Chapter 1 The Job #6
“No,” he mutters, scribbling something in a logbook. “What’s on your mind, kid?”
It sounds like a friendly invitation to spill my guts, and maybe that’s exactly what I’d do if Bruiser was a trusty uncle who visited me at Thanksgiving and told me war stories on the back porch—but he’s not. He’s my boss. And gut spillages don’t happen in your boss’s office.
“Uh, nothing, really.” I lean one shoulder against the doorjamb. “I just wanted to say I straightened up the mitts and gloves. And I wiped down the heavy bags. Do you want me to mop the floor?”
“Nah, I’ve got it. You can go now. You must be tired.”
“I’m fine.” I straighten up, in case the leaning posture is making me look like a weak pansy-ass who can’t stand upright. “It was a great class. I think everyone enjoyed it.”
Bruiser grunts. “Well, that’s disappointing. I don’t want them to enjoy it. I want to make them suffer.”
“Oh, they did suffer. But… I mean… I think they had a good time suffering.”
Bruiser falls silent, studying something in the logbook. He’s not even listening anymore. This conversation isn’t exactly going how I expected. God, diplomacy is torture. I wish I could come right out and ask him what I want to ask him.
Did I do a good job tonight?
Am I doing something wrong?
Do I even have a shot at being an instructor, or are you just waiting for the week to be over so you can put someone else on trial?
“Saw you working with Steve earlier,” Bruiser says out of nowhere, muttering more to his fist than me. “That kid really responds to you.”
It’s not the compliment I was expecting (or fishing for), but it still makes something light up in my chest. “He reminds me of my little brother. I have three of them, so I’m used to working with younger kids.”
Bruiser nods absently. “That’s good. He could use a big brother.”
And that, apparently, is all my boss has left to say to me. He rises from the desk and trudges to the broom closet, grabbing the mop and pail to finish cleaning up the gym.
“Next night class is Thursday. Guess I’ll see you then.”
“Guess so,” I murmur, my gaze drifting to the clutter of frames on the wall.
More boxing and MMA stuff, but also a few military photos scattered throughout.
I see at least two more pictures of Bruiser the Younger standing next to the rock-on guy from the shot in the other room.
They must have been pretty good friends to take up this much real estate on his walls.
“You never told me where that picture was taken,” I say.
Bruiser glances over his shoulder at me, like he’s surprised I haven’t left yet. “What picture?”
“The one out there of you with some guys in front of a Humvee. This one looks like it was taken in the same place.” I point to the framed shot of him and Mr. Rock-on, geared up and looking badass with their shades and rifles, a beastly helicopter looming in the background.
Bruiser knows which one I mean without looking. “Ramadi,” he answers.
When it becomes obvious from my facial expression that I have no idea where Ramadi is, he clarifies, “Iraq.”
I nod slowly, wondering if I should shut my mouth now and go home. But, as usual, my curiosity gets the better of me. I can’t help asking, “What was it like over there?”
Bruiser grunts, kicking the closet door shut. “Hot.”
I can tell that’s as much of a war story as I’m going to get out of him.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you Thursday, sir.”
“See you, kid.”
On Thursday, I don’t make the mistake of touching Princess Leia. In fact, I do my level best to avoid her like a highly contagious plague—I don’t speak to her, don’t look at her, don’t acknowledge her existence in any way, shape, or form.
Unfortunately, she notices my sudden case of Leiaphobia and hunts me down during one of Bruiser’s no-rest breaks. He has us all on the floor doing pushup punches, and somehow Leia manages to teleport herself across the room and materialize right beside me.
“Why are you avoiding me tonight?” she asks between pushups, shooting me an accusatory pout over her shoulder.
“I’m not… avoiding you. I just don’t want to cause any trouble.”
She grunts, pressing up into a plank and throwing a punch toward the mirror. “What did Devon say to you?”
“Nothing. He just… He told me you guys are dating.”
“Yeah, we are. So what?”
“So he doesn’t want me working one-on-one with you.”
“Is that what he said? Verbatim?”
God, she’s a sucker for detail, isn’t she? I blast through the final twenty seconds of pushup punches, then straighten up and meet her gaze—keeping my voice low in case the R.O.U.S. has ears as sharp as his radar vision.
“He said there would be serious consequences if I didn’t stay the hell away from you. He also called me ‘punk.’ Verbatim.”
Leia rolls her eyes, but she’s smirking like she’s not at all surprised. Like she wanted this to happen. “He’s such a dickwad.”
