck?”
I shake my head, wondering how to phrase this. Ah well, I shall have to go with my gut. “If I may be brutally honest. That, by the way, is my weakness it seems. I have not yet figured out how to 'play the social game,' at least among cadets. I do not care, I know my strengths and weaknesses.”
“No wonder everyone thinks you're arrogant,” Christina says, smirking. “But I don't think you're trying to be. And what are my weaknesses and strengths?”
“I think you underestimate yourself, you let the words of the other cadets impact your view of yourself,” I tell her. “It gives you stress, and you have internalized some of what they have said about you. It is like weights on your ankles and in your mind. You struggle to fully express yourself to others here at West Point because you now unconsciously think you will be ridiculed.”
“And I'm the psych major,” Christina says with a laugh. “You have good insight, maybe even better than my friend Karli. And what are my strengths?”
“You notice the sunsets,” I reply with a smile. “I need to get to know you more to be able to say anything else. If you would give me the time.”
“I... I think I'd like that,” Christina says, slightly blushing. “Uh, you mean like date?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I have a hard time having stable relationships,” I tell her, not wanting to hurt her. “But we can be friends regardless, yes?”
“Yes,” Christina says, her brown eyes twinkling. “Thank you, Ivan. You just made friend number two for me here.”
“And you have made friend number one. May I tell you something, as a fr
iend?”
“Sure,” Christina says, gathering up her garbage and putting it on the tray between us. “What's that?”
“I said that you and Jordan would find yourself in different situations in my country. This is very true. Skinny stick girls are not considered all that special where I come from. A man would rather take pleasure in a woman with good child-bearing hips who can give him strong babies. You would make a man in my country very happy.”
“Child... excuse me, Ivan,” Christina says, and I realize I have insulted her. Oh dammit, I forgot. That is another euphemism for fat girl in America. Dumb stupid Ivan! “I think I need to get to work on that engineering paper.”
I get up from my chair, holding out my hand beseechingly. “Wait, Christina. Please. I did not mean to hurt your feelings.”
Christina nods, saying nothing, and throws away her garbage, leaving me standing in Grant Hall, feeling like a damned fool. Smooth, Ivan, real fucking smooth. The first time I have a one on one meal in America with a woman that is not a target for seduction or future fucking, and I screw it up.
Stupid fucking Russian idiot!
Chapter 5
Christina
“He actually used the term child-bearing hips?” Karli asks, trying not to laugh. Sandi's on duty tonight, so I've got my room all to myself. I finished my homework an hour ago, and I just need time to destress. Karli and sketching are great ways to do that.
“Yep,” I tell her, my pencil not stopping. For some reason I'm working on a picture of Ivan boxing, even if I am upset. Right now though I'm just working on his figure, I can fill in the rest later. “Apparently, I was born in the wrong country, I'd make men in the Ukraine go ga-ga over me.”
Karli laughs finally, unable to hold it back, and I can't help it, I smile. “It's not the smoothest pickup line I've ever heard,” she says once she can speak again, “but at least he doesn't sound like a fucktard.”
“No, not one of those. Certainly a bit socially awkward at times,” I respond, working on the line of Ivan's back in my picture. I want this one to be more realistic than my normal human figures, to show his natural power without needing to inflate his already large muscles any more than they already are. “He did say he meant no insult, and I think he wasn't lying. My BS meter is quite sharp.”
“You gotta be to survive in our position,” Karli comments. “So... I've seen him around here when I've visited. He's cute.”
“In that Russian giant blonde ubermensch sort of way,” I admit, and Karli gives me a raised eyebrow. I set my pencil down and close my book, shaking my head. “Okay, okay. He's cute. I wouldn't quite put him in Chris Hemsworth territory, but yeah, he could easily play the Thunder God for a cadet production of The Avengers.”
“Uh-huh,” Karli says, her eyebrow ratcheting up another fraction of an inch. “And you've taken a hundred pictures of him just because. So... how big's his dick?”
I blink, and Karli's smirk turns into a grin as I turn red. “Karli!”
“Hey, he's hot. I'm getting about as little as you are, so I gotta ask. If I can't get laid, I can at least hold out hope that my best friend has a chance at some hot Eastern Euro stud,” Karli says, laughing. “Anyway, speaking of Eastern Euro, I've got history to review for tomorrow, so I'll make my exit. Say, Ivan lives down the hall, right? I might be able to accidentally stop by his room. Maybe he likes nerdy chicks with acne scars and glasses as much as swimmers with child-bearing hips?”
“He's near the stairs,” I tease. “Thanks, Kar. I always feel better after talking with you. You know, you could go see Gene Bunche, his roomie. He's as low on the social totem pole as either of us, maybe even lower than Ivan.”
“We'll see. Losers of the Corps, unite!” Karli cheers, thrusting her fist in the air and grinning behind her glasses. “Check you later, chica.”
Karli leaves, and I think about what we said. I do think Ivan was trying to be nice, he was certainly giving me his version of a pep talk. And he wasn't that far off on his insight, he's smarter than a lot of people give him credit for. I guess a Ukrainian accent and lack of contractions lets a lot of people sell him short. I decide to see if I'm right. Ivan told me to be more confrontational? I can start with him.
