by Kate Stewart
“Lance, please stop kicking your chair,” Mrs. Estrada, the school receptionist says, peering over at me while pulling me out of the conversation. I hadn’t realized I was doing it. I look down to see my hands balled into fists and stop the swing of my heel against the metal bar of the chair. “Sorry.”
Pulling on my gloves, I can still feel the shame from that day. It was undoubtedly one of the worst. The day I vowed not to let anyone get too close, the same day my girlfriend, Channah, decided to kiss Mark instead of me. But it was also the day my dad changed my life by gifting me my first set of gloves and an outlet. My bouncing knee slowed a bit, my palms got less sweaty, my confidence spiked, and my life changed. I had a place to escape. In the ring, against the bag, I had freedom, a way to even the score with my faceless opponents—embarrassment, shame, anger, frustration.
The day I discovered boxing was the day I embraced a side of me I knew no one else would truly understand. The hardest part to swallow was how much I liked it when I let it take hold. Maybe I am a bit of a freak, but I choose to embrace it.
The day I turned eighteen, I got the barbed wire tattoos symbolizing my fight to keep my inner beast on a leash. And in the ring is where I learned to get along with it, where I let it reign.
Cranking up the music, I tap my gloves together and open the floodgates.
Harper
Sevendust’s “Black” blares throughout the gym as I unlock the door and make my way towards my half of the sandbox. When I turn the corner my breath is stolen by the sight of Lance ripping into the bag. Powerful arms deliver precise and devastating blows making the bag jump on the chain. Covered in a heavy sheen of sweat, his face drips with exertion, his focus undeterred by my presence. He’s not dressed in his usual attire. Tonight, he’s jean-clad in an old faded grey TGU T-shirt and sneakers. It seems as if he couldn’t be bothered to change into his clothes in haste to get to the bag.
Something’s…off.
It’s clear he came to vent, and I can feel the anger and frustration emanating from him, even from my side of the room. It does something to me that I’m not prepared for. At a machine-gun pace, he lands one solid blow after another, the music fuel. Anyone on the receiving end of those punches wouldn’t be standing at this point, I’m sure of it.
I stand back, stunned, listening to the words of the song as understanding washes over me. He’s not some jaded, entitled jock. In this moment, he seems to be the only person he’s waging war on. If the lyrics are any indication of his situation, he’s in a place of complete and utter turmoil in his own skin. I’ve heard the saying ‘battling demons’ a thousand times or more in my life, but I’ve never seen such a physical example. The heavy guitar rift rattles the walls, the floors, me, as I watch him exhaust himself, never giving up the fight, but owning that he could never win it.
Guilt for some of my agitated word vomit upon meeting him comes to the surface as I watch his struggle between vulnerability and anger. It’s so blatantly obvious there’s a lot more going on with Lance Prescott than he lets on. A fierce and unexpected need to protect him washes over me as I round the room when the song begins to fade. He leans in hugging the bag, his breaths coming out ragged, his eyes closed as if he’s just come down from an uncontrollable high.
I grab a water bottle from my bag and approach him with it out in offering. “Are you okay?”
When he opens his eyes, I’m startled by what I see—a mix of hurt and defeat.
“Not a good time, Priss.” His voice is chalky, his gaze sliding to the floor between us as if he’s ashamed of himself in this state.
“I know. That’s why I’m asking. Drink this.”
He nods and then starts to work his gloves off, ripping at the Velcro with his teeth. I still his efforts and take one of them in my grasp, unlatching the wrist strap and free one hand.
He remains silent, just watching me, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“So metal, huh?” I say with a small smile, braving a glance at him as I work to get his other glove off. “That’s your bag?”
“Old Metal and Rock. I grew up on it.”
Gloves off, I hand him the plastic bottle and he thanks me before draining it.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Look, if you need—”
“This is why I like to work out alone. No offense, but this is my time to do my thing. All right?” Biting my lips, I nod and take a step back. He didn’t say it in a way that offends me, but I feel the sting of rejection anyway.
