Chapter 1 The Job #4
Bruiser stops short just outside the gym entrance, watching the last student vanish around the corner of the block. He casts me a glance, seeming to understand why I’m standing here like an idiot instead of sprinting with the rest of the class.
“You can sit this one out, kid.”
Something about the way he says it makes my jaw twitch. “It’s not that I can’t run, sir. I can—pretty damn fast, actually. But I need to wear my blades.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just stay here.” With that, he takes off jogging in the other direction—to meet the class halfway and cheer them on.
Although, to be honest, Bruiser’s idea of cheering is more like jeering.
I can hear his voice booming from down the street: “Come on, my grandmother runs faster than that! Get your hands up! Are we sprinting or strolling? MOVE IT!”
I sigh, leaning back against the wall and crossing my arms over my chest. It kills me to sit out a sprint—especially when I know I could outrun all the students in this class.
Maybe tomorrow I can bring my running blades in my backpack and switch prostheses in the bathroom.
But when would I have a spare few minutes to do that?
Sprinting is part of the warmup. There’s no time to change.
Besides, I can’t wear long pants with my blades—they get in the way.
I curse under my breath, tipping my head back against the wall.
There’s no way around it. I’m doomed to the sidelines.
But I refuse to let this setback bring me down. So what? I can’t sprint around the block. I can do everything else.
Moments later, the runners return—out of breath and glistening with sweat. I offer each one of them a congrats and a high-five as they file back through the door into the gym. All except one—a guy around my age wearing a cutoff hoodie and an irritated frown.
“How’d you get off the hook?” he challenges, slitting his eyes at me.
“I didn’t,” I fire back with a shit-eating grin. “Guess I just ran so fast, you didn’t see me.”
He scoffs and shakes his head, trudging inside.
That’s when I see the back of his hoodie, which is emblazoned with the emblem for Sawyer-Simms Academy.
Ah, good old S then wham, they’re curled up in the fetal position on the floor, cradling their sides.
Bruiser uses me to demonstrate a few more blocking techniques, then tells everyone to pick a heavy bag and start working the same combos, tagging a block onto the end of each one.
We go hard for five rounds, three minutes each, pausing to take exactly two breaths before the bell rings again and Bruiser is yelling at us to move our asses.
I can’t help but feel like I’m just another student in the group, sweating bullets and pounding sand.
Aside from playing the dummy for that blocking demonstration, I don’t seem to be “helping” much at all.
Is this a job or a free ticket to boxing class?
When we return to focus mitts for the last fifteen minutes, fate brings Devon and me together as partners.
The guy was huffing and puffing until he realized he was going to face off with me.
Now he seems to have caught a second wind—hissing through his teeth as he pounds the piss out of my focus mitts.
“Quit lunging for me, dude,” I tell him. “I’ll meet your shots halfway.”
Devon scowls, rolling his shoulders back. “I’m not lunging.”
“Yeah, you are. It’s throwing off your stance. See, your heel is coming way off the ground every time you throw—”
“If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”
I shrug. “Just trying to help.”
“Well, I don’t need your help.”
“Switch!” Bruiser calls out.
The sound of ripping Velcro fills the gym as we swap gloves with our partners. Princess Leia tosses her glitter bombs to the woman she’s working with and sneaks me a loaded glance. It’s impossible to miss the sympathetic smile on her lips. Did she hear what Devon just said to me?
As I watch my delightful partner jam his sweaty hands into the focus mitts, I realize he deserves a movie character nickname, too. But try as I might, I can’t think of a good Hollywood comparison—except maybe a Rodent of Unusual Size.
For two grueling, glorious hours, I pour my sweat out on the floor of Bruiser’s Boxing Gym. The first class disperses at seven, and a new group shows up, at which point my boss-for-now pulls me aside and says, “Why don’t you take a break during this warmup?”
“I don’t need a break,” I argue, and it’s true—I don’t. I may be sore as hell, and my stumps may be sweaty and throbbing inside the sockets of my prosthetic legs, but I’m not going to take a break.
I can’t.
Not if I want to prove I’m strong enough for this job.
So I suck it up and go hard for the next hour, blocking out everything else and just focusing on the work.
That’s all there is.
The next round.
The next combination.
The next ’80s rock song, motivating me to keep moving.
By the time eight o’clock rolls around, Bruiser looks about ready to kick me out of his gym. It’s just the two of us, cleaning up the scattered equipment and boxing gloves.
This is the part where he’s supposed to launch into a heartfelt speech about how impressed he is with my dedication and hard work.
Just like in sports movies, that iconic scene between coach and athletic hero where the lights are dim and emotional violin music plays softly in the background and the tough-to-impress coach slaps the athlete’s shoulder and says, “I didn’t think you had it in you, kid.
I was wrong. You’re destined for greatness. ”