by L. G. Kelso
Too many thoughts swarmed through my head for me to even want to think about Max. Heat already surged through my body, the ache in my chest dimmer and yet burning worse at the same time. As much as I wanted to know what the deal with the Nicole chick was, and as much as I wanted to think about standing so close to him again, I knew I couldn't right now. Shadowboxing had already worked a hole into my stomach.
"It doesn't look like it."
"Thanks."
He laughed. "I meant that in a good way."
"Okay."
"You look a little skeptical."
"Oh yeah, I'm fine. It's just my face."
He laughed again, and I smiled. I swiped at a slick trickle of sweat on my forehead. I probably looked like shit.
I took a step forward. My foot caught in the strap of my gym bag. Without thinking, I reached out at the same time Max's arm moved to stop me from tripping. I grabbed his forearm, his muscles flexed automatically.
"So, well, what are you doing here?" Really, did I just ask that?
His eyebrow quirked.
"I mean...you're boxing. Why else would you be here. Pretend I didn't ask that."
Idiot point for me. The heat running up my fingers from the places I touched his forearm made me yank my hand away. He repositioned himself, squaring his chest and hips toward me, and I found myself matching his stance once I untangled my foot from the strap.
He chuckled. "Yes, I am boxing."
"Well, I'll give you some privacy." Privacy? Really, Tor?
I squatted down, grabbed my things, and jogged home.
Chapter Eleven
A car almost took me out on my way to work. I hadn't been able to focus on anything since I had shadowboxed. There was heat under my ribs, a constant twitching in my muscles.
The ball of heat used to be constant. It was there, firmly implanted in my body and life, solidly for the first year after I stopped fighting. Sometimes, it had become a physical pain. It made my body tremble, my chest hurt and my mind feel hollow.
I was already starting to have withdrawals again, just from shadowboxing.
A stack of mail took up half the desk when I got to the gym. Heat and sweat already clung in the air, and the release of breaths and impact of material drifted into the front entryway.
I peered around the corner. All the lights were on, even those over the octagon in the corner. A group of guys huddled around the cage. I glimpsed Max and another guy, whose name escaped me, moving around in the cage.
I went back to my desk, and started shuffling through the mail. Most of it went to the junk pile. The basket I kept under the desk had started to overflow, and I finally gave in to take it to Jeff's office and shred the contents.
I settled the edge of the basket onto my hip and quietly stepped into the gym. Light, concise steps that always happened when I walked in here. Now a different guy stood in there with Max. I walked to Jeff's office unnoticed. Everyone was too occupied with Max, and I didn't blame the guys. It was hard not to watch his technique.
I shredded the junk mail, glancing around Jeff's office as I did so. Pictures were tacked on the wall, edges covering one another. A picture with particularly curled-in, yellowed edges caught my attention. A much younger version of myself, holding my first set of gloves, smiled next to Jeff. Even though you couldn't tell in the picture, it had been cold outside. The day after Christmas, and while Leah opened up presents to find makeup and nail polish, I had opened those gloves.
I still had that set, and my first set of purple handwraps as well.
A newer picture, from my second to last match, was in the center of the corkboard over his desk. I couldn't look at that one. The grin from winning was too much. It was the promise of my dream in reach.
The youngest fighter to get a pro contract. One of the only girls to get a contract with STRIKERS.
All gone.
I shredded the last piece of mail and walked back into the gym. Even though my intention had to be to beeline for the desk, I stumbled to a stop. All four of the guys surrounding the cage glistened under the lights, their shirts damp and clinging across their shoulders.
Fight training. Just being in the gym during it was different from other times. Sometimes, tension hung in the air. Other times, it was excitement.
Right now, it just felt focused.
Mick practically bounced up and down as he watched Max and the other guy spar, but everyone else stayed still. They were probably tired. Max would do however many rounds Jeff wanted, ideally with a new boxer each time so that the boxer was always fresh and Max was not.
