Shadowboxer

by Jessica L. Webb

  Jordan slid the facts around in her head like tiles in a game, not only Tom’s words but his obvious passion to do better. Jordan trusted it. She wasn’t sure what Madi thought.

  “I bet your shareholders are unhappy,” Jordan said.

  “They think I’m absolutely off my rocker,” Tom announced happily.

  Madi was still looking at Ali with suspicion. Ali seemed relaxed, perfectly comfortable with the scrutiny.

  “So you’re just going to follow me around and become inspired by my story and my struggle to survive, is that it? Maybe by the end we’re braiding each other’s hair and you’re offering to pay for me to go to university because you’re so moved by everything I’ve taught you. Sound about right?”

  Ali’s expression didn’t change, and she didn’t look to anyone else for support. Jordan respected her for that. “You’re here at the gym four or five times a week, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Madi said.

  “I thought I’d start by coming by for a few practices. I’m interested in seeing how the coach and boxer roles coincide with your friendships. I thought we’d start there. Is that okay?”

  Madi cocked her head to the side. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “As for the other, I’m a lost cause when it comes to anything to do with hair. But if that’s what you want to teach me, I’m up for the challenge.”

  Madi nodded but said nothing. Jordan was pretty sure Ali confused her. It took a long time for Madi to trust anyone, and she gave them a hell of a ride along the way. This could get interesting.

  “You’re here for a year?” Jordan’s thoughts were still on how this whole program would affect Madi, weighing the pros and the cons. She hadn’t considered how Ali might perceive her question.

  “I’m committing to this mentorship for a year, yes,” Ali said. Jordan tried not to squirm at the correction. Ali’s voice softened just a little when she continued. “I’ll be working part-time at our Halifax office for the first six months, but I’ll still need to travel fairly frequently back to my main office in Chicago.”

  Jordan nodded a short acknowledgement like she hadn’t just heard Ali Clarke was walking back into her life.

  “Well, then,” Tom said. He leaned back in his chair, obviously pleased with where this conversation had gone. “I’d like to thank you all for your time. I’m heading to the West Coast tomorrow morning, but I’ll be checking in regularly with Alison to see how her homecoming is going and how things are working out with Ms. Battiste.”

  They pushed aside their mismatched chairs and shook hands, all the social niceties that Jordan had come to learn and respect.

  “I’ll answer your question,” Madi said, remaining seated.

  “Madi?” Jordan said.

  Madi had her eyes fixed on Tom. “You asked Jordan if she used any of her coach’s methods in the boxing program with the kids. With us.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I did ask that,” Tom said.

  “The answer is no. Jordan already knows we can survive tougher opponents. She’s teaching us to focus, not fight. She’s teaching us to expect more from ourselves and the people around us. And she would never use fear as a teaching tool. None of us would be here if she did.”

  Jordan thought she might cry. Right here in front of Madi, the bright fierceness in her eyes a perfect match for her voice. She was going to cry in front of Cay, in front of the CEO of a multi-million-dollar company. In front of Ali Clarke.

  Then Madi stood and grinned, breaking the tension. She nodded toward Ali.

  “You might want to start your journal with that mic drop moment.” Madi walked toward the door with a wave. “See you at practice tomorrow.”

  The adults were left staring at each other, the kid having walked out of the room with all of their words.

  Chapter Two

  Constable Rachel Shreve was sitting on the step outside the gym when Jordan showed up the next day. Rachel was in a T-shirt and jeans, short hair tucked behind her ears, gym bag by her feet. Her eyes were closed and her head tilted back in the sunlight, a half smile on her face. Jordan had always thought the cop was attractive. Rachel was also a good friend, a huge asset as a volunteer at the gym, and married to one of the nicest men Jordan had ever met.

  “Tell me you’re dreaming about Adam,” Jordan said.