“He’s your boyfriend.”
“So? That doesn’t mean he owns me. It was his stupid idea to even sign up for this boxing class. If I’m not going to be allowed to speak to whomever I want while I’m here, then I’ll quit.”
Bruiser claps his hands and calls for the next round of drills on the focus mitts. It’s the perfect opportunity to evacuate this conversation, but before I can turn away, Leia grabs my elbow—claws out.
“You’ll be my partner for this round, Weston.”
I stiffen, glancing down the row at Devon in his obnoxious S&S hoodie. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why? Are you afraid of him?” Her gaze roams over my shoulders and arms. “Because, honestly, you look like you could handle him in a fight.”
“I’m not afraid of him, Leia. I just don’t want to lose my job over a stupid misunderstanding.”
“Cut the chitchat,” Bruiser interrupts, thrusting a pair of focus mitts at me. “Get busy.”
In one last-ditch effort to escape, I scan the gym to see if anyone is missing a partner—but unfortunately, the odds are not in my favor. The odds are… even. And that leaves me stuck with Princess Leia.
She smiles wickedly, shoving her hands into her boxing gloves and extending her arms toward me. “Help me with the straps, would you?”
Begrudgingly, I tighten the Velcro around her wrists, then step back to put some space between us.
I guess it won’t hurt to work with her for this one round. It’s just part of the job. That’s what I tell myself. What would Bruiser do? More importantly, What will Bruiser think of me if I shy away from working with a student just because I don’t want to piss off her sweat-towel-wearing boyfriend?
I think I know the answer.
So for the rest of the night, I do my job and keep Leia at arm’s length, hoping she’ll get sick of my one-word responses to her questions and give up this game of cat-and-mouse she’s playing. Or maybe it’s a game of mouse-and-mousetrap. Devon being the mousetrap. Leia being the cheese.
Does she think I’m dumb enough to bite?
I’m not. Even if I wanted to bite. Even if I were single and desperate for love and she and I hit it off and I started fantasizing about what our future children would look like, I would still not bite because I know how the game of mouse-and-mousetrap ends.
With a broken neck.
Still, I have to give the girl an A for effort.
She shadows me all night, staging eerily coincidental encounters.
When the class scrambles around the gym between each set of drills, Leia’s orbit just happens to intersect with mine.
Not once, not twice, but seven times. At one point, Bruiser tells me to go get some sparring gear from the storage room in the back, and Leia pops up right behind me like an unwanted imaginary friend.
“Can I help carry anything?”
I politely refuse and stagger clumsily away from her, my arms full of gear.
The R.O.U.S. is watching my every move. I catch him glaring at me when I come out of the storage room, fleeing from his girlfriend.
I hope he realizes that she’s the one stalking me, not the other way around.
Anyone with half a brain could see that.
But I’m not sure Devon has half a brain. Possibly three-eighths of a brain.
We do some light sparring for the last fifteen minutes of class, and by complete accident (of course), the stars align to bring me into some friendly hand-to-hand combat with none other than Princess Leia.
I’m regretting ever calling her that silly nickname.
I’m regretting ever making her laugh.
But it’s okay. I’m safe because I’m in a crowded, sweaty gym, and it’s plain to see that through no fault of my own, this girl is stuck on me. Literally stuck. Like a piece of tape on my fingers, I can’t seem to shake her off.
When eight o’clock rolls around, everyone parts ways.
Devon and Leia walk out hand in hand, her glancing over her shoulder at me as I tidy up the gym.
As soon as that door swings shut, I feel my whole body relax.
One more class tomorrow night, and then I won’t have to see her for the entire weekend.
Maybe by then she’ll be over her game of mouse-and-mousetrap.
I feel hopeful for the future as I finish wiping down the heavy bags and stick my head in Bruiser’s office. As usual, I ask him if there’s anything else I can help with.
As usual, he answers no and then folds his brawny hands on the desk, giving me his full attention. “You okay, kid?”
I hesitate. “Yeah… why?”
“You disappeared into the back during the second warmup. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t…” He shrugs. “Wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
I was hoping he’d been too busy brutalizing everyone to care about where I went.
But I guess a guy like Bruiser notices everything.
I don’t want to tell him what I was doing.
I don’t want to tell him I have blisters coming on my stumps from working out for two hours straight in sweat-drenched socks.
I don’t want to tell him how good it felt to take off my prostheses and towel-dry my legs, to just sit there for a few minutes in the privacy of the storage room and let myself breathe.