It’s then I fully understand why he doesn’t want me in the gym with him. “I-I can come back.”
“No, you’re good. I’m done. Just going to rope for a while.”
“Okay.”
I turn to make my way towards my corner and glance back. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for the shitty things I said.”
“Yeah, same.” He gives me a nod before making his way to his locker room. As I start my own music, I can’t help but glance over at him when he emerges a few minutes later in his usual attire. He begins with his jump rope, clearing it easily at an exhausting pace. It’s as if he’s tapped into some sort of reserve and is hell-bent on fatiguing himself. Curiosity piqued, I spend a few minutes stretching, just watching as he wears himself out.
What are you hiding, Lance Prescott?
As if he hears my question, his gaze meets mine briefly before he packs his duffle and leaves me staring in the direction he left.
Harper
Being overlooked isn’t a bad thing, especially if you plan on being a back-up dancer. The only thing I want people to recognize when they see me is how in sync I am while dancing. I don’t want the spotlight, that’s not my goal. Winding my hair into a bun, I check my reflection. I’m wearing my favorite black shorts and cut to midriff T-shirt. Clothes only get in the way of watching my form as I execute. Though my outfit borders indecent, I didn’t see Lance anywhere when I arrived at the gym. Just as well. I want to try something new, and it would be hard to get the kinks out with him around.
I’ve noticed his pattern in the last few weeks and been quick to avoid it. He’s at the coffee shop I frequent in the mornings, either on his laptop or reading. We’ve kept mostly to ourselves since the night I saw a few of his true colors, a polite nod here and there with little to no conversation.
Cardi B’s “I Like It” fills the gym as I dig into the routine I memorized on YouTube. Jerking my head, I follow it with the smooth transition of my torso sliding left and right within the same second before I whip back into starting position. Gyrating my hips, I use my arms to emphasize every step before gliding along the floor in seamless and purposeful movement. It’s a level ‘insane’ routine, but it’s near the difficulty I’m looking to conquer. Before I know it, I’m lost. Whipping my body, dominating my steps, twisting my frame. I bounce on my heels and push-off, jerking, sliding, breaking my body down twice the tempo of the beat.
Satisfied once the song ends, I jump back when I see Lance in the mirror casually leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He’s in his typical attire of mesh shorts and a form-fitting white tee, his eyes intent on me as I audibly swallow.
“That was pretty…fucking amazing.”
Lance
She’s…pointy. She reminds me of a little bird, in a way. But when the girl starts to move, she takes flight. I was honest when I told her she’s not my type. She’s not, but I can’t stop watching. The minute she starts to move, I’m fixated. It’s witchcraft what she does on those killer legs. She’s perfectly toned, and I can’t deny the jolt to my cock when she works herself like a contortionist. Today the music doesn’t suck, and neither does her routine. If I’m honest, I’ve been impressed with her talent from the get-go.
Whatever she’s auditioning for, I have zero doubt she’ll make the cut.
She’s that good.
I watch as she bounces and transitions like she’s floating on air, liquid, fluid but never
mechanical, every move purposeful, calculated and perfectly executed. When the music stops, my mouth moves before I have a chance to think it through.
“That was pretty…fucking amazing.”
I take satisfaction in the surprise on her face when I pay her the compliment.
“Take that compliment,” I push off the wall, “it was genuine.”
“Even if I don’t care for the supplier?” She grins, and I grin back.
“Suit yourself,” I walk past her and drop my duffle before pulling off my shirt. I catch her checking me out in the mirror, and my smile widens.
“What made you come to this school? It’s hardly the place to hone your skills. Wouldn’t you be better off at a dance academy or something?”
She tilts her head, surprised at my line of questioning. “In-state tuition.”
I nod. “I get it. If I didn’t have a full ride, I wouldn’t be in college at all. But, with the way you dance, you couldn’t get a scholarship?”
She blows out a breath.
“Humor me, Priss.”