  Rachel opened her eyes and laughed. “If I was, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  Rachel was a community officer who’d started her career on the very same streets where Jordan and most of her kids had been raised. Now that Rachel had two youngsters at home, she was making her way to the investigative branch of the Halifax Police Department. The move would be a good one for the young cop, but Jordan would miss her on the streets, knowing she always looked out for her kids.

  Peppy music drifted out from the gym, punctuated by gleefully shouted instructions. Jordan rented out the gym to a mom-and-me boxercise class a few times a week, one of the ways she kept the bills paid and the doors open. She had a partner, Sean, who ran all the adult programming at the gym, arranging scheduling and membership. He’d even recently brought Jordan a proposal for small classes and private clients. But as much as he wanted to make JP’s Gym lucrative, he respected Jordan’s primary objective was to run the programming for vulnerable youth.

  “You’re here early,” Jordan said, taking a seat beside Rachel.

  “Yes and no. I’ve got some official business to get out of the way before practice tonight.” Rachel hurried to clarify. “Everyone is fine, but I just wanted to check in with you about something I’ve been hearing on the street.”

  Jordan turned her face into the October afternoon sun and let her heart rate return to normal. After a restless night followed by another busy day, the sun felt good against her cheeks. She’d lain in bed for a long time last night, thinking about Ali. She could feel her presence somehow. Something tangible was in the air, as if Ali’s arrival in the city had changed the molecules. Eventually she’d gone to sleep, frustrated by her inability to put Ali’s presence into perspective. Jordan had focused on work all day today, trying not to become distracted by the clock.

  Rachel pulled her phone out of her pocket and scrolled through a series of images. Then she passed her phone to Jordan to take a look.

  “Do you recognize this symbol? Is it at all familiar to you?”

  Jordan was looking at a picture of a tattoo. Stylized sun rays on one side and what looked like sword points or knife points on the other. It was simply designed and looked professionally done, unlike some of the horrible ink she’d seen come through her gym. But Jordan didn’t recognize the symbol.

  “No, sorry. It doesn’t look familiar,” Jordan said as she handed back the phone.

  “I guess it’s too much to ask if you recognize the tattoo artist?” Rachel said.

  Jordan shook her head. “It doesn’t look like a street tat, that’s pretty much all I can tell you.”

  “It was a long shot, thanks.” Rachel sighed and put away her phone. “This symbol was spray-painted in a dozen places around the downtown core last night. Mostly tourist spots but also the food bank and a methadone clinic.”

  “Seems pretty random.”

  “I think so, too. Or maybe it’s not. The tattoo is from a resident who lived at one of the homeless shelters. He was found non-responsive a few weeks ago, and we investigated cause of death. Turns out it was medically related, not suspicious. But that symbol really stuck in my mind.”

  “Think it’s a gang tattoo?”

  Rachel blew out a breath. “God, I hope not. We’re finally getting things under control the last few years with the Halifax-Toronto trafficking pipeline. I’d hate to think something else is moving up to take its place.”

  Jordan felt the same way. They were constantly on the lookout for gang activity, especially around the girls.

  “I’ll keep an eye out.”

  “Thanks, friend,” Rachel said and closed her eyes again. “Hey, I’ve never asked you about your ink. Did
you get any of it done in Halifax?” Rachel said.

  “Just the one between my shoulders,” Jordan said. It was a detailed tree with reaching branches and anchoring roots. Her brother Steven’s initials were set into the whorled knots and branches.

  “And the rest?”

  Jordan pushed her T-shirt up over her shoulder and looked at the half-sleeve on her left arm. She touched it lightly, smiling. It was a tableau of water with cranes in the distance and a sky that was half storm and half sunshine.

  “I got these done in New York. A woman I met on the boxing scene.” Then Jordan blushed and Rachel laughed.

  “A boxing fan, huh?”

  Jordan smiled. It was hard to feel too embarrassed around Rachel. “Nadia grew up around boxing her whole life. She was an artist and a philosopher and a psychic.”

  “A psychic boxing fan. Did she predict your wins?”

