by Love Belvin
Like a punk...
Like… Somebody touching me all over as the guy was doing to Ashton? Hell no! Somebody I didn’t know or trust on something other than my hands or lower arms? Nah… My body began to tremble lowly. I was low key freaking the hell out.
His forehead stretched. “You don’t know?”
I reached back for the door handle and shook my head. “I don’t need a massage. I gotta catch my next class.” Ashton didn’t say anything, and the guy massaging him slowed and gaped at me like I rode the damn short yellow bus, too. “I’ll see you on the track in the morning.”
I left and closed the door behind me without another word. I didn’t want to be touched.
By any-fucking-one.
Working out twice today didn’t seem like a good idea when I was just about limping into the building of my dorm. My trainer, Luke, with his assistant, Tyrone, was ready for my ass promptly at 6:15, when we were scheduled to box. In between going over boxing techniques, Tyrone had me working out. Once again, they brought me some work I didn’t think I’d get through, but I did. The last set of pushups, lunges, squats, and footwork drills took me out.
Right after the gym, I wobbled over to the cafeteria for dinner to-go and came straight to my dorm. I couldn’t wait for my shower and to put my feet up while I devoured the T-bone steak, fresh mashed potatoes, and string beans I found out would be my dinner. Each meal was a surprise for me now, thanks to that nutritionist.
As soon as I stepped through the lobby door, the elevator dinged. Andrea and ShawnNicole stepped out, dressed to the nines in heels and mini dresses. Bright red and pink lips with bouncy, glistening hair. Andrea’s long boxed braids were styled into a neat bow at the crown of her head. ShawnNicole’s thick, dark natural curls spilled into her face and covered her shoulders. Nope. I didn’t fit in at Blakewood at all. Not even the best from my hometown looked so polished when cleaned up.
Shit…
I kept a steady pace to catch their elevator.
“Hey, McNabb. Right?” the guard behind the security booth asked loud enough to get my attention. My head whipped over to him as the clench on my bagged dinner tightened. I nodded, eyes flicking between him and the glam girls passing me. Well, they were until my name was called. “You’ve got a delivery that needs to be signed for.”
With every sore muscle in my body, I turned to my left for the desk. Had my mother finally sent me the money? Was it an apology for abandoning me from Cut? A care package from Ragee? Curiosity took over and I quickly signed, and was handed a box. Beyond anxious, I ripped it open to find a fancy gold metallic box. Inside were two brand new pairs of sneakers; one white and the other black. They had to be from Cut. He was cheap as fuck, but never as cold as he’d been when abandoning me.
Is he congratulating me for not quitting?
“Holy fuck!” was breathed behind me. I whipped around at the same time Andrea cried, “The DMP Jordan 6s!”
The sneakers were clearly Jordans, but I didn’t notice which ones right away. They were the limited edition my friends at home had been yapping about all year. My jaw dropped. Uppercut couldn’t afford this. He didn’t have money like that. Moving the boxes aside to separate them, I found a card inside.
Again, my bad.
Plus, your old ones smell like garlic roasted shit, in case nobody’s told you.
P.S. Had to call in a favor for your shoe size. It better be right.
My eyes popped from my head as every muscle froze rigid in my body. Shock, embarrassment, confusion…I felt everything in that moment. His name wasn’t on the card. Ignoring stupid ass Andrea, I searched the box it was delivered in and all that could be found was the brand’s company name.
“Is that from the Cayenne?” Andrea asked, eyes wide with wonder.
“Who?”
“The guy who dropped you off in the Porsche Cayenne.”
The elevator dinged—and in perfect time. I threw the snobby girl, Andrea, the nastiest expression my facial muscles could strain into before pulling the boxes in my arms and skipping to the elevator.
He was different today, slower. Still ahead of me, but closer than what I’d seen of him yesterday. I wasn’t too far behind like before, but was still able to catch sight of his face twisted tight as though he was in pain. I didn’t see that yesterday at all. Maybe he got hurt at practice and was now in pain.
