Chapter 1 The Job #8
Instead, we do something better. We kiss, silent and slow. Then Tessa slides closer and rests her head on my shoulder, and I put my arm around her and lean my cheek against her strawberry-scented hair. We watch the sunset fade together. We say everything we need to, with no words at all.
And it’s much better than washing my mouth out with soap.
“Okay, here’s how this is going down.” Bruiser stands in front of the class, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his voice as solemn and diehard as a military general leading his men into battle.
The boxing ring looms behind him, hungry for a sparring match.
“I want two of you in the ring at a time. You’re going to put together everything we’ve been working on this week.
Whoever lands five points first stays in; loser steps out.
We’ll keep rotating until you all get three rounds in. Understood?”
We all nod and murmur our acknowledgment; then Leia’s hand pops up with a question.
I don’t look in her direction. In fact, I haven’t looked at her once since last night when she tried to seduce me on the sidewalk.
Stay away from me, I warned her. But that door swings both ways—so tonight I’m doing my best to pretend she doesn’t exist.
Bruiser grants her permission to speak, and she asks, “Will girls have to spar with the boys? Because that wouldn’t be very fair.”
This seems to amuse Bruiser for about 0.2 seconds. “No. You’ll be splitting into two groups—ladies and gentlemen. Ladies, drill your combos on the bags while I work the gents in the ring. If you don’t know whether you’re a lady or a gent… there’s the door.” He claps. “Let’s get busy.”
As we put on our boxing gloves and headgear, I can’t help but notice Devon shooting daggers at me. What is this guy’s problem? I wouldn’t touch his girlfriend with a ten-foot pole, especially after…
Oh. Shit.
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks.
He knows.
Last night when Leia kissed me on the sidewalk, she said Devon was at the liquor store—but he must not have been in there the whole time.
He must have walked out at the worst possible moment and seen me and his girlfriend lip-locked down the street.
From that distance, he wouldn’t be able to tell who had initiated the kiss.
He would only have seen us. Together. Her hands on my neck. My keys on the ground.
It was nothing. But Devon doesn’t know that. And now he’s looking at me like he can’t wait to get me in the ring so he can bust my balls.
But to be honest, the R.O.U.S. is the least of my worries.
I don’t care who I’m going up against. I need to fight hard, fight smart, fight my absolute best. I need to prove that I belong here.
I deserve to be here—not because someone’s doing me a favor or feeling bad for me, but because I’m a good boxer.
Bruiser set the stakes last night when he looked me in the eye and said, I want to make sure you know what you’re getting into. He thinks that when push comes to shove, I won’t have what it takes.
Tonight, I’m determined to prove him wrong.
He’s in the ring now, acting as ref while two guys go at each other—Gaines and Robinson.
I’ve worked with them both over the past week and seen their strengths and weaknesses up close.
Now they circle each other in the ring, trying to land a point, while Bruiser shouts at them to “Move it! Keep your hands up. Come on, let’s work! ”
I warm up with some shadowboxing on the sidelines as I watch the sparring match and note what combos these guys are throwing.
Robinson keeps going for the head—jab, jab, hook.
Favors the left. Dips to the right. Gaines is a taker.
He’ll stand there all day and swat away punches until his opponent is panting and tired.
That’s when he moves in and lands a solid uppercut to the chest.
“Five!” Bruiser calls out, hand up to signal the end of the round. He gives Robinson a reassuring smack on the shoulder. “Step in; step out.”
I’m ready to come on his command, but to my annoyance, Devon goes first. Something in me bristles as I watch Bruiser waving over the R.O.U.S., lifting the rope so he can step into the ring.
No big deal, I tell myself. My turn will come.
In the meantime, I study Devon’s fighting style. Sure, I’ve been watching him all week and resisting the urge to correct his form—but shit is different when you’re facing off with another person whose goal is to end you.
Devon is a doer. I guessed that from the moment I first met him, but now he proves it by blasting Gaines like a punching bag—going as hard as he can and landing two points in the first minute.
But when his opponent comes back with a body shot, Devon retreats with surprise, like he’s never been hit so hard in his life.
Pansy-ass.
I’m waiting for Gaines to control the fight like he did in his first round—sticking to defense and waiting until his opponent is good and tired before popping back.
But Devon has better technique than I gave him credit for.
