Chilling the Knuckles

I stomped back inside across the living room rug, my fists still warm from dominating that garden. Real champions don't just throw thunder; they know how to ice down their weapons. Up on the low wooden coffee table, I found an unopened aluminum soda can resting on a cork coaster, dripping with icy beads of condensation. I stepped up close and pressed both heavy red gloves flat against the curved metal side. The deep chill surged straight through my knuckles, cooling the heat in my wrists like an engine coming off the track. I leaned back against the coaster rim, letting the frost do its work. Tomorrow, these fists hit harder than ever.