Just as Ashton told me, the old track was empty. I met up with him this morning for a warm-up run. He didn’t say a word when he showed up, finding me waiting. There was only a nod of acknowledgement before we stretched then took off on the track. The new sneakers were a save, but needed to be broken in.
It was nice out here, clean and peaceful. The cool breeze hit my damp face and heated body as my legs lifted and pushed against the air. Sparring was my favorite training, but running quieted the noise of my head in a way that made me feel like I was floating. This morning, I ran with a confidence Ashton didn’t allow yesterday because he went so hard. We were only on the third lap, but were too close to believe all was okay with him.
I pushed ahead, emptying my brain of anything that would prevent the success of the task at hand: finishing the run. On the fifth lap, I stopped to catch my lungs that burned, feeling like they were about to explode. As I stretched over to grab my knees, Ashton passed by slower than his norm. Dude was definitely off. After a couple of minutes, I pushed myself on to continue. Before I knew it, I’d made it to the seventh lap. When I was able to capture it from close enough proximity, his face was still screwed.
By the ninth lap, he’d begun grunting. I knew that was to push himself to the finish line. Any athlete would recognize the painful cry. On the tenth lap, Ashton was faster than he’d been since we’d started. But when he was done, he rested longer, bent over on his knees, than he did last time. Yesterday was only one day that I’d run with the guy, and not enough time for me to profess to know dude. But his aura had been so closed off yet heavy compared to just twenty-four hours ago, it couldn’t be ignored.
After grabbing his Panthers sports bottle and then my own, I jogged over to him with a heaving chest. Using the bottle, I tapped his shoulder, offering it to him.
When he grabbed it without changing posture, I asked, “I’m sure if you tell her you’re sorry for the gazillionth time, assure her the girl meant nothing, and tell her how pretty she is, she’ll forgive you again and take you back again.”
His face came up, scrunching against the newly risen sun. “I don’t fuckin’ cheat on my girl.”
“Shit happens.” I shrugged, pulling my bottle to my face for a sip. “I’m sure reminding her of her superior features will heal the lick of betrayal.”
“You checkin’ for my girl, McNabb?”
I spit out air. “Hardly. She’s cute and all, but—”
“But what?” He stood to his feet, a sneer I’d seen on him loosening his face.
“She’s not my type.”
“What’s your type?”
“A real athlete, that’s for sure.”
He laughed. When I thought he’d curse me out for dissing his girl, Ashton Spencer laughed. I watched him catch his breath and drink water.
“I don’t have a problem with my girlfriend. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were slow today. Crazy slow.”
The smile fell from his face, and the sadness immediately darkening him was so obvious.
“Shit happens,” he mumbled.
“Not to ‘Spence,’ from what I hear around here.”
He shrugged with his head, eyes cast out into the distance. “Yeah. So I’ve been told.”
Suddenly, the words in his note that was delivered with the sneakers yesterday came to mind. “Is it your family?” Without looking at me, he nodded, lips hiked. “Wanna—” I swallowed unexpectedly, not believing how naturally the words came to mind. I didn’t comfort humans; I steered clear of them. And in this case, it was extra corny and awkward because here was a cool k
id. The most popular on campus. I licked my lips and forged ahead against my better judgment. “Wanna…uhhh…talk about it?”
He scoffed, suspicious regard on me. “Why would I want to do that?” His eyes rolled down to my feet, then back up to my face. “Because I bought you kicks? Is this your way of saying thanks?”
That nipped me.
“No.” My lips pouted and brows pinched. “The fact that you randomly bought the ‘dog’ sneakers is what made me believe you do shit like this to randoms you fuck, too. That’s how I advise you to handle your girlfriend. But now that you bring it up, I guess I should say thanks for the sneakers. You never gave me a chance to with how cold you were before we started the run.”
“Again, I don’t cheat on my girl,” he pushed out through gritted teeth, intimidating the fuck out of me.