That and I highly doubted any of the four could go thirty minutes with Max.
Watching Max, the heat flared and the twitching increased. The need to move tugged at me. Max rolled under a hook, his flesh disappearing behind his partner. Without him to focus on, the metal of the cage burned into my vision. Nausea seared my stomach and into my throat.
The timer buzzed.
"I need another boxer," Jeff said.
"I'll go again," Mick replied.
"No, you're too tired. I need someone who will push him more right now."
"I can do another round," someone else said.
My gaze unfocused. The metal and black edges blurred. The black padding of the edges was new. I wondered if Jeff had ever fixed the dent in the cage's door.
The worst feeling in the world, I had decided, was helplessness. Just staring at the cage, even under the bright lights, brought back every slimy, suffocating layer of being helpless.
Screw helplessness.
"I'll do it." My voice startled me. It didn't sound like my own. The conviction in my words sounded like someone with confidence, someone who wasn't going to roll over, someone that used to be me.
"You don't have to, Tor. But thanks for the offer," Jeff said. I tore my eyes away from the door. He hadn't even bothered to look at me. He studied Max.
"I said I can do it," Mick said.
"I'll do it." Even though I neared them, my voice grew louder.
Jeff nodded, eyes still on the cage. He was thinking of something, trying to figure out some plan of attack for Max's training. His fingers were perfectly calm instead of scratching his rough chin. "Okay. One minute left in this round. Then Max gets thirty seconds active rest and you're up. Get mitts, Tori. You can do mitts with Max."
"Mitts?"
Max had been sparring, right?
"Yeah," Jeff answered.
I swallowed. I had closed the distance between the group and myelf, and between the cage and myself.
"Mitts?" Max asked. His eyes caught mine, briefly, before his face disappeared as he slipped a punch from one of the other guys Jeff had thrown in there. He finished a combination a second later, each hit quick and rolling into one another.
"You've tired out all my boxers, so yes, mitts," Jeff replied.
"Not Tori," Max replied.
Maybe it was the pause before he said my name, as he exhaled and his glove made hard impact, or maybe he didn't have much extra breath to speak right now, but the gruff way he said my name made it stand out.
It also made me flush as everyone turned to me, including Jeff.
The planning edge in Jeff's eyes faded as he looked at me. He frowned, and my sudden tomato color probably didn't help whatever worrisome thoughts ran through his head. But saying that Max's voice had just pressed the horny button probably wouldn't make Jeff feel any better. "I don't think—"
"I'll do it. Gloves. Not mitts."
"That's—Wait, what?" Jeff rubbed the back of his head and gave me a hard look. "You don't have to, Tori." Jeff's whispered. The inflections in his words were meant for me only, a meaning that no one would have gotten
I didn't like being in on this secret.
In fact, I wanted out of it.
"I said I'll do it. Spar."
"Okay. Grab gloves." He still looked unsure. Would it embarrass him, too, if I froze? Or would it just make him mad? Would he think I was a baby?
>
The nausea rolled harder in my stomach as everyone's eyes settled on my back. They were silent, but I could imagine their thoughts.
She doesn't know what she's doing.
Isn't that the girl who froze in her fight?
We all knew she would freeze. She wasn't that good, anyway.
I had heard all of that before. Everyone was your friend; everyone supported you, until you failed.
I jogged toward the front.
"Where are you going?"
"To get my gloves."
I had brought my gloves in hopes of getting some solo shadowboxing in. After pulling them and my mouthguard out of the bottom desk drawer, I put them on and ran back to the mat. No time for handwraps.
Max's rest, which included him jumping in place, was about up.
The key had already been removed since the other guy had exited the cage. I reached the door and hesitated, watching the gold key swing off the rope that kept it attached to the cage.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.
Open it. Open it. Please, open it. My fingers curled along the bottom edge of the door, a pipe, and shook it. Clank, clank. Slammed it and slammed it, but the key was in it and I didn't have time to slip my hand through the gap of the door and the frame.