  “No, nothing like that. She came up to me after a bout, told me we should have tea and talk. My coach said I should go, said no one ever turned down Nadia Sokolov. So we talked and drank some strange herbal infusion. I told her about my childhood, about how boxing scared me. When she asked me about my deepest desire, I told her I wanted to run away from my life.”

  Rachel remained quiet. Jordan had already trusted her with some of the darker moments of her past, including her brother Steven’s death when she was fifteen.

  “Was that really your deepest desire?”

  “Yes. In a way.” Jordan didn’t add that what she’d really wanted back then was to be with Ali, somewhere far away from Halifax and from boxing. Jordan tilted her head back and blinked into the afternoon sunlight. Ali was here. She swallowed and continued her story. “Nadia turned my story into the design for this tattoo. She believed we carry our past, present, and future around with us, and our stories deserve to be told in some form or another.”

  “That’s a beautiful story,” Rachel said softly. “Thanks for sharing it.”

  They sat in silence in the sunshine as the boxercise class wrapped up, the sound of the dance music replaced by laughter and conversation.

  “I imagine that would be a hard story to tell your kids,” Rachel said. “But I wish they could hear it, you know?”

  Jordan did know. “I wouldn’t have heard it at their age. I wasn’t ready. And I’m not an artist or a storyteller. I just want to keep them alive so they can hear it when someone like Nadia walks into their life and asks to hear their story.” Jordan wasn’t sure she was making any sense. Past and present still seemed so mixed up, a whirl of emotion instead of reason. Jordan hated this off-kilter feeling. She dropped her head and sighed.

  “Sorry,” Rachel said quickly. “That was a little intense for a Thursday afternoon.”

  Jordan laughed. “No, you’re good. Really. Just a lot going on these days.”

  She was grateful Rachel let it pass. Moments later, the gym doors opened and moms with strollers and babies and bags pushed out into the afternoon sun, their faces bright with exertion and endorphins. Jordan envied them their chemical high. She checked the time on her phone. She could still get in a workout before the kids arrived.

  “Want to spar today?” she asked Rachel.

  Rachel grinned, and her eyes flashed with the challenge. “Yeah, definitely. Just don’t flatten me.”

  Twenty minutes later, they had changed into workout gear and warmed up. Jordan checked in with Sean, who was heading home to feed his kids. He’d be on-site later for the adult gym time, once her teen program was done. Sean was an easy-going guy and had always reminded her of Steven. Not in their looks—Sean was a ginger from a long line of Irishmen—but his temperament. Like Steven, Sean was laid-back, solid, and empathetic without being overbearing.

  Once Jordan finished talking with Sean, she pulled on her cracked and worn sparring gloves. They felt comfortable and she had never once felt the frisson of fear and self-loathing her boxing gloves had once elicited.

  Rachel already had her mouthguard in and her gloves on. She’d been training with Jordan and her kids for five years, and she’d even tried fighting a few real bouts before she got pregnant with Hannah. Rachel was small but completely driven to excel. She fought with a joy Jordan knew she could never match. She grinned as Rachel threw shadow punches.

  “I’m on defense,” Jordan said, mouthguard only half in. “Chase me.” Jordan pushed in her mouthguard the rest of the way and raised her gloves.

  Rachel moved in fast, but Jordan easily sidestepped her opening gambit. They were only sparring, aiming for light blows that would score points if anyone had cared to keep track. Rachel tried to back Jordan against the ropes to slow her footwork so she could land something. Jordan danced out of reach, weaving once under Rachel’s outstretched arm in a showy move that would have earned her a blistering lecture from Bento if she’d ever tried it in a bout. But this wasn’t a real match, and Jordan felt the edges of lightness as she continued to take Rachel’s punches on her gloves, her body warming. She anticipated another of Rachel’s punches, allowing Rachel’s sparring gloves to touch her high on the shoulder before she landed a three-punch combination on Rachel’s torso. Then Jordan pivoted away to the other side of the ring, leaving Rachel frustrated and laughing.