“And I don’t usually give two shits about obviously wounded people when I come across them, but I thought we were both Panthers and could, at least, treat each other with kindness for that reason alone.”
Ashton’s gaze was so hard on me, it damn near burned my face. But I wouldn’t back down. I hated bullying. Win, lose, or draw, sometimes I forced myself to fight back. He was rude. Mean and moody. Manipulative, using occasional kindness in a gesture to lower my defenses, all to be cold to me all over again.
“No one’s asked,” he whispered as though in the middle of a revelation.
What?
“Asked you what?”
“Asked me about what’s really been going on with me. Or how I’ve been feeling about what’s happening to my family. Weeks back on campus and no one’s fuckin’ asked.”
“Well, I just tried to.” Confused human. With wide eyes, I swiped my head left and right. “What’s going on with your family, bruh? With you?”
Ashton lifted one brow. “Why are you asking?”
I crossed my arms and widened my stance. “You really wanna go back there?”
I couldn’t give a shit about Ashton Spencer. I didn’t even know him. His cousin could have lost the family house that big momma left behind and I wouldn’t lose a night of sleep over it. The cousin’s house could have burned down and they lost all their memorabilia—something that had happened to me—and I wouldn’t think of it past lunchtime. I didn’t give two rats’ ass—
“I heard you were from Jersey, too. I don’t know if you knew, but I’m from Essex County.” He scratched his head, beginning what felt like a long ass story. “I’ve got a bunch of family in Newark. You know anything about Newark?”
Duh! Stenton Rogers is from Newark!
“A little,” I answered. “Yeah.”
“Well, you should know it’s heavy in gang activity. My family runs one of the biggest gang organizations in the city. For some of my family, street life is all they know. I have so many cousins my age and younger who only aspire to wiping out a rival gang. And these gangs go beyond the streets; it’s heavy in the county jail and prisons throughout the state.”
Wait…
“You in a gang?”
“No.” He shook his head. “My moms would beat my ass. But so many of our family are. My cousin, Brick. The one I mentioned yesterday. He’s my age, and has not only been in a beef with a rival gang for years, but it’s been progressing like crazy. It exploded when Brick got into a shootout after a backyard baby shower back in April. He hit a kid from the other side, Blocck Boi $even. He didn’t kill him, but dude was messed up, in a coma for like a month. It took the police department a few months, but they finally picked Brick up for the shooting back in July.”
“Dang…”
He shook his head. “It’s not just that. Brick about that life. He knows what comes with it. If he shoots and the bullet traces back to him, he knows he has to answer for it some way, somehow. What’s fucked up about it is last summer, Brick found his way into police corruption. He was at his man’s house when a few NPDs came to cop. Dudes were in plain clothes, but was poppin’ off at the mouth. Brick had no idea who they were while waiting on their product—honestly, I don’t think he’d care—so he started firing back.
“One thing led to another, a fight broke out, spilling into the backyard. Brick was getting the best of one of them…even threw dog shit in dude’s face. I guess that was too much and his partner pulled out on Brick, finally identifying themselves. With a gun on him, they whooped Brick’s ass, fracturing his ribs, busted his nose and lips. Someone who didn’t know these were cops called 911. Everything was caught on tape.”
“Shit…”
There was no win with the police. This story was insane.
“Exactly. Brick was arrested then treated a whole day later. Internal investigations got involved when someone emailed every address in the police department and city they could find. We still don’t know who. It didn’t really matter to Brick: he lived to hustle another day and ain’t no snitch. So since last summer when this all went down, it seems like NPD put a bounty on his head, which is probably why they took so long to arrest him for shooting the Blocck Boi $even. They wanted to be thorough and make that shit stick.”
“I see.”
“Nah.” Ashton shook his head. “Let me paint the picture. The Blocck Boi $even who Brick shot has a brother in the county. Matter of fact, quite a few Blocck Bois are in the county.”
“Like…the county jail?”
