Chapter Fifteen
Asher
“Ash!”
I turn towards the coworker calling me. He’s holding one of the punching bags as someone on the other side whales on it with enough force to rock him back.
“Help,” he squeaks out as he’s almost thrown to the floor.
The kid has no business holding the bag in the first place. I glance around as I rush to brace it, looking for the boxing coach, but he seems to be absent. Once I have a good grip, I nod to the kid to back off. He does it warily as if he’s waiting for me to be tossed. I look more delicate than I am.
The beast on the other side of the bag continues, cursing under his breath with every strike. I don’t know how many sets he’s supposed to do, but he doesn’t let up for another twenty minutes.
When his hits weaken, I call out, “Cool down.” He’s going to feel this later, and it will be ten times worse if he doesn’t stretch.
“What do you mean?” A grumbling voice pants, and I lean around the bag to eye him. He’s a foot taller than I am and roped with muscles that are strained and covered in sweat. His dark hair hangs over his face until he swipes a gloved hand over his forehead to see me with hazel eyes.
“I mean, you need a cool down after working that hard. If you don’t, you”re going to hurt yourself. Kind of like you were going to hurt that kid holding your bag.”
He blinks at me in confusion and looks around the mostly empty section.
“He bailed after I took over,” I explain and come out from behind the bag, gesturing him towards the mat.
“Shit, man. Is he ok?”
“Gloves off. And yeah, he’s fine. Probably changing his pants.”
A scoffed laugh comes from behind me, followed by the sound of gloves hitting the mat.
“Pick those up. This isn’t your house,” I automatically tell him and gesture to the cubbies they’re kept in.
He pauses and narrows his eyes on me. I give him a bland look back. “Would you rather present yourself as a slob?”
He rocks back on his heels, glaring at me as he picks up the mess and puts them where they belong, making a big show out of the simple action. I lead him through a cool down and keep an eye out for his teacher, who still hasn’t shown up, while he glares at me and grudgingly follows the movements. When we’re done, I scan him for injuries.
“Rest your hands for the next couple of days and work on your legs,” I suggest as he unwinds his tape.
“You the new teacher or something?” He grumbles.
“No. I’m the guy telling you if you keep up with the shit you were just doing, you will hurt yourself. If that’s the point, then find another gym.”
“I’m just pissed off,” he defends, and honest to God, he pouts. I do a double-take at the expression.
“We’re all pissed off,” I don’t cut him any slack. He’s the kind that would take a mile if you gave him an inch. I can already tell. “Channel it better. You can do it if you actually try.”
I walk away to chew out whoever is supposed to be teaching this guy, leaving him behind.
Two Weeks Later
When I glance out of my office windows, I notice the guy I held a bag for staring at me with a frown. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks, and his wrist is wrapped up. I shake my head, going back to my computer. The guy needs to be reported for his own good.
A knock comes, and I push my glasses back into place to see the guy standing in the doorway.
“You were right,” he says, holding up his arm to show off the bandage.
I don’t respond as I wait for him to get to the point.
“How do I channel it?”
“I don’t teach boxing,” I reply. Apparently, no one does. The teacher keeps disappearing during his shift, and I can’t wait for him to be replaced.
“What do you teach?” He comes inside without being invited and has a seat.
“Go back to the door and ask to come in,” I turn to the computer, dismissing him.
“Why?” He demands, leaning forward as he gets angry.
“Because I didn’t invite you in here, and this isn’t your space,” I reply absently. “It’s called respect.”
He continues sitting there, and I continue with the paperwork. It takes him several minutes before he breaks the silence. “Are you always a dick?”
When I don’t look up, he huffs and returns to the doorway.
“Excuse me,” he exaggerates the polite phrase, “can I come in and ask you a few questions?”
“Have a seat,” I gesture to the chair he just left, and he grumbles as he sits down again. “Thank you for respecting my boundaries.”
He’s quiet as he watches me work. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for, so I glance up. He has an introspective look on his face that I can’t decipher.
“Why flowers?” He seems bewildered at my choice of tattoos.
“To support my sister as a tattoo artist. I made the mistake of telling her I didn’t care what she did.” The highly edited version spills out easily because a lot of people ask about it.
His expression lightens as he laughs. “That would explain one flower. What about the rest?”
“She wanted to carry on the theme,” I deadpan. “I was told guinea pigs never have a choice.”
“Smart,” he chuckles and glances at the pictures I have hung up. There isn’t much.
“I’ve never fallen asleep on her table again,” I agree. I don’t add that I love the things, and they help me stay sane.
“So, what do you teach here?” He finally cuts to the chase.
“Muay Thai and yoga.”
“I have no idea what the first one is, but isn’t yoga a girl thing?”
I give him a flat look. “That makes sense. Only women would appreciate a strenuous exercise that leaves you feeling more relaxed afterward.”
He cringes and says, “Sorry, man.”
I shrug, “The stigma lives on.”
“What’s the first one?”
“A martial art form.”
“Can I get into one of the classes?”
I lean back in my chair as I study him. “What happened to boxing?”
“The guy is never here. I end up hitting the bags, which I could do at home for free. When you told me to channel the anger, it really hit me that no one is teaching me shit. I don’t want to come from a frustrating day outside this place just to continue it here.”
“What kind of fighting do you do?” I ask easily. I understand being pissed off about his teacher bailing. The guy is an ass. Getting him into something that helps him calm down seems like the best idea, and he decided that himself.
“Mainly self-taught,” he sits back as if he’s waiting for me to judge him. I know from experience that he means street fighting. That’s never an issue for me, though.
“Sign up for Muay Thai. The Friday class is just opening.” I wave a hand for him to leave the office and return to my paperwork.