  Jordan heard the kids enter the gym, but she wanted Rachel to be the one to end the sparring session. Sometimes defeat was easier when you were the one allowed to admit it. Jordan took a few more punches on her gloves, narrowly avoided Rachel’s surprise right jab, and managed to score another point before retreating to the other side of the ring. Rachel followed, but seemed to think better of it. She stepped back and touched her right glove to her left shoulder, signaling the end to their sparring session. They met in the middle of the ring and embraced lightly before walking to the ropes, pushing off their gloves, and spitting out their mouthguards.

  “You’re barely sweating,” Rachel complained good-naturedly as she used her T-shirt to wipe her face. “One day I’m going to take you down, McAddie.”

  Jordan laughed. “That’s the spirit.” She cuffed her friend lightly on the shoulder. “Thanks for the spar. I needed that.”

  Rachel grinned.

  “Hey, Jordan. We doing ring work tonight?”

  Jordan looked through the ropes to see Rupert and Sierra looking up at her hopefully. Sierra was already in loose shorts and a T-shirt, and Rupert held a plastic bag in his fist. The likelihood he’d washed his gym clothes from yesterday was slim.

  “Sure,” Jordan said, making a quick decision. Better to work out with the kids than sit around watching Ali all night. “But get warmed up first, at least half the circuit.”

  Rupert and Sierra high-fived. Sometimes they were simply puppies, tumbling and cheerful and energetic, but those puppies had teeth and claws and a history of hurt. Jordan never forgot that.

  Jordan jumped down off the mat and found her water bottle. Kids were still trickling in, and Jordan could hear the slam of car doors as foster parents or older siblings dropped them off. A few graduates came in, waving at Jordan. The space between childhood and adulthood didn’t exist for them in the same unyielding way it did for government services. What Jordan wanted to provide for all the kids she supported, regardless of when they turned nineteen, was constancy and care. She considered it a success when the graduates returned.

  “Hey.”

  Jordan tried not to flinch when she heard Ali’s voice, unexpectedly close and undeniably familiar. When she turned around, the laughter in Ali’s eyes said she’d failed miserably.

  “Hey,” Jordan said. She couldn’t think of a single other word to say.

  “You always did scare easily,” Ali said.

  “And you always found it weirdly entertaining.” She wondered, maybe a little late, if she should be encouraging this connection. That’s why she’d been awake so much of the night.

  “You’ve got more ink than I remember,” Ali said, nodding at Jordan’s bicep.

  Jordan looked down briefly. “I had no i
nk when you knew me.”

  “True. But it was just a matter of time.”

  Before Jordan could interpret Ali’s words, Madi approached.

  “How well do you two know each other, exactly?” Madi said, pulling her long hair into a braid. She obviously intended to work out tonight.

  “Just our last year of high school,” Jordan said. Her being gay wasn’t a secret and never had been. Specifics were not necessarily open for discussion, however.

  Madi continued to eye Jordan and then Ali while she tied off her braid and tossed it over her shoulder. “It’s cute the way you think that answers my question. I’m trying to establish the nature and depth of your history, not the exact year you met.”

  Jordan loved this kid. She really did. But she absolutely did not want to answer this question. Ali clearly had other ideas.

  “We dated. I guess we weren’t that much younger than you.”

  Madi gave Jordan a triumphant look before turning her attention more fully to Ali.

  “So we’re talking young love, then. What was Jordan like? I’m imagining she was angry and wounded, maybe discovering her sexuality, all seething—”

  “Enough, Madi,” Jordan said, smiling even as she put down the boundary. “My story and my life.”

  Madi grimaced at Jordan, though she clearly wasn’t surprised by the rebuke. “Fine. But if you really don’t want everyone to know Ali is your ex, you’re going to have to stop looking all dopey and bashful when she’s around.” Madi jerked her chin over at the circuits where most of the kids were now warming up. “These guys will know in five minutes you’ve tapped it.”