Chapter 13

Training Camp – Day 9

We all know what's coming before Styles even walks through the door. I don't know if that makes it better or worse. Combat. The last time we were thrown into it, it had been a disaster for most of us. It definitely had been for me.

When Styles strides in, he looks the same as always—sharp, calculating, already a step ahead. We stand to attention automatically. He doesn't need to tell us. The unspoken rules have been drilled into us by now.

"Back to combat today," he announces, pacing slowly in front of us like a lion stalking its prey. "Last time, most of you made a complete fucking mess of it. Sloppy footwork, slow reactions, weak blows." His eyes flick across the group, stopping momentarily on Hawkins, then Fairley, before finally settling on me. I don't look away. He smirks, like he knows I won't. "You're all better than that now," he continues. "At least, you should be. So today, let me see some improvement."

He leads us back out into the parade square. I remember the humiliation I had felt the last time I was here. Styles was just a stranger back then. I suppose, he still is. But now I know what to expect from him, it seems a little less intimidating. Not any less scary, just different, I guess.

Styles begins to lay out the drills. The first half of the session is technique-focused, refining everything we fumbled through last time. He's stricter than before, less tolerant of mistakes. He forces Fairley to repeat the same block over and over until her arms are shaking, corrects Kelso's stance with a swift nudge to his foot, and yanks Hawkins' wrist when she doesn't pivot fast enough. When he gets to me, I'm already bracing myself.

I'm paired with Jefferies again, who's clearly holding back. It's frustrating. I know he means well—he's bigger, stronger, and probably thinks he's doing me a favour by going easy. But it doesn't help me. And I want to prove myself, not be coddled.

"Jefferies," Styles says, stepping between us. "You scared of hurting her?"

Jefferies shifts uncomfortably. "No, sir, just being careful."

"Careful," Styles repeats, tone dripping with mockery. "That's cute. But it won't save her life in the field." He turns to me. "Think you need his pity, Holton?"

"No, sir."

"Didn't think so." Styles steps back, nodding at Jefferies. "Do it properly or I'll throw you in with me instead."

That does the trick. Jefferies doesn't hold back as much anymore. He makes me work for every block, every counter. I'm breathless but determined, sweat trickling down my spine as I push through every demand Styles throws our way.

After a little longer, Styles calls time on this element of the drill. But we're not finished yet.

"Listen up, " Styles calls out, pacing as we stand in a loose semicircle around him. "To finish up today, you're each going to spar. Here's the kicker. You're all going to spar against me. I won't go easy on you in the fight, so I'll give you some advice now. Fighting isn't about throwing wild punches and hoping for the best. It's controlled aggression. You need to be smart, calculated. A fight is just as much about your brain as it is about your body."

He stops, eyes sweeping over us, like he's already predicting who's going to fuck this up first.

"Rule number one: keep your guard up. Always. Drop your hands for even a second, and you're inviting a fist to your face. And trust me, that's an invite I will fucking gladly accept."

His gaze locks on Kelso, who's fidgeting with his wraps.

"Rule number two: your stance. If your balance is shit, you'll get put on your ass before you can even throw a punch. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight slightly forward, ready to move." He demonstrates, shifting easily on the balls of his feet, poised, ready. There's something almost effortless about the way he moves, like his body is always prepared for a fight.

"Rule number three: don't just throw for the sake of it. Precision over power. A well-placed hit will do a hell of a lot more damage than swinging like a drunk at a bar fight." He stops again, cracking his knuckles.

"And rule number four—the most important one: read your opponent. Watch how they move, how they react. Look for weaknesses. Exploit them. If you can get in their head, you've already won." His smirk is sharp as he glances at me. "Some of you know how to do that better than others."

A flicker of heat curls low in my stomach. The cocky bastard.

"Alright," he claps his hands together. "Enough talking. Let's see what you've got."

One by one, we take our places against Styles. As expected, he barely even takes a hit, landing punch after punch into every opponent he faces. It's clear he understands how to fight. He treats each of his opponents differently, by what he knows about their individual traits. He gets into their heads, and under their skin.

Eventually, its my turn.

He doesn't give me a second to prepare. The moment we step onto the mat, he's already testing me, making me dodge, forcing me to react.

"Come on, Holton," he taunts.

I scowl, stepping forward aggressively. He easily counters my attack, but I don't let the frustration show. I keep moving, keep adjusting. I land a solid block, but the moment I think I've gained ground, he sweeps my leg out from under me, sending me crashing down onto the mat. He smirks but I waste no time in springing back to my feet. I immediately re-set my guard. I try again, swinging my right fist round in a hook. He counters it effortlessly, but this time I stay on my feet.

I try to focus, Styles words circling around my head. This time I decide to "not just throw for the sake of it." So, I wait and I watch. "And rule number four—the most important one: read your opponent. Watch how they move, how they react. Look for weaknesses. Exploit them. If you can get in their head, you've already won." I'm watching how he moves, how he reacts and I certainly can't find any weaknesses. But what I can do, what I have already done, is get in his head. I just have to do it again.

"That all you've got?" Styles voice catches my attention. He's noticed I haven't made another move yet. We're still moving in circles. 

Fuck it.