"Tori, why don't you get back to work? Someone else can do this," Jeff said.
I tore my eyes away from the key and looked at Jeff's drawn face.
"I got it," I said. I took a deep breath, wrapped my hand around the now-padded doorframe, and stepped into the cage.
I hadn't been in this cage since I thought I wouldn't survive to get out of it. The old me and my old dreams were fermented in the bloodstains, and as I had feared, the good memories had been overwhelmed by only the bad, and those nightmares still haunted this space. The door swung behind me, padding into place. Someone moved. It wasn't Jeff; the steps were too heavy. I stepped to the side, so I could see Max and the door.
Mick had the key in his hand, ready to drop it through the latch. Jeff's arm shot out.
"Leave it," Jeff said, a sharp edge to his tone. "I'll hold the door for now."
Mick backed off and I met Jeff's gaze as he pressed his knee against the door. "They're not going to go banging into the cage walls, anyway," he added. "All right, boxing and kickboxing only. No shootbox."
I exhaled, the pressure in my chest easing as I stopped holding my breath. I noticed the cool leather against my throat and realized I had my gloved hand against it.
Max still moved, but he watched me. Drips of sweat trickled onto the mat and onto a bloodstain. There was another spot under my foot. I didn't need to look at the door to know there would one there as well. By the time Jeff had returned to the gym that night, the stains had already soaked in and ruined the mat.
Heads bleed a lot.
Would he lose it? If I hit him, would he snap? There were people watching. Watching, and probably waiting for me to fail again. Max moved, I backed up, and then felt like an idiot as he wiped his forehead with his shirt. Sweat pooled in the lines of his abs. A different thought emerged through the acidic ones: Would I become another one of the guys? Even to Max?
Why did it matter?
"Begin."
We touched gloves and fell apart.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
He waited for me to make the first move, but I didn't. The smart ass in me would have said it was because I didn't want him studying me, as I had seen him do with his other opponents when they made their first move. In truth, however, I couldn't have made a move even if I wanted to. The panic had already started.
His jab came. I prepared for the cross.
His first punch hit my arms. His second came an instant later, and even though I expected it, I moved too slow.
He was so freaking fast.
He threw a hook. My feet slowed and became heavy. He paused, as though he sensed it. His eyes met mine. He quirked his eyebrow, asking me if everything was all right.
I nodded, rolled my shoulders to loosen them up, and went in with a jab.
He sent a jab and cross in my direction; I blocked. Another jab and cross. He was setting something up. He closed in and threw a left hook. I blocked the hook, but didn't cover in time and got a light uppercut to my chin.
Crap. I sucked.
I backed up. What the hell did you just do, Tor? He sent out a light jab. I should have blocked it. I knew it had been coming, but I didn't. I didn't freeze, but I slowed. A moment of panic shot through me as I thought about what could happen if I didn't block, what could happen if I went down.
Out. I needed to get out.
His cross came at me. I blocked it, but only because he threw it slow. He was taking it easy. Too easy.
"Stop thinking so much." Max's voice brought me back to the present.
"I'm trying."
He stopped taking it so easy. He moved quickly, his hits packing a little more punch and a lot more speed.
I blocked. Another hook. I slipped it, planting a body-shot on him as I did.
"That's better. But I know you can do more. Come on."
I didn't think he was about to release a punch, but I was pretty out of the game. So, I hoped he wasn't about to smash my face and dropped my arms. "Why do you think I can do more?"
"Because I see it. You're fighting you right now, not me. Now, give me a jab, cross, left hook, right uppercut, left hook."
I rolled my shoulders forward, wishing they weren't so tight, and waited for him to raise his arms. Instead, he said, "Go on."
"Aren't you going to block?"
"No. I want you to hit me. Think about where your aim is, and hit me. Just, preferably don't give me a black eye or fat lip. I just got healed from those. And I need to stay pretty for all that Colombian dancing I do." He winked.