He’s not just aggressive, he’s lightning fast, nailing shots before Gaines can react to block.
A few minutes into it, Bruiser calls, “Four-two!”
And then Devon lunges forward, landing a hook to Gaines’s ribs.
“Five!” Bruiser taps Gaines’s sweat-soaked shoulder. “Step out.” He turns and locks eyes with me. “Weston, you’re in.”
Well, how’s that for luck?
Out of all the students I could spar with tonight, it would have to be the one guy who wants to kill me.
Maybe I shouldn’t be happy about that. Maybe a normal person would be reluctant to step into that ring, scared of the bodily injury that could occur when facing a homicidal prep school brat who caught you kissing his girlfriend the night before.
But, ever the optimist, my first thought is, Perfect.
Devon will try his best to destroy me. And I’ll give just as good as I get. And if that doesn’t convince Bruiser I can take the heat, nothing will.
As I duck under the rope and step into the ring, I feel like this is the most important fight of my life. Like somehow, every single moment has led up to this. Sure, I’ve been in a lot of sparring matches—but most of them have been with my best friend, and I’ve had nothing to lose.
This is different.
This means something. To all three of us.
Bruiser shouts, “Come on, let’s work!”
Devon snaps into action—driving forward with a jab, straight right, uppercut. I swat his shots away like flies, moving around the ring, positioning him where I want him.
Get your anger out now, punk.
Some boxers would dodge out of range, but that’s not how I fight.
Blame it on the prosthetic legs—they make me slower on my feet than most fighters, but I’ve learned to use it to my advantage.
I’ve become a brawler—leaning into the danger zone, rolling with punches instead of darting away from them.
I may have slow feet, but at least I’ve got fast reflexes.
I block, block, block while Devon hits, hits, hits.
He’s a machine, mad as hell. I’m a punching bag with arms. And who expects a punching bag to fight back?
Devon doesn’t. My defense makes him cocky, and he puts his hands down.
Rookie error. When I finally throw something real, he’s not ready. And I nail him right in the chest.
“One-zero!” Bruiser calls.
Devon apparently doesn’t like being zero. He unleashes another combination, but I dip out of the way before his hook can score. I pop back with a headshot of my own and land it—knocking him off balance for a split second.
“Two-zero!”
If Devon wasn’t homicidal before, he sure as hell is now. I see a flash of rage flare in his eyes as he straightens up, moving in for the kill.
Suddenly my back is against the ropes, and Devon’s gloves are hammering me in the face. Jab, jab, jab, hook. My hands shoot up to block, and he uppercuts me in the stomach.
“Two-one!” Bruiser calls his point.
Devon doesn’t back off—he keeps me pinned to the ropes, gloves blurring as he flurries me like a madman.
“Break, break, break!” Bruiser rushes over to pry us apart. Devon backs off, hands up, fury in his eyes. “Two-one, go!”
I surge forward, adrenaline coursing through my whole body as I throw a hard jab and nail him in the headgear, then follow it with a straight right.
“Three-one!” Bruiser calls.
And that’s when I make a mistake.
I get cocky.
I think to myself, I’m going to beat this pansy-ass.
And at first, it feels damn good. To know I’m blowing Bruiser’s mind right now—proving I have the guts and skill to do this. I can already imagine the conversation we’ll have tonight in his office after everyone goes home.
I didn’t think you had it in you, kid. I was wrong. The job’s yours.
I move in with another combination, but Devon back-steps out of range. Maybe he’s catching on at this point. Maybe it’s finally dawned on him that I’m not going to shy away from his hits. I could stand here and take it all day, while he bounces around gasping for air like a fish out of water.
When I step forward, he steps back—retreating toward the ropes.
I close in, pinning him in the corner to give him a taste of his own medicine. It might not be the smartest move, but I’m hungry for those last two points. Hungry for victory. Hungry to make Bruiser proud.
I drive forward with a jab-hook combo. Devon drops into a crouch and ducks out of the way, spinning me around. In a flash, we swap positions—and now I’m the one blocked in the corner.
He blitzes me with a flurry of jabs to the face. So fast, I can’t do anything but brace my hands up to block. I’m all defense, and he’s all jab, jab, jab, jab, jab, then—wham.
He hooks me in the side with a liver shot.