Her nose scrunches in distaste for her pet name. “My dad is on faculty here. And no, the dance program at Grand wasn’t my first choice, but it’s decent. It just made more financial sense to do it here.” She shrugs. “I’m not going to let it stop me.”
“No doubt you won’t.”
“I can’t tell if you’re sincere or if it’s this chip I’m carrying keeping me all icy and suspicious.” Another grin, but I can tell my digs grated on her the way hers did me.
“Sorry about that. But you can be a little frigid, especially when someone is trying to apologize.”
“You’re right. I’m just as guilty. The day we met was a shitshow for me as well, so I’m sorry for what I said.”
“We’re cool. And you really are good. I mean that.”
“Thanks,” she says, a slight heat creeping up her face. “So are you, at ball, I mean. But you’re still in need of a personality makeover.”
“Whatever,” I shiver in exaggeration. “Is it cold in here?”
“Shut up,” she says, cocking a hip, making her legs look even better.
We eyeball each other as I unzip my bag and pull out my gloves. She takes a step towards me and turns the tables.
“So, what’s your story?”
“We sharing now?”
She shrugs. “Why not?”
“Don’t really have one. Grew up on a ranch a hundred miles from here.”
“Wow, that’s cool, didn’t picture you as a cowboy.”
“You still shouldn’t.”
“I don’t know. Kinda seems like it’d be a good look on you.”
“Oh yeah?” I grin. “Am I headlining your fantasies tonight in a Stetson and nothing else?”
She rolls her eyes. “So, have you always boxed?”
“I’ve been doing both for a while. If I had my way and I could afford it, I’d be training in both. Ball is more accessible.”
She walks over to where I stand. “So, don’t let it stop you. Are you good?”
“Money doesn’t grow on trees, Priss. College is expensive enough. I boxed a lot when I was younger, amateur stuff. I was pretty good. I’ve kept up with the conditioning, but I put the gloves down when ball started sabotaging all my time.” It’s not the complete truth, but it’s close.
Twisting my torso in a stretch, I crack my neck and catch her checking me out. She’s…cute in an odd way: gorgeous halo blonde hair, deep brown eyes, and nose with character. Her lips are on the thin side but shimmer under a layer of something glossy. Her body and attitude are a lethal combination. I like the sassy personality that collides with the sweetness in her voice. She catches my raking gaze and shies away from my appraisal, crossing her arms.
“Whatcha thinking about over there, Priss?”
“Nothing, enjoy your…whatever.”
I lift my fingers as if I’m tipping a hat and give her a slow, suggestive wink.
Red-faced, she heads to her side of the box.
Lance
“Lance,” the barista bellows out as she sits my coffee at the end of the counter.
I pick it up and take a sip. “Thank you, Laney.”
“Put an extra shot in for you today.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Anytime,” she drawls out, “you’re one of the few I like around here cause you always leave a tip.” She lifts an expectant brow and gestures towards the half-empty jar sitting on the counter. I chuckle, emptying my pockets before stuffing a few dollars into it. She’s a cute, petite, doe-eyed brunette, with an adorable accent and feisty attitude, but I refuse to shit where I’ve eaten seven mornings a week for the last year. And she’s got one hell of a ‘don’t eff with me’ vibe going on.
The coffee shop is close to campus, and lately, I’ve had to bide my time here after practice until gym time in an attempt to save what little Uber money I have. I didn’t plan to sell my truck when I rented a room fifteen minutes from campus. The decision so far has been a hard pill to swallow. Between the safety of the coffee shop and snagging rides where I can, I may make it to the end of the season without landing myself into more debt. Another reason I don’t mind frequenting the shop is the girl sitting on the torn-up pleather couch flipping through her tablet while pretending to ignore my presence. In all honesty, it’s the insanely toned, mile-long legs that draw me in as I make my way towards her.
“Morning, Priss.”
“Jolly Green Giant,” she says without glancing up.
I’m chuckling as I take my favorite seat opposite her. “What are you reading?”
