Chapter 2
Chapter Two
THEO
Thump.
“You’re a piece of shit.”
Thump.
“No one will ever love you.”
Thump.
“I wish you’d never been born.”
Thump.
My calves scream as I keep my weight on them, bent at the knee with one foot in front of the other.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Thump.
“You’re thick as shit; you’ll never make it as a lawyer.”
Thump.
Sweat soaks my black T-shirt as I keep hitting over and over again. The voices aren’t fading, only becoming louder as they try to pull me down to the depths of nowhere.
“God, you’re stupid.”
Thump.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
Thump.
“I never wanted you. How could anyone want you?”
I hit harder, faster. My hands are bleeding under the gloves—I can feel the liquid running down. Even as sweat and blood weakens my hold, I keep going, refusing to stop because the intrusive thoughts never do.
“Hey, Theo. Times up, man.”
I don’t listen to the voice of Joey, the gym’s owner. I keep punching. Keep focusing on the way the bag swings back at me with every left jab and right cross I throw. Keep praying it was the face of my abuser so I could end this constant torment of self-destruction.
A hand on my shoulder stops me, and I hug the bag, breathing heavily. I don’t know how long I’ve been here; time seems to lose all meaning when I’m stuck in my own head.
“You doing okay?” he asks gently, a hint of worry in his voice.
I’ve known Joey since I started coming here when I was sixteen.
What began as a way to expel excess energy quickly grew into the ability to protect myself.
I was a punk ass kid with an attitude problem and three best friends that hated the world just as much as I did.
Luckily, we grew up and became decent people…
just not without holding onto the demons that haunt us.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and push away from the bag. “Yeah, sorry. Was stuck in my head.”
Joey looks like he doesn’t believe me, his bald head wrinkling as his eyebrows raise. He’s a big guy—6’2”—and an even bigger softie. He’s given me a safe place to let my frustration out when I don’t have the courage to go to my friends. To annoy them with my needy ways.
“You still good for class?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because if you’re not, that’s okay.”
Strolling to the bench, I grab my towel and bottle of water, drinking most of it in one go. Capping the bottle, I finally reply, “I’m good. I’m not gonna let the kids down.”
He slaps my shoulder and then visually winces when his hand comes away wet. I laugh at the face he pulls—disgusted and a little green around the edges.
“It’s just sweat, man.” I chuckle, then grab my bag and head for the locker room.
Joey follows after me. “Look, I don’t mind a bit of sweat, but that was just nasty.” He shivers.
“What time is it again?” I ask, changing the subject.
“7 p.m. The kids are really looking forward to it.”
“They’re looking forward to punching each other.” I laugh and turn on the shower.
I’ve been dabbling in MMA for the last twenty years and teach local kids self-defense once a week.
After the shitshow of my upbringing, I wanted to make sure kids have a safe place to go to—a way of defending themselves should the unspeakable happen.
This was something I’ve always kept from James, Caleb, and Noah.
I love those guys with every fiber of my being and probably share more with them than I’m supposed to, but I want to have one thing for myself. Something that no one else knows about.
I undress and step under the spray so I can rid myself of the sweat and grime from today’s workout. I don’t care that Joey’s standing there talking to me. I’ve always been confident in my own skin. Plus, if he didn’t want to see it, he shouldn’t have followed me in here.
“Cool. I’ll let Tessa know. Catch ya later.”
I nod, enjoying the heat from the water too much to care where he’s gone. My mind is blissfully quiet for once. No intrusive thoughts, no flashbacks, just me and the sound of the water echoing off the tiles. I breathe out slowly before turning off the shower to go get ready.
Spending the evening with a bunch of kids feels normal to me. I mean, I’m pretty much the biggest kid you’ll ever meet so being able to teach them something that could protect them? I love it.
Joey has a training room at the back of the gym which I’ve rented every week for the last three years. Not only do I get to let off some steam, but I can also do something for the kids in the area—create a place for them to go that keeps them off the streets and on the right track.
I pay for everything because I refused for Joey to let me have the room for nothing.
It makes me happy looking after people I care about.
Plus, it’s not like I’m short on cash. I represent some of the biggest celebrities out there—ones who will pay a pretty penny for me to be on retainer. This is my way of giving back.
Strolling into the room, I notice all of the kids are lined up waiting for me.
The room is large enough for them to have space to do what they need without being on top of each other.
I asked Joey to install safety mats throughout, so when they inevitably end up on their asses, it's cushioned. Mirrors line one of the walls, perfect for them to check their stature as they’re practicing.
The ages range from five up to our oldest, Samuel, who’s seventeen.
His dad was beating him when he was younger.
He found this class when I first started it and has been here every week since.
I tried getting his dad arrested once, but it didn't end well for Sam. After that, I made him promise to come here every week, and then I paid his dad a visit. Needless to say, I left him with two broken legs, a busted nose, a few cracked ribs, and a threat that if he opened his mouth, I’d be back to finish him off.
I regret nothing.
I give the kids a broad smile and take my position in the front of the class. “What’s rule one?”
“If you can avoid violence, stay away.”
I nod, smiling. “What happens in class…”
“Stays in class,” they all shout back in unison.
“What do you do when someone starts threatening you?” I ask as I walk around, checking their postures.
“Use your voice,” Aubrey, a small seven-year-old with blonde pigtails, says.
“Good. Use that voice loudly. Don’t be afraid to scream at the top of your lungs.” I stop in front of them, hands clasped behind my back. “What else?”
“Hands up,” Ethan, a fifteen-year-old with an attitude problem, shouts.
“Why?” I ask.
A lot of kids used to get confused when I would start the lesson with the same questions, but repetition leads to remembering, and if I can save even just one kid with this, then I damn well will.
“Because if someone comes at you aggressively, you can stop their attempt with a block,” Samual says, his tone low yet respectful.
“That’s right,” I agree, smiling proudly. “Good job. Pair up. I’m gonna teach you how to do a palm strike.”