"All I've got? You're the one who's slowed down sir. You haven't even thrown a punch at me yet. Maybe all that standing around barking orders is catching up to you."

There it is—the tick in his jaw, the quick flash of something behind his eyes. Annoyance? Amusement? I don't give him time to decide. The moment his focus wavers, I step in and strike, my fist connecting just enough to throw him off balance. He stumbles backwards slightly, before regaining his composure. He shakes his head as a slow smirk pulls at his lips.

His voice is low, edged with something almost... impressed. "Cute trick," he drawls, standing over me. "Shame it won't work twice."

I barely have time to process that before he moves. Fast. I try to block, but he anticipates it, twisting my wrist just enough to throw me off balance. A second later, my back hits the mat, the impact knocking the air from my lungs.

He crouches down, "You want to get cocky? Then back it up." He leaves me on the floor as he walks away, heading back to address the group. Fight over, I guess.

I still can't tell if he's annoyed or impressed. Knowing him it's probably both. Regardless of which one it is, he can't be surprised. He practically gave me the cheat code to this fight.

"Some of you know how to do that better than others." The words replay in my head.

Maybe he didn't think I had it in me. I pick myself up and dust myself off as I head back to the group.

Styles lets the tension settle for a moment before he finally speaks, addressing the group with his usual sharp authority. "That was an improvement," he says, though his tone makes it clear that 'improvement' doesn't mean 'good enough.' "Most of you still need to work on your reaction time, your control. Some of you let frustration get the better of you. A fight isn't about anger. It's about precision. Strategy."

His gaze drags over each of us in turn, stopping momentarily on Fairley, whose lip is split, then Kelso, who looks winded. "Jefferies, solid defence but you think too much before countering. Hawkins, good footwork, but you're still overcommitting on your strikes. Kelso—" Styles exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Figure out how to breathe when you fight, or you're going to pass out before you even land a hit."

He steps back, hands clasped behind him. "Get changed and cleaned up. Dismissed."

The group exhales collectively, tension breaking as we turn to leave. I fall into step with Jefferies and Hawkins as we head toward the dorms. Fairley trails behind, pressing a cloth to her bleeding lip, while Kelso groans dramatically about his bruises.

"You got a hit on him," Jefferies says, nudging my shoulder with his own. "First one to do it."

It takes a second to process what he's saying. I glance back toward the parade square, where Styles is still standing, watching us leave. My stomach twists slightly.

"Yeah," I say, dragging my gaze away. "Guess I did."

Hawkins snorts. "Don't let it go to your head. On the battlefield, you won't be able to flirt your way through a fight."

My head snaps to look at her. "Sorry?" I question.

She grins, satisfied with my reaction. Jefferies chuckles but doesn't argue. Is that what they think?

Kelso chimes in. "Wait—was that flirting?" he asks, glancing between me and Hawkins. "That was flirting?"

Hawkins claps him on the back. "Kelso, you're too young for this conversation. But yes, it was flirting. You're not going to know your opponent well enough on the battlefield to catch them off guard with words. It's a fight, not a negotiation. I don't think it can be counted as a win."

Why do I feel like I'm fighting back the tears? Does my relationship with Styles feel different from this time last week? Yes. But it has never once crossed my mind that it's 'flirting'. I struggle to believe Styles has the capacity to flirt with anyone. He could get most girls into his bed I'm sure - but I've always thought his looks alone would carry him on that front, I certainly can't see him being a charmer.

I don't want my standing here to be based on me exploiting the relationship I have with Styles, whatever kind it may be. I want to be judged on my abilities, my skills, my strength. I used that tactic today because it was what he told me to do. What he told us all to do. Maybe I took the easy way out?

We push open the doors to the dorms, the conversation shifting, the fight already becoming just another story to tell.

I sit on my bunk as the conversations around me become blurred background noise. Hawkins words have got to me, and the fact that Jefferies seemed to agree maybe hurts even more. Tears pricking my eyes again, I get up and head for the bathroom, determined not to let anyone notice.

Caught up in my thoughts, not paying attention, I come out the door too quickly—straight into Styles. He's solid, unmoving, as I stumble back.

"Watch where you're going, Private," he says, voice dry but not unkind. His eyes flick over my face, sharp, assessing. "What's the rush?"

"Nothing" I blurt out instinctively.

He doesn't buy it. His head tilts slightly, gaze narrowing. "That's not an answer."

I exhale sharply, frustrated—not just at him, but at myself, at the others, at the whole situation. "I'm not in a rush." I reply.

He doesn't move. Doesn't let me past. "Something's rattled you."

I clench my jaw. If I was to tell him the truth, I'd be handing him so much power. He'd think it was true. That I had some kind of crush. Or he'd be livid that his name is so easily dirtied through recruit gossip. I'm not sure I can handle whatever reaction he'd have to that. But if I don't say anything, he might push, and I don't know what I'd say then either.

Eventually, I settle on: "People talk."

Styles raises an eyebrow. "They do."

There's something unreadable in his expression. Like he already knows what I'm getting at but wants me to say it.

I hold his gaze for a second longer before shaking my head, brushing past him. "Doesn't matter."

His voice follows me as I walk away. "If it didn't, you wouldn't have anything to hide."

I don't reply.