Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
Brooks
“How does that feel?” Achilles asks as I set the foam roller against the wall. “Any pain? Burning? Tightness?”
I grip my left shoulder with my right hand and work it into slow, small circles to cool down from our session. I’m so over this shit.
Rock music pulses through the back wall of Alfie’s Gym, the dank space that Alfie lets me use as a rehab room while I’m in town.
When we made the agreement over a couple of beers and cheeseburgers last spring, we both thought it would be just a few months.
After all, it was just a torn rotator cuff.
Two surgeries later, I’m still here because it wouldn’t be my life if it weren’t complicated.
It’s been almost a year, and it'll likely be a full year before I’m cleared to go back to Vegas and train normally—if I’m allowed back in the sport at all.
It turns out that defending yourself at practice from some asshole motherfucker trying to hurt you brings the sport into disrepute.
And when an anonymous source accuses you of fixing fights at the same time?
Your license gets suspended until they sort it out.
And if I can’t fight anymore—can’t provide for my mother anymore—over shit I didn’t do? Someone’s gonna fucking pay.
“Feels fine,” I say, swiping a towel off a weight bench. “It’s exhausted, but nothing hurts.”
“That’s normal, and a good sign. The repair is holding, and your muscles are working again. Let’s keep focusing on core work and full-body endurance. Your strength is getting there. We’ll start drills for power and stability as we go to get you back in the ring.”
“You say that every damn week.”
He chuckles. “So you are listening.”
I roll my eyes and wipe the beads of sweat off my face.
Achilles has been a godsend during the rehabilitation process following my injury last March.
For the past ten months post-surgery, he’s flown to Nashville and driven down to Sugar Creek twice a month to oversee my progress along with online check-ins.
He costs a small fortune, but it was either fork over the cash or do the rehab in Vegas—a city I have a love-hate relationship with at the moment.
Besides, there are only a handful of things I can think of that would be worse than sitting around my condo with absolutely nothing to do but therapy.
At least here I can see my family and friends and help some on the ranch.
I can be somewhat useful.
“Don’t forget that I’ll be out of the country for the next three weeks with Barrett Landry,” Achilles says, throwing his bag over his shoulder.
“We’ll keep everything the same except for my visit two weeks from now.
Let’s try to Zoom that session so I can get a visual on you—make sure you haven’t gone rogue. ”
“I love the faith you have in me. It really hits me right in the feels.”
“You’re an asshole,” he says, shaking his head.
We chuckle, walking side by side out of the room. Achilles pats me on the shoulder before heading to the parking lot.
Being at Alfie’s is such a mindfuck these days. On one hand, it’s a burst of nostalgia from days gone by. It’s familiar and comfortable, and everyone treats me like I’m a hero—which I secretly love. But, on the other hand, it feels like a regression.
Many of my friends wanted to leave Sugar Creek as soon as they graduated from high school, but I never had that need to get out of here.
Growing up in this small town was a blast, and there’s something to be said for walking into Patsy’s or Piper’s Pizza and knowing every person sitting at the tables.
But leaving was the only way I could take care of Mom, so I had to do it.
And I did it.
Now? I don’t get to choose anymore, and being at Alfie’s every day is a reminder of that.
“Hey, Brooks! Check this out!” A red-haired boy named Trent waves at me with a gloved hand from a heavy bag across the room. “Watch this.”
He faces the bag and squats down, circling the bag with his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth.
Then he launches an attack, throwing decent combinations—ripping his right hand across the leather as we practiced.
The black eye he got from getting a little too big for his britches while sparring a couple of days ago shines.
“Well,” he says, puffing up his chest and pretending to spit. “What do ya think of that?”
I think you have a long life ahead of ya, kid.
“I think that if you spit anywhere in this gym, it’ll be the last time you’re here.” I lift a brow. “Where’s your mouthpiece?”
“Home. Well, what’s left of it.” He sighs, dropping his shoulders in defeat.
“Dad brought home a dog last night that he found in the alley behind Patsy’s.
Mom started hollering as soon as he came in the door, but Dad said we’re keeping it.
” He shrugs again as if this is just another day in his life.
I guess it probably is. “Anyway, the dog got on the coffee table and chewed up my mouthpiece while I was sleeping.”
I have a lot to say about this, but not a word of it is appropriate in front of a nine-year-old boy. “Did you ask Alfie if you could get into the Tooth Saver box and grab an extra?”
He shuffles his feet. “Nah. The one the dog ate was a Tooth Saver one. I didn’t wanna ask again so soon.”
The cloudiness in his eyes and his refusal to look directly at me tighten my chest. I don’t know his whole story.
Alfie won’t divulge too much about his students, which is one of the things I’ve always respected about him.
But I do know that Trent was here creating chaos before I came in last year—and that Trent is here nearly every day, has gone through a lot of the cheap mouthguards that Alfie keeps on hand for emergencies, and the shoes he’s wearing came from Alfie’s donation bin.
“That’s what the Tooth Saver box is for,” I say. “Better to need a piece of rubber than a whole new set of teeth.”
He gives me a wobbly, crooked grin. “Okay. Ready to watch me again?”
“Let’s see it.”
He forgoes the windup from before and throws the punches.
“Not bad.” I toss my towel over my shoulder, then tap him on the hip. “This is where your power comes from, remember? If you don’t pivot your back foot and rotate your hips, you’re just pushing the punch with your arm.”
He nods, narrowing his eyes. He tags the bag again—jab, cross, hook. Jab, cross, hook.
“Better,” I say as the sound of his punches cracks through the air. “Don’t get lazy with the fundamentals. Your opponent will snuff that out in a second. There’s nothing worse than being knocked out because you got lazy.”
He pants, looking at me with wide eyes. “That ever happen to you?”
“Hell, no.” I scoff, making him laugh. “You don’t get to be the middleweight champion by not being prepared.”
“So even when you get to be champion, you still have to practice fundamentals? That sucks.”
“You gotta practice it even more when you’re a champion. Footwork, balance, and discipline—all the basic stuff Alfie teaches you. Might as well tattoo that to your forehead.”
I lightly tap him just above his eyes with the palm of my hand.
It feels like only yesterday that I was Trent’s age, popping into the gym to burn off some of the energy that always seemed to be coursing through my body.
It was the only thing that could effectively wear me out.
Baseball, rugby, football—none of it came close to calming me down like Alfie’s.
I didn’t understand why then, but I get it now.
The thought makes my heart tug, and tears gather in the corners of my eyes.
“Well, maybe I won’t be a champion,” he says, circling the bag in his half-squat stance again. “Maybe I’ll just teach kids how to throw punches.”
“Good plan. But you need to learn how to throw them the right way first.” I chuckle at his movements. “What movie have you been watching, kiddo?”
“What makes you think I’ve been watching movies?”
“Oh, just a wild guess.”
Trent stands tall, his eyes sparkling, and comes to my side. He leans his head against my ribs, sighing. “Thanks for teaching me, Brooks. You’re a real good pal.”
A real good pal? I run a hand over my mouth to hide my smile.
Trent stands, shoving away from me, his attention grabbed by two kids his age that I see in here sometimes. He races off to them without so much as a goodbye to his good pal.
“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride,” I say, chuckling as I turn toward the door. I don’t get more than a few steps before I notice Alfie standing in the doorway of his office. He motions for me to join him.
Alfie’s office is tucked into the corner of the building.
The chipped paint is barely noticeable under the plethora of plaques and awards hanging on the walls from his career, spanning nearly every aspect of fighting.
The man is a legend. The kids in this gym don’t know how lucky they are to be trained by him.
“How’s the shoulder?” he asks as he sits at his desk. I take the seat on the other side. “I peeked in at your session today. Looking strong. Looking better.”
“I’m not feeling too bad. Sick as fuck of the waiting around, though. I just want to be healed up and get back to work.”
He cocks his head back and looks at me down his nose with a smirk. “Don’t act like you don’t like bein’ here. Come on now.”
“I’m starting to wear out my welcome.”
“How are ya gonna do that when I would’ve been out of business without you years ago?”
I wipe my face with my towel, hoping the fabric puts some distance between Alfie and me.
He never fails to remind me that I help pay the bills around here, but it’s not something I want to discuss.
I’m happy to do it. I want to do it. But I’d rather it just happen and otherwise be ignored. It’s the least I can do.
“Hear anything on your license?” Alfie asks.