“I’m not, I’m watching a video,” she says, turning the screen my way so I can get a look. “Couldn’t get into a book so I’m studying a new routine.”
Stretching out on the overused chair, I sip my coffee. “Not listening to the music?”
“This thing is so ancient the sound goes in and out.”
“Sucks.”
“Uh hmmm…staring is rude.”
“I’m having a hard time believing you’re shy.”
She shrugs. “I’m not shy.”
“You hardly ever look at me when you speak to me.”
She rolls her eyes before lifting them to meet mine.
“Better.”
“Careful, that coffee may stunt the growth of your ego.”
“I can’t help you’re good for it. Though I’m taking it, you’re not a morning person?”
“Negative.”
“Shame,” I stretch my legs out on the ottoman in front of me. “I’m a wake up with the birds, hit the gym, sunny side up type of guy.”
“Opposite. I’m a wake up, throw my alarm clock, curse the breath of life, and stomp around with my eyes closed until I hit water type of gal.” She smirks down at her tablet, and I chuckle.
“So, what are you doing here?” I look around the mostly empty shop. “School hasn’t started yet, why are you hanging out so close to campus already?”
“Creature of habit. This is where I get my cram sessions in. And I still live at home, so this place is my getaway.”
“I’ve never seen you here before.”
Her eyes dull. “You’ve never noticed me here before.”
“Don’t take offense, Priss. I keep mostly to myself.”
“Oh, I’m not offended, but it seems I’m not lucky enough to go unnoticed today.”
That has me grinning like an idiot. “Admit it, you like me. And last night you bit your lip more than once thinking about me in the nude wearing only a hat.”
“Puh-lease, unless your name is Shawn Mendes, you are not in my fantasies.”
“What’s a guy got to do to get in your fantasies?”
She tips her coffee, her eyes alight with surprise.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“You’re more like a hairball, Prescott.”
“Ouch.”
“Yo, Lance,” Patrick calls my name as he enters the coffee shop. He barely glances at Har
per and kicks the bottom of my chair. “What are you doing?”
“Drinking coffee and talking to Harper,” I grit out in annoyance. He barely spares her a glance.
“Harper, this is—”
“Number thirty-four, Patrick Wallace aka ‘Loose Ends.’”
This piques his interest. “You the dancer girl?”
“Yep,” Harper says, popping the ‘p’ without looking up from her tablet. “That’s me. So,” she says, scrolling, “how much shit has he talked about me?”
“Little bit,” Pat replies with a smile. He’s a tank, twice my size and one of the best linebackers in the state. He looks like a hulked-up version of Opie—Sons of Anarchy, not Andy Griffith—as he glances between us trying to figure out what I’m up to. I’m unsure myself.
He lightly kicks the side of my chair again. “So, we going, or what?”
Sipping the last of my coffee, I stand. “Later, Priss.”
“Mr. Grinch,” she gives me a curt nod in dismissal, and I bark out a laugh before leaning down to whisper in her ear. She smells like vanilla and coffee.
“What color hat was I wearing?”
Her reply is instant. “Black.”
“I knew it.”
She scowls as I back away with a satisfied smile. “Busted.”
She shakes her head, heat evident on her cheeks as I join Pat at the door.
He glances back at her, confused, and grills me the minute we step outside. “You into her?”
“I told you, we work out together at Jake’s dad’s gym,” I glance back before the door closes, catching her eyes on me before she flicks them back to her tablet. Grinning, I turn back to Pat. “And I don’t dislike her. Why?”
“Well, that’s surprising considering a few weeks ago you did nothing but bitch to Jake about her… She’s not your type, is she?”
I’m already offended. “What do you know about my type?”
“I know enough to know she’s not it. She’s plain and not exactly…hot, dude.”
“What the fuck? What does it matter to you?”
“It doesn’t. You barely socialize at all, let alone sit and chat with a girl who’s clearly not your type.” He glances back, “decent set of legs, but yeah, that nose ruins her for me.”