Chapter 1 The Job #3
Bruiser gives a single nod, his jaw hardening. “Okay.” He looks a little sick to his stomach, which really helps to boost my confidence. I try to remember what Tessa said last night, her voice so strong and sure. Something about being myself… It’s all a flickering shadow behind a dense haze.
I could leave right now. I could walk out that door and forget about this idea. I could find a job somewhere else, anywhere else.
No. That’s a pansy-ass move.
So I suck it up and get to work, shoving the whole awkward incident to the back of my mind. I force myself to not think about it. To be myself.
Confident. Devil-may-care. That’s what Tessa says I am.
So screw it. That’s what I’ll be.
Bruiser tells me to start with shadowboxing, facing the mirror. While he turns on some Black Sabbath, I get in the zone—checking my form in the reflection, throwing easy jabs as I move lightly on my feet. It’s a showdown between me and myself, in more ways than one.
Once I’m sufficiently warmed up (aka sweating), Bruiser has me move on to the heavy bag, giving me the option to wear boxing gloves if I want to.
I refuse, going bare-fisted instead (if only to prove I’m not a pansy-ass).
It’s brutal to work combos on an unfamiliar bag.
I don’t know any of the soft spots, but I remind myself, This is good. Show him what you’re capable of.
Bruiser stands by with a stopwatch, watching with his shredded arms crossed over his chest. As each round gets longer, each break gets shorter. Three minutes on. One minute off. Four minutes on. Thirty seconds off. Five minutes on. Ten seconds off.
“Breathe, kid.” He says it like he’s about to push me into the deep end. Or maybe he just says it because I’m gasping for air like I’m going to pass out. “Five… four… three… two… go, go, go, don’t stop!”
I flurry the bag like my life depends on it, fists blurring in front of my face, heart thundering in my ears. I don’t realize my knuckles have split open until I see my blood smearing the bag.
I guess I should have taken the gloves.
“Slow down, kid. Give me combos of five. No repeats or you’ll be doing knuckle pushups afterwards.”
I grit my teeth and push through the pain, racking my brain for unique combos of five.
Jab, straight right, left hook, right hook, uppercut.
Jab, jab, left hook, straight right, uppercut.
Jab, left hook, jab, uppercut, straight right.
I try to mix up every combo, making sure I don’t throw any of them twice in the same order. But that’s not a simple task when you’re in the middle of dying.
Bruiser calls me out whenever I slip up with a sharp, “Saw that!” or “Don’t you dare!” He stands on the other side of the bag, watching me pour it all out, stony-faced. I embrace the agony, the sweat in my eyes, the fire licking over my skin.
I tell myself, I want this. I love this.
But honestly, I can’t wait for him to stop that damn watch.
“Ten seconds—come on. Hands up. Go harder, harder, harder—”
I brutalize the bag like it’s a monster who’s trying to kill Tessa. Stupidly enough, that’s exactly what I need to think about to survive until the end of the round.
“Time.”
I collapse against the heavy bag, gasping and heaving so hard I feel like I might throw up. For a few minutes, I can’t talk. All I can do is stand there with my forehead against the blood-smeared bag, my arms burning, my lungs shuddering.
When I step back, Bruiser is looking at the face of his stopwatch. “How long do you think that last round was?”
“I don’t know. Five minutes?”
“Ten.”
No wonder I almost collapsed.
I’ve never gone so hard for a ten-minute round in my life.
“How many times did you repeat your combos?”
I look down at my knuckles, which are split open and oozing blood.
“I’m not sure.”
“Thirty-six.”
My heart drops. “I guess you want me to give you thirty-six knuckle pushups, then.”
Bruiser shrugs one massive shoulder. “You didn’t want me to go easy on you, kid.”
“That’s right,” I fire back, dropping into a plank on the floor.
I don’t give him thirty-six knuckle pushups.
I give him a hundred.
My arms are shaking by the time I finish, but I don’t care if he sees me weak, gasping for air, gritting my teeth, and swallowing back moans of pain.
I want him to see everything I have.
I want to leave it all on the floor at his feet and let that be what he remembers about me. Even if he never sees me again.
I push off my knuckles and stand up, leaving the floor smeared with my blood.
“Need a break?”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. What’s next?”
Bruiser narrows his dark eyes at me, a smirk twitching at his mouth. For a second, he looks like he did in that picture on the wall—sadistic, indestructible.
“You tell me, kid.”