I hesitated for another second before I did the combination, hitting him in the face twice, then the liver area, chin, side of the head.
"Again," he said. "Before Jeff bites our heads off."
I did it again. "That was better." Now, he held his hands up and began to spar again.
I knew what he meant, but my frustration grew. I was sucking. I hadn't been this bad before. The anger swarmed again. Anger at myself for getting myself in this spot of epic crappiness.
Ba bam.
Blocked. He moved in. I lost sight of him. His muscle flexed against my arm as I blocked the side of my head. His sweat pressed against my skin, and my body took in a deep breath as I brought my arm back home after throwing a light hook.
He smelled amazing. Our proximity warred in my head. On one hand, it felt too close because he smelled too good and I was acutely aware of his muscles. On the other, his smell made me want to hit him even more. Who the hell smells good while sweating?
The hot coal in my chest blazed.
His right glove hit my left side. My feet became heavy again as the hit sent a cold reminder of an old pain. Could I be any match against him? Or could he have me down in an instant, too?
"Don't be afraid to hit me hard. I can handle it." His words were close to my ear, his voice low, raspy.
Everything had been okay until I hit Will hard, until I kicked his ass in sparring that day. Then he snapped.
I did a quick assessment of Max. He stood in correct form, his shoulders were so lose I envied them, and his muscles were appropriately tense based on the ones that flexed against my skin.
I made a split decision.
He threw a right hook. I slipped under it to my left, switching sides, and planted a hook on his ribs, followed by another hook to his head and an uppercut.
I couldn't see him, but it felt like he smiled.
I found the right balance, on my toes, and threw a few punches. I let Max determine the speed and rhythm of the fight. I focused on moving and blocking his hits. My footwork became an afterthought—a natural movement that resembled muscle memory, a movement that I knew was right. I started to find the angles, the pockets. So many of the things I had
forgotten about in my panic.
I almost ate a cross to the face because I got distracted by watching him. The way he moved was amazing, strength and agility sharpening the perfect technique.
Jeff called for a brief rest, in which I spent thirty seconds staring at the damp, white material of Max's shirt that clung to his shoulder blades as he squirted water into his mouth.
Thirty seconds well spent.
Dammit, Tori, what is wrong with you?
Sweat dripped down my back, swelling into the dimples over my butt. My body felt heavy from fatigue. I'd hurt like a bitch tomorrow since I was so out of shape, and I couldn't wait for it.
Jeff must have realized I planned on doing the next round, too, because he called out start again.
This time, Max and I moved in quickly. We didn't bother to keep distance as we each tried to get the best position and best hits. He took a step toward me, his left foot becoming parallel with mine.
With my pace increased, he picked up his. The chatter in my head went silent. Everything but boxing disappeared. Slipping, blocking, getting my hits in. Setting it up, moving. Creative, logical steps, sometimes moving off his line. Kicks. God, I loved kicks.
I prepared. He threw his shoulder into me. My weight shifted slightly, but I stayed up and shoved a hook into his side—rib level—before slipping under his hook and throwing an uppercut to his face. He blocked it. I went for two more hooks, one for the body, and one for the head—to be blocked my his arm.
I missed a block. His fist made contact with my mouth.
Thank God for mouthpieces.
A hint of panic tightened my chest as my skin felt his glove, but it dissipated as I realized that I was still up, and that Max wasn't hitting to knock me out.
Ba-bam. Bam bam bam.
Left right, left right. Jab, cross, jab, cross. Jab, jab, cross. Fast fast hard. Jab, cross, left hook. Slip. Slip again. His shin hit my shoulder blade as I blocked a Thai kick. Block knee. Block head. Block body. Bend more. Lower. Curl. Roll. Arms back. Arm back! Damn. Block.
He threw one as I did. My shoulder covered my jaw and took the brunt of it.