I'm still a bit nervous as I approach him room, but the door's open, and I see Ivan sitting at his desk, trying to work his way through a text book. I knock, and out of the corner of my eye I see Gene look up, surprised. “Hi. Ivan, you busy?”
“I have time to talk,” Ivan says, glancing over at Gene, who pulls a set of noise canceling head phones over his ears. Gene's a serious gamer, probably why his academic grades are so terrible. “I suppose this is about what I said?”
I nod, coming over and sitting on his footlocker. “Yeah. I don't think you meant anything by it, but saying I have child bearing hips is kinda insulting, you know.”
“I know. It was not what I was trying to say. I just meant that the people you consider pretty may not always be seen that way by everyone else,” Ivan says. “It would be nice if you were more confident in yourself, that is all.”
It's not an apology, or at least he isn't saying he's sorry. I think it's another example of how people assume Ivan is cocky or arrogant. But I see something else in the way he's talking. He's being efficient. He'd rather explain what he meant, and then do things differently in the future instead of wasting a ‘sorry.’
“Well, I'll see what I can do,” I tell Ivan, getting up. As I do, I see his eyes flicker to my body, and I wonder... is he really checking me out? I haven't had a guy check me out in a long time, not that way at least. Actually, for most of the past two years and some change my only consistent date has been Frankie Fingers in the shower. But Ivan looks like he'd be interested in seeing what's under my PT shirt and pants. My belly twisting, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and head to the door. Before I leave, I stop and turn back. “By the way, I won't be able to come see you train on weekdays any more. The intramural swimming season starts in January, and the Brigade Open's right after that. I was a finalist last year, and maybe... well, you won a Brigade title, why can't I?”
“Why can't you?” Ivan asks, smiling and trying to copy my words. “Good luck with that. Would you be opposed if I watched you train as you have watched me?”
“Just no photos,” I tease, smiling. “I don't need my butt in a swimsuit as your laptop wallpaper.”
The first smell that hits me as I step into the Intramural pool area is the chlorine. It is a smell that I've always loved. It wasn't until my Plebe year though that I tried competitive swimming and found that I really enjoy it.
I jump in, wishing I could use the competition pool, but the swim team's got practice today, so I'm in here. I start off easy, with a nice breast stroke to stretch out my legs and shoulders and back before I go into my real work.
I start with backstroke, simply because it's my best stroke, and I can breathe more easily with my face pointed upwards. I make sure to draw big breaths as I go, I don't want to gas out too quickly today. It's been too long since I really got some serious swimming in, and I am still building my swimmer's endurance again.
After two hundred meters of back stroking, I hang onto the side of the pool and run through my training plan in my head. I'm strong in the back stroke, but this year I want to do better in the 200 IM, which means I've got to get my butterfly stronger. I've also got to get my crawl speed better, because last year I couldn't close the gap on the eventual winner.
So I start with the butterfly, working fifty meter distances. It's probably the hardest part about training for the Brigade Open as opposed to intramural swimming. Intramural races are done in a twenty five meter pool, and people who know how to push off the walls do a great job. But the Brigade Open is done on the international fifty meter course, just like the Olympics, and that screws with a lot of people's style.
I get through my butterfly work and switch to breast stroking, recovering before going into crawls. I'm just about done with my
form work when someone jumps into the pool next to me, not with a graceful dive but with something akin to a cannonball. “Hey!”
“Sorry, I just had to when I saw you stop,” a familiar voice says, and I can't help but gawk when Ivan turns around, grinning. “Do you mind if I use the lane next to you?”
“Ivan? But what... shouldn't you be boxing?” I ask, hanging onto the wall as Ivan comes over, smiling.
“I completed my work today, and I wanted to do extra strength and conditioning work. So I decided to swim. It is very good for fighters to swim, you know. Great work for the lungs, and it strengthens many of the same muscles that I use in the ring. Shhh... my secret weapon.”
I can't help but grin back, and nod. “Okay. Well, I was about to do sprint intervals, so you might have to take your time warming up, but yeah, that'd be nice.”
“We shall see, pretty Christina,” Ivan says, adjusting his goggles before pushing off the wall and stroking powerfully, if a little inefficiently, down the pool in a crawl stroke. Wait, did he just call me pretty?
For another thirty minutes we push each other, and I realize that even though he's not as good a swimmer as I am technique wise, Ivan's stronger and longer, each of his powerful strokes more than making up for my edge in style. I'm being forced to push myself hard, and when we finally finish up by doing side by side 200 IM practices, he still stretches out enough that he touches before I do, a triumphant grin on his face. “Wow. You pushed me very hard.”
“You... should... be the one.... to talk,” I gasp, grinning foolishly even as I hang onto the lane rope, my lungs on fire. “Are you sure you shouldn't be doing swimming instead of boxing?”
“My times are not good enough for the real swimmers, I have too much mass to be competitive beyond the sprints,” Ivan says, shaking his head. “Besides, it does not speak to my spirit. I know the demon inside me, Christina. It is not sated with chlorinated water, but with blood.”