I wipe the sweat off my brow. “What?”
“Looks like you really want this job.”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Well, you have good form. Endurance. Willingness to go beyond the call of duty.” He eyes the smear of blood I left on the floor. “It’d be kinda dirty of me not to let you give it a shot.”
“Are you saying I’ve got the job?”
Bruiser cocks his head to one side. “You’re on trial, kid. Don’t get too excited. Come back tonight, six to eight. Night classes are the busiest. You can keep an eye on the younger students. If I’m happy with your work by the end of the week… well, then we’ll talk about the job.”
It’s not exactly as satisfying as hearing the words “you’re hired,” but after pouring out my blood and sweat all over the boxing gym floor, I’ll take it.
What’s more, I reach out for a handshake—because I’m not a guy who learns from his mistakes the first time.
To my surprise, Bruiser takes my sweaty, bloody hand in his and gives it a bone-crushing shake.
“See you tonight, kid.”
This time, I wear sweatpants. The hardest part is over, Bruiser knows, and he doesn’t seem to care.
Aside from that awkward cup-smash reaction, he was surprisingly mum about the whole thing.
No staring, no questions about how I lost my legs.
It was like a commercial break had interrupted our otherwise professional and uncomplicated relationship.
A blip of raw, weird emotion—there and gone.
At first, I was worried he might go easy on me. But it’s becoming obvious that Bruiser doesn’t go easy on anyone. It’s not in his blood. He pushed me through boxing drills like I was just your average cocky seventeen-year-old with a point to prove.
Tessa was right—being exactly who I am was enough to impress the guy. Now he knows what I’m capable of, and how hard I’m willing to push myself to win. He won’t go easy on me.
He’s different.
At least, that’s what I think when I show up at the boxing gym that night, fifteen minutes to six.
“Playing it close, kid,” Bruiser mutters, frowning at the face of his watch. “How you feeling?”
“Never been better,” comes my automatic reply.
He grunts. “Good answer.”
A small group of students stretch on the floor, talking as they warm up.
Should I go over and join them? Strike up a conversation and be one of the guys?
Or should I hang back and be intimidating, set apart in the instructor zone with Bruiser?
I haven’t earned my place as his right-hand man, but I’m also not part of the class.
While the rest of the students arrive, I ask Bruiser to talk me through the structure of the class, and he gives me the low-down. Warmup, focus mitts, shadowboxing drills, heavy bag combos, back to focus mitts, then whatever torture he feels like putting us through until the hour is up.
“You can choose a partner when we work in pairs, but don’t choose the same partner twice. Do what the class does. Don’t talk to me unless I talk to you first. And if you need a break, just take it, okay, kid?”
“I won’t need a break,” I say, chin up as I meet his stony gaze. “I can do anything the rest of the class can do.”
Bruiser nods slowly, looking me up and down. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking, but I have a pretty good guess. I’ve seen that look before.
I thought this morning was my test, but now, as the rest of the class gathers in a circle to begin warmups, I realize this is the real test.
Can I keep up when there’s competition?
Of course I can.
In fact, I’ll do more than just keep up.
I’ll outdo every single one of them without breaking a sweat.
I’ll show Bruiser just how much endurance I’m capable of.
How willing I am to go beyond the call of duty.
Everyone will ask Bruiser after class, “Where did you find this guy? He’s incredible!
Superhuman! You should give him a job for life. ”
There are fifteen students in total—mostly twenty- and thirty-somethings, at least one guy in his forties, and a handful of teenagers.
Bruiser introduces me to the class, but doesn’t exactly describe what my role is.
He just says, “Weston will be helping out this week. You can ask him anything you’d ask me.
Or you can ask him anything you’re too scared to ask me. ”
A murmur of dry laughter ripples through the class. Bruiser turns up the music, claps his hands, and tells everyone to get busy.
Game on.
“Welcome to the Jungle” starts playing from the bass-boosted speakers as we start our warmup drills. Three minutes of skipping rope. Three minutes of burpees. Three minutes of shadowboxing. I breeze through it all without breaking a sweat.
Then the buzzer rings, and Bruiser shouts, “Okay, give me a sprint around the block! Last one out the door will be doing knuckle pushups on the cement!”
In a flash, the entire class makes a beeline for the door and takes off, running down the street.
Shit. Didn’t see that coming.
I’m the last one out the door, but knuckle pushups are the last thing on my mind right now.
“Uh, sir?”