Sparring
Scarlett
It’s just after six in the morning and I’ve finally made it to the gym before the busy time. By seven, I know it will be packed.
I love the smell of metal and lemon cleaner. Before everyone gets in and ruins it with the stench of sweat and blood. I pull my wraps on as I climb into the ring. Ricco adjusts the pads on his hands.
“You’re late,” he says without looking at me.
“Oh stop, I’m early.”
He grunts and steps into place. I know he’s not a morning person, even after owning a gym that opens at five for the last twenty years.
“Let’s see what you’ve got. Clock’s ticking Scar.”
I square up and start bouncing on the balls of my feet. My first jab hits his pad—it’s sharp and clean. Ricco shifts and lines up for the next shot.
“Again.”
I move through combinations as he calls them out.
Sweat runs down my forehead and a warmth surrounds my muscles.
I can’t stop the clutter of thoughts from flooding my head.
The decision of what to do after I graduate next year has been weighing on me.
My mind clears a little bit more with every hit.
“Is this ballet, kid?” I know he’s pushing me whenever he throws kid in there. “Hit like it matters.”
“It always matters.” I fire back without thinking. He drops his hands for a moment.
“Then show it.” He lifts the pads back into position.
I exhale and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. We go again. Failure isn’t an option. I strike at Ricco, my fists controlled but quick. Every punch I throw has purpose.
After a few more solid rounds, Ricco steps back.
“That’s better. You’re still in your head, but it’s better,” he says.
“You’re so comforting.” I roll my eyes.
“I’m not your therapist, Scarlett. I’m here to make sure you don’t break.” He grabs my shoulder and squeezes it. I smile at him. He’s gotten me through more hard times than he’ll ever know.
“Get out of here, you’re going to be late for class,” he chuckles.
I glance at the clock over the change room door. Shit. I jump through the ring ropes, head toward my locker, and grab my clothes to get ready for class.
“Same time tomorrow?” I yell over my shoulder at Ricco as I run out of the gym.
“I’ll be here.” He nods his head toward me.
I unlock the car and throw my bag in the back seat. As I slip behind the wheel and drive to school, my phone rings. I lift it to see who’s calling.
Mom.
I don’t have the energy for this. I decline the call. Two minutes later, my phone rings again.
Mom.
She’s not giving up this morning. I might as well answer and say that I’m heading into class—an exit strategy.
“Hi Mom.” My voice is flat.
“Hi baby. Oh Scarlett.” I roll my eyes. “I miss you so much. When are you coming over?” Her questions are always so dramatic.
“I’m not sure right now, things are busy with school.”
“You can only use that excuse so many times Scarlett.” Her tone changes. “I live eight minutes from the school you know.”
“I know Mom, I will try to pop by next week. I’m just pulling in. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Don’t be a stranger, sweetheart. I’m your mother.” I’m sure she meant the extra emphasis on the last word.
“I know Mom, bye, talk to you later.”
“I love you so much honey.”
“You too.” I end the call and throw my phone on the passenger seat.
“Ugh!” There are no close spots and I’ll have to book it across the parking lot.
Mom’s voice triggered an anxiety I thought I wouldn’t deal with today. I rush across campus as the weight in my chest turns into a dull ache. A mother is supposed to provide comfort, not agony. As I pick up speed, I fight the growing heaviness between my ribs.
I hope Professor Bugley didn’t lock the door again, I can’t afford to miss any more of this class.
I quickly glide through the crowds in the hall, books in one arm and my laptop bag over the other.
Just then, I slam into something hard, and my books hit the floor with a loud bang.
Him. In shock, I feel a firm hand anchor my arm.
“Watch where you’re going next time.” His tone is low and annoyed.
My gaze traces up his broad chest, from the expensive fabric of his jacket to the sharp lines of his jaw.
Callum Mercer. His fingers dig into me as his hand remains wrapped around my arm, not hard enough to bruise, but strong enough to feel it.
Sparks shoot through my skin like lightning.
He doesn’t move.
“Sorry.” I stare into his eyes as he lets go of my arm.
Although his hand is no longer there, the area burns like he’s left his mark on me.
I bend over and pick up my books. He doesn’t try and help.
Instead, he just stands there and watches me struggle, like he’s never helped anyone a day in his life.
He doesn’t say anything as I walk past, clutching my books tight.
“Dick,” I whisper.
As I continue down the hall, I look back. He stands there and watches me, his face is flat and emotionless, like I’m his prey and he’s prepared to hunt.
What the hell just happened.
I finally get to class and find an empty seat near the back. Professor Bugley faces the board and points at a graph on the screen. Thank God she didn’t notice me coming in late. I open my laptop with shaky fingers and sigh. My cheeks burn, still flushed from my interaction with Callum.
Hours turn into minutes. Before I know it, class finishes, and I can’t get out fast enough. I pace through the halls, hurry to my car, and throw my bag in the passenger seat.
It’s only two in the afternoon and I’m exhausted. My bed is calling me—and so is Dad’s lasagna from last night.
As I slowly back out of the parking spot, my eyes flicker to the rear-view mirror. A tall, distant figure steps into frame. My foot hovers over the brake. Callum.
His face is unreadable, and he clearly doesn't see me, but he has that same quiet intensity about him. He moves with precision, like he belongs in every room he walks into but despises his own presence.
He approaches his sleek black Jaguar XF and glances up as I slowly drive by. For a split second, our eyes lock.
I blink and my heart pounds against my ribs. Callum disappears into the driver’s seat of his car, hiding behind the black tinted glass. There’s a mysteriousness about him that I’m drawn to, something I’ve never noticed until now.
My fingers tingle against the steering wheel as I drive off. What was it about this glance that keeps me thinking about him? Although he only looked at me for a second, it feels like he’s been watching me for much longer.
There’s a part of me that itches to crack him open, and to figure out what makes his brain tick.