Chapter 5
Tiernan
Arlo’s fatigue is showing. Diesel found him nodding off while sweeping the break room earlier. Of course, he wasted no time calling me out about it. That’s D always looking out for everyone.
“Your boy’s fading fast, T. You working him too hard? Last night must have been a rough one.”
“He’s not my boy,” I protest weakly.
“The hell he’s not. Lie to yourself if you want but that man couldn’t possibly be more your type.”
I say nothing because he’s right, but I’m trying to ignore all that and be a responsible boss.
“I think it’s more than only one rough night,” I say after a few moments of silence.
Diesel gives me an encouraging smile.
“I’m sure you’ll get it sorted, T. You always do.”
Our conversation lingers. I keep going back to Diesel saying Arlo’s mine. I’ve got no business thinking like that, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Even though I know he’s way too young for me and also my employee. Although Diesel didn’t seem to think age or employment were an issue.
My hands keep finding excuses to touch him. It’s almost automatic by now. If he’s around, I’m moving closer, patting his shoulder or his back. He sticks close to me, too. I like it way too much. He’s been such an immense help, lightening my load in totally unexpected ways.
“Who organized the storage room, because they are my new favorite person.” Tank announces, walking in from the back with an armload of supplies. Tank has only one volume—way too loud. “And I know it wasn’t you, T, because you’ve been avoiding it for months.”
“That was me.” Arlo says, his soft voice barely loud enough to be heard.
“I knew it! You nailed it. It’s goddamn outstanding.
” Tank claps him on the back, almost knocking him over.
Without a thought, I take a step toward Tank, fists clenched at my side, ready to jump to Arlo’s defense, but his beautiful smile is back, so I stay silent.
Tank’s shocked face lets me know he’s aware he used too much force, and for once he doesn’t turn it into a joke.
“Thanks, Tank.” Arlo’s cheeks pinken, glowing with the praise. I stay back, watching him bloom, while I do everything in my power to keep the rumblings of affection buried deep.
Arlo helps with the weigh-ins. Tonight is only for my fighters, but once a month we do an exhibition night with other gyms around the city.
We get a decent crowd, and if we’re lucky, a promoter will stop by scouting for new fighters.
Regardless, safety is my number one priority, which is why I referee any sparring, exhibition or otherwise. I don’t take any chances with my guys.
Spectators arrive, mostly family and friends. A couple of fighters from other gyms show up, guys I’ve worked with before.
Open spar night has its own energy, not the same as a legitimate match, but still exhilarating. It seeps into me as we make the final preparations. I turn the ceiling fans up high, checking the room for any last-minute issues.
Tank has his pop playlist on the speakers, loud enough to hear but not be disruptive. For once. Anvil is cornering for Diesel, so they’re deep in conversation over by the cage. Arlo is doing a final check of the restrooms. Ten minutes to “go” time and I actually feel prepared.
“Bathrooms are stocked and ready, boss, “ Arlo says, coming up behind me.
The crowd is getting louder, and he moves closer. I put my hand on his lower back to steer him toward an unoccupied corner where I can monitor him from the cage. I’m getting the feeling crowds aren’t his thing. He stiffens slightly at my touch before yielding. My possessive side eats it up.
“Hang out here. I won’t need you until the matches are done.”
He nods, tightening his grip on his backpack as he makes himself comfortable. He’s as secure as I can make him without locking him in my office.
“Uh don’t you want to put that backpack in your locker?” I ask him.
He shakes his head with a frown.
“No. I uh like to keep it with me.”
I shrug. I have questions, but now isn’t the time.
One of my amateurs, Santiago “Saint” Ibarra, moves to stand near Arlo’s corner, giving me a silent nod.
Saint is the embodiment of his nickname.
He’s not on tonight’s card. He strained his left calf muscle, so he’s resting it this week.
The tightness in my chest loosens knowing Saint is watching over him, and I head to the cage, heart lighter.
We’ve got a rowdy crowd tonight, which is always good for the fighters. Gets them hyped up, but not too much. Reyes told me he had a large family, but I think I underestimated them. It’s standing room only tonight, warming up in here despite all the fans. The big gym lights just add to the heat.
I put Diesel up against the new guy, Reyes. I haven’t seen him spar yet, but Diesel is a proficient instructor, especially with the new guys. He’s got enough skill to counter any stupid moves and enough experience to teach them a few things, plus he knows how I feel about safe sparring.
Reyes opens with a left jab. Diesel slips outside, rolling his upper body left. Hit goes nowhere. Reyes follows quickly with a cross, but Diesel parries, deflecting it across his body. I nod, and they both reset.
Reyes throws a low outside kick, but Diesel checks it, lifting his leg and turning his shin into the kick. Before Reyes can react, Diesel comes at him with a single shot of controlled power that catches Reyes on his headgear. Not too hard—Diesel knows better.
The crowd responds by chanting D’s name. He’s a favorite around here, but it helps that most of his family is here, too. If there’s anything I envy him for, it’s his family. They’re solidly supportive of everything in his life, and that’s something I never had.
“Hands up after every combo.” I tell them both.
Reyes adjusts, bringing his guard up.
I shoot a quick glance at Arlo. His eyes are wide and glued to the cage with intense interest. I like it far too much.
It’s not long before Diesel has him down on the mat. Reyes tries to frame, but there’s no leverage. He tries to turn, but Diesel adjusts his base easily.
Reyes taps twice.
Diesel is off him before the second tap, hand out to help him up.
I check them both over, then call the round. Reyes is breathing hard, but he’s unhurt, at least physically. Gonna take a minute for his ego to recover.
“Kid’s okay. Needs work on the mat. I’ll set aside some time next week.” Diesel says.
I nod, grateful for the assist.
“Thanks, D.”
Before the next match starts, I check on Arlo.
He’s asleep, death grip on his backpack, head leaning against the wall.
Out like a light. I want to carry him to the couch in my office and insist he get some rest, but I know better.
He wouldn’t appreciate it. Saint has positioned himself close enough to partially shield Arlo from the crowd.
I take a moment to appreciate how lucky I am in my friendships.
That’s when something clicks and all the pieces come together.
The lack of sleep. His only other outfit stuffed in his backpack. How he zealously guards that thing as if it’s his most prized possession.
Because it is.
Arlo doesn’t get any sleep at home because he doesn’t have one.
Once I see it, I don’t know how I missed it.
Doesn’t matter. I just need to fix it.