“Yeah. And at the county level, if NPD wanna fuck with him, they can assign him to an area where Blocck Bois outnumber my family’s gang. He’s really at their mercy.” Stunned at his reality, I was wordless. I had nothing to offer. I wasn’t good at…comforting humans. “When you’re behind those walls, there are no eyes on you. The COs can do whatever the fuck they want, and so far, they’ve been fuckin’ with us. We go weeks without hearing from him. Even the people he fucks with in there can’t account for him, so we have no control. We got him a lawyer, but nothing’s guaranteed. The last time we spoke to Brick, he tried to assure us he was okay, but I know my cousin. He’s just putting on for us and whoever’s listening in on his calls.”
“Have you heard from him lately?”
Ashton shook his head, eyes blinking fast with worry. This tall, athletic dude was torn before my eyes.
“That’s messed up, yo,” I breathed in disbelief. “How can you perform with all this shit on your shoulders?”
The wrinkle between her eyes struck me. Who was this girl? The Tori McNabb I’d seen around campus was more detached and other than human. She was pitiful, and from what I’d heard, talented. She was weird with a fucked up weave and busted sneakers.
This girl, just inches away, showing more sympathy than anyone I’d known for almost four years on this campus, was warm and compassionate. It was unnecessary. I wasn’t looking for a friend in Tori McNabb. I’d only been trying to make good on disappointing A.D. Jones. Nothing more.
I shrugged, stepping off to get the rest of my things to go. “The way people in my family do. Keep pushing.”
I left Tori hanging, standing there looking stupid. It was wrong, but necessary. She didn’t utter a word while I walked to the bleachers for my bag and towel. She was still muted when I started toward the entrance of the track to leave.
I waved her on. “C’mon. We can schedule you for a massage before my practice.”
Tori bent over, picking up her things from the ground in a single, rough swoop. She walked past me, making it clear, “Ain’t nobody laying a fuckin’ finger to massage me. Ever.”
I blinked, not expecting that decree. Maybe I deserved that brisk energy.
She threw a hook I saw coming, and I was able to block it and toss a quick and easy left jab, right cross combo.
“Ut!” Luke, my trainer, shouted, jumping over the ropes and into the ring. “That’s it!”
The girl was laid out on her side. What? I was vexed. I didn’t even hit her hard. Tyrone, Trisha, Collin, and the medical trainer jumped in as well. I stood back wondering why this girl was on the floor.
The hell…
We were sparring today. When sparring, you typically don’t go for blood with your opponent. You get pushed and your timing and response are tested. At my level, it wasn’t cool to knock out your sparring partner. She was a twenty-four year old local fighter. Had been fighting longer than me. I didn’t use full force on her. In this practice exercise, we were testing speed, not power.
I watched, waiting patiently while they asked her if she was okay. Then Luke, Trisha, Tyrone, and Collin backed away, forming a new circle. They whispered, sighed, and shook their heads. I couldn’t hear much because of the old school music Luke had playing in the back. It wasn’t loud—I didn’t hear it while sparring—but now that ear-hustling was paramount, it annoyed the shit out of me. Conferencing? For what? I did nothing wrong. Not saying ol’ girl did either, but that combo was lightweight. Would they kick me out of the program?
Do I care?
I’d been wanting an out from this place since I stepped foot on campus six weeks ago. Send me home! I’d at least make a few dollars doing this instead of feeling like a lab rat. I couldn’t deny feeling a stab of fear, though, and I hated it. I hated rejection. If I had gone home on my own, it would have been me quitting. But if I was sent home, it would have been me failing. I didn’t know much, but boxing was a skill I honed in my damn sleep. No damn way I could have BSU ship me back for not exceeding in this one thing!
First, Luke turned and started my way with his head hung. Still out of breath, I tried to get control of my lungs. Then Trisha and Collin followed him, being just as long-faced as him.
“Tori…”
“Yeah?” I answered too anxiously; my eyes fell away, embarrassed.
Luke had to be in his forties, an old head, but younger than Uppