Chapter 17 #2
“You box?” she asked, her focus on me and not on the guy sitting on the weight bench, checking her out.
“A little.” I nodded toward the guy with a jerk of my chin. “You have an admirer.”
Briar turned, saw who it was, and gave a small wave. “He’s the manager, I think. Probably thinks I left something behind. Hold on a minute.” She went over to talk to him, and I turned back to the bag.
“You using that?”
I looked at the guy who’d come up behind me. Tall, tattooed everywhere, hair tied back in a man bun. The bag beside me was empty.
“No, I wasn’t.” I stepped back. I didn’t want to ask him why he wasn’t using the one next to me. I didn’t hide my surprise when he held out tape.
“You need some?”
I looked over at Briar, who was chatting with the manager. She looked my way, gave a small nod, and turned back to her conversation.
“I’m not a member.”
The guy scoffed. “It’s a flat fee of twenty dollars for half an hour. Fifty for an hour. Use what you want, leave.”
I looked around. “Twenty dollars for thirty minutes?”
“Yeah, there are no showers or anything. Bring your own towel kind of thing, but it’s cheap, clean, and has what we need.”
I nodded. “Cool.”
He waved the tape. “You need it?”
I did. I bit the inside of my cheek and watched Briar come back over. She saw the tape and looked between the guy and me. “You’re going to work out?”
“I was thinking about it.”
She didn’t hide her surprise. “Oh. I um, right.” She looked over her shoulder toward the door. “Should I go?”
The guy was still hovering, not even hiding that he was listening.
“Um.” I looked at the bag and then at her. “Okay.”
Briar’s eyes widened. “Okay? You’re okay if I go?”
The guy huffed, and I really wished he’d move so I could talk to her. “Well, I can stay here for thirty minutes,” I offered. “Would you like to wait for me?”
Briar shook her head slowly. “No. I really wouldn’t.”
“Okay then.” I took my hoodie off. “I’ll catch you later, yeah?”
“You using it?” The manager had walked over.
“The weight bag? Yeah.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket. “Twenty dollars for thirty minutes?”
“That’s right. Venmo details are on the wall.” He walked away, and I loved how casual it was.
Briar glared again.
“This is what I was looking for,” I told her honestly. “I just need some time with the bag.”
I saw a flicker of understanding. “Okay. Have fun.” She walked away, and I felt a moment of regret, but I had already turned back to the bag and the guy with the tape.
“Can I?”
“Absolutely. Gloves are over there if you need them.”
I felt my shoulders relax as I started taping my hands. “I don’t need them.”
With my hands taped lightly, I stepped into the familiar stance, toes angled slightly, weight balanced on the balls of my feet.
The bag hung still, and I hit it once. Not full force, just another testing jab.
The leather gave under my fist with a dull thud, swinging back towards me, and I let it return before I struck again.
Jab, cross, again. The impact vibrated up my forearm, into my shoulder. I circled left, threw a hook at the bag’s body, and the chain groaned overhead as it shifted harder this time, the weight making it swing wider.
My mind ticked over as the small itch of restlessness I’d felt under my skin started to soothe itself out.
I thought of the fucker who bullied Tate and called him names that hurt my sensitive, gentle brother. I drove a straight right into the center seam, and the bag snapped backward.
It would’ve been easy to lean into it, to let it swing wild, to let my anger dictate the rhythm, but I didn’t let my control slip.
A one-two, a side step, a body shot, keeping my footwork clean and my breathing steady.
The leather smacked against my knuckles again and again, a dull percussion that matched the pace of my thoughts.
I stepped into the arc of the bag’s swing and hammered two short hooks into where the ribs would be if this bag had bones. It swayed harder with each impact, the chain rattling louder with each blow.
I pivoted and drove my elbow into the side of the bag, then reset, stance square again.
The first time I’d felt how easy it was to hurt someone, I’d stepped back.
That was the rule.
I’d also understood, in that moment, that I was the kind of person who could choose not to.
I remembered the words of wisdom from my old coach, ‘You don’t cross the line unless you mean to live there.’
I didn’t want to live there; I was just afraid of how easily I could.
I fired a combination harder now — jab, cross, hook, cross — each punch landing with more of my weight and force behind it. The bag jumped under my assault, swinging wide enough that I had to adjust my feet to stay in front of it.
Sweat ran down the side of my face, stinging my eye. My shoulders burned. My lungs worked harder. This was a good burn. This pain made sense to me as much as the pain on the field.
The bag swung back toward me too fast this time, and I didn’t step aside.
I let it hit my chest and shoved it away with both palms, teeth clenched.
“Move,” I muttered under my breath.
The bag wasn’t what I was trying to move.
I hit it again, harder than I had all night. The crack of my fist against leather echoed off the walls.
For a moment, the side of me that wanted to surrender surfaced — the one that remembered garages, concrete floors, and how people curled up when struck perfectly.
It would be easy, so easy to move toward that, but I stepped back instead and forced my breathing to slow.
I counted to four on the inhale, six on the exhale.
The bag swung to a slow stop.
I stepped in and threw one final combination, controlled, clean, and sharp, and then I stopped.
The bag kept moving long after I did, a heavy arc cutting through the air. I watched it, knowing that was the difference. The bag moved because I’d set it in motion. It didn’t get to decide how hard I hit.
I peeled the tape from my knuckles and flexed my fingers. My skin split in one place, just enough to sting, but not enough to draw attention in practice tomorrow.
“You look like you know what you’re doing,” the guy who’d shared his tape with me said.
“Yeah.” I gave him a small smile. “Thanks for the tape, I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
I gave the bag one last look. I’d gotten what I needed from it.
When I turned to leave, she was sitting near the doorway, her arms folded across her body, her chin low, but her eyes on mine were steady and held no questions.
I walked over, pulling on my hoodie and ignoring the fact that I was sweaty.
“You ready to go?” My voice was gruff, and my breathing was still slightly uneven.
Briar stood slowly, holding my gaze. “Yeah, I’ve seen enough.”
Seen enough, and she was still here.
I pulled the door open for her. “Then let’s go.”