He doesn’t ask for my name.
Guess with one look, he knows he’ll find my name in the dictionary, right next to “determined.”
He leads me to his garage. “Where’d you train before?” he asks.
“Self-taught. I watch videos.”
He scoffs, then shrugs. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”
I eye the equipment across the room. The heavy bag hangs from the ceiling, the leather worn from other fighters before me. There’s a boxing dummy in the corner. Speed bag. Weights. A whole private gym set up here. I drop both my bags, then unzip my backpack and start to put on the gloves without bothering to remove my hoodie.
“Take that off; I need to know what you’ve got. Need to see your form,” Hennesy says.
I clench my jaw. Slowly unzip my hoodie. Take it off and glance past my shoulder, shifting to keep my back from the coach’s view. The guy is clearing the fighting area. Good. We can get down to business. He walks to me when I face him.
“Give it over.” I hand over my hoodie and he tosses it aside, then crosses his arms and looks at me. “Speed bag first.”
I inhale, position myself before the speed bag, and hit. Wham.
I keep on hitting, lightning fast, my fists making the bag fly.
I would have warmed up first, but I’ve been doing this for days, and I won’t stop until I’ve got myself a coach—and not even then.
I’ve got momentum now, and I pick up speed, my arms moving back and forth, working the speed bag until it’s moving so fast you can’t even see it.
I’m starting to sweat; it’s stuffy in here, but I can’t stop. I need him to take me on. I need one yes to get me in the ring. Just one yes and I’ll do the rest.
“Time.” Hennesy stops me. He signals to the boxing dummy and the heavy bag. “Let’s see you pound the bag.”
I swing out and slam my knuckles on the bag, putting everything into my fists. Thack, thump, thud.
Hennesy’s composure starts to crumble with excitement. “Holy shit, boy!”
I’m getting into it. I’m in the zone, where it’s just me, the leather brown bag, my fists, and nothing else but slamming the spot I’m looking at.
“I’ve seen enough.” He stops the bag from swinging. His eyes are glassy. “Fill this out.”
I pull off my right glove and grab a pen as he slaps a piece of paper onto a desk at the corner. I bend down to fill out my name and contact information and realize, too late, that I exposed the tattoo on my back.
“You’re his boy.”
I freeze midsignature.
A second ticks by. Then two.
I slowly set the pen down and take one last look at the paper. I might not get to fill it out after all. I turn.
His face has paled.
I wait it out for a few beats. Maybe he’s different. Maybe he can deal with it.
He tosses my jacket at me. “Get out. Nobody wants to see you fight.”
I frown fiercely as I catch my jacket in my fist and edge forward, equally mad now. “That’s too damn bad. ’Cause I’m fighting anyway.”
I keep my eyes on him as I pull off my left glove, shove my arms into my hoodie, and zip up.
I walk out and the door slams behind me. I clench my jaw and shove my gloves into my bag and spot the old, black gloves inside too. I push them down into the bottom of the duffel bag and zip it up.
The season starts in a week and a half. No coach? No fight. I can’t even get into a gym.
But I won’t let anyone or anything keep me from the ring.
I pick up a penny from the ground.
And I spot a girl in workout clothes across the street, tying her shoelaces. She’s a step away from the gym door. I straighten, pull my hoodie over my head, and cross the street, following after her like I belong.
THREE
“HE’S WITH ME”
Reese
Today is the first day of my very own personal boot camp. One day spent with the Tates and the good news is, there are no tempting Snickers bars in sight. Only green food with organic labels on them. All fresh. Fruits, lean meats, all I need to finally—finally—lose the ten annoying pounds I’ve been carrying with me for the past few years. They come with feelings of insecurity, dissatisfaction, and frustration. They are proof of me having absolutely no willpower against my hunger pangs or my cravings. A reminder of why I didn’t go to dances, or—despite my love of the beach—head out in a swimsuit to take in some sunlight. I plan to work out like a fiend.
When I get back home, I’m going to walk into a crowded room with a great smile and sans my Himalayan butt, looking so pretty Miles Morris is going to drool in his mouth at the sight of me. He’ll admit that it’s always been me and only me for him, and he was too blinded by our friendship to notice.
And I’m going to sleep with him—the first time that I will ever sleep with a guy—and I’ll do it with no insecurities about him seeing me naked because I’m going to look beautiful and slim and, most of all, sure of myself. So sure of myself I’d do it in broad daylight for him if he asked me to.
Pulling my T-shirt a little lower as it rolls up my hips, I start panting and drop the treadmill speed a little bit. If I don’t, I’ll have to crawl my way to day care to pick up my little package and, carrying him back home, I’ll be trailing my tongue on the sidewalk. No, thanks.
I’m on a healthy living boot camp.
Brooke says I look like Jennifer Lawrence and that she envies my hourglass figure. It’s like my torso was cinched with a corset since I was born. Curvy. But I’ll take Brooke’s athletic physique any day. Genetics made my hourglass figure, but athletic physiques take more than genetics; they take hard work and I admire that.
I press the treadmill speed a little bit faster and survey everyone inside the bustling gym. But my eyes come back to the guy who slipped into the gym after me.
He’s at the far end of the room, pummeling a heavy bag. He looks totally concentrated. He’s the only fighter here who’s not talking to anyone and not with a trainer.
I’d say he looks friendless, but it’s more like he doesn’t want to be bothered and doesn’t need friends: he’s got his fists.
The beautiful boy is getting attention from everyone in the gym by now. Maybe because he’s really working out the heavy bag, causing the chain holding it to rattle. But I think, for the most part, it’s because he crackles with passion for what he’s doing. And looks sooooo good doing it too.
Guess with one look, he knows he’ll find my name in the dictionary, right next to “determined.”
He leads me to his garage. “Where’d you train before?” he asks.
“Self-taught. I watch videos.”
He scoffs, then shrugs. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”
I eye the equipment across the room. The heavy bag hangs from the ceiling, the leather worn from other fighters before me. There’s a boxing dummy in the corner. Speed bag. Weights. A whole private gym set up here. I drop both my bags, then unzip my backpack and start to put on the gloves without bothering to remove my hoodie.
“Take that off; I need to know what you’ve got. Need to see your form,” Hennesy says.
I clench my jaw. Slowly unzip my hoodie. Take it off and glance past my shoulder, shifting to keep my back from the coach’s view. The guy is clearing the fighting area. Good. We can get down to business. He walks to me when I face him.
“Give it over.” I hand over my hoodie and he tosses it aside, then crosses his arms and looks at me. “Speed bag first.”
I inhale, position myself before the speed bag, and hit. Wham.
I keep on hitting, lightning fast, my fists making the bag fly.
I would have warmed up first, but I’ve been doing this for days, and I won’t stop until I’ve got myself a coach—and not even then.
I’ve got momentum now, and I pick up speed, my arms moving back and forth, working the speed bag until it’s moving so fast you can’t even see it.
I’m starting to sweat; it’s stuffy in here, but I can’t stop. I need him to take me on. I need one yes to get me in the ring. Just one yes and I’ll do the rest.
“Time.” Hennesy stops me. He signals to the boxing dummy and the heavy bag. “Let’s see you pound the bag.”
I swing out and slam my knuckles on the bag, putting everything into my fists. Thack, thump, thud.
Hennesy’s composure starts to crumble with excitement. “Holy shit, boy!”
I’m getting into it. I’m in the zone, where it’s just me, the leather brown bag, my fists, and nothing else but slamming the spot I’m looking at.
“I’ve seen enough.” He stops the bag from swinging. His eyes are glassy. “Fill this out.”
I pull off my right glove and grab a pen as he slaps a piece of paper onto a desk at the corner. I bend down to fill out my name and contact information and realize, too late, that I exposed the tattoo on my back.
“You’re his boy.”
I freeze midsignature.
A second ticks by. Then two.
I slowly set the pen down and take one last look at the paper. I might not get to fill it out after all. I turn.
His face has paled.
I wait it out for a few beats. Maybe he’s different. Maybe he can deal with it.
He tosses my jacket at me. “Get out. Nobody wants to see you fight.”
I frown fiercely as I catch my jacket in my fist and edge forward, equally mad now. “That’s too damn bad. ’Cause I’m fighting anyway.”
I keep my eyes on him as I pull off my left glove, shove my arms into my hoodie, and zip up.
I walk out and the door slams behind me. I clench my jaw and shove my gloves into my bag and spot the old, black gloves inside too. I push them down into the bottom of the duffel bag and zip it up.
The season starts in a week and a half. No coach? No fight. I can’t even get into a gym.
But I won’t let anyone or anything keep me from the ring.
I pick up a penny from the ground.
And I spot a girl in workout clothes across the street, tying her shoelaces. She’s a step away from the gym door. I straighten, pull my hoodie over my head, and cross the street, following after her like I belong.
THREE
“HE’S WITH ME”
Reese
Today is the first day of my very own personal boot camp. One day spent with the Tates and the good news is, there are no tempting Snickers bars in sight. Only green food with organic labels on them. All fresh. Fruits, lean meats, all I need to finally—finally—lose the ten annoying pounds I’ve been carrying with me for the past few years. They come with feelings of insecurity, dissatisfaction, and frustration. They are proof of me having absolutely no willpower against my hunger pangs or my cravings. A reminder of why I didn’t go to dances, or—despite my love of the beach—head out in a swimsuit to take in some sunlight. I plan to work out like a fiend.
When I get back home, I’m going to walk into a crowded room with a great smile and sans my Himalayan butt, looking so pretty Miles Morris is going to drool in his mouth at the sight of me. He’ll admit that it’s always been me and only me for him, and he was too blinded by our friendship to notice.
And I’m going to sleep with him—the first time that I will ever sleep with a guy—and I’ll do it with no insecurities about him seeing me naked because I’m going to look beautiful and slim and, most of all, sure of myself. So sure of myself I’d do it in broad daylight for him if he asked me to.
Pulling my T-shirt a little lower as it rolls up my hips, I start panting and drop the treadmill speed a little bit. If I don’t, I’ll have to crawl my way to day care to pick up my little package and, carrying him back home, I’ll be trailing my tongue on the sidewalk. No, thanks.
I’m on a healthy living boot camp.
Brooke says I look like Jennifer Lawrence and that she envies my hourglass figure. It’s like my torso was cinched with a corset since I was born. Curvy. But I’ll take Brooke’s athletic physique any day. Genetics made my hourglass figure, but athletic physiques take more than genetics; they take hard work and I admire that.
I press the treadmill speed a little bit faster and survey everyone inside the bustling gym. But my eyes come back to the guy who slipped into the gym after me.
He’s at the far end of the room, pummeling a heavy bag. He looks totally concentrated. He’s the only fighter here who’s not talking to anyone and not with a trainer.
I’d say he looks friendless, but it’s more like he doesn’t want to be bothered and doesn’t need friends: he’s got his fists.
The beautiful boy is getting attention from everyone in the gym by now. Maybe because he’s really working out the heavy bag, causing the chain holding it to rattle. But I think, for the most part, it’s because he crackles with passion for what he’s doing. And looks sooooo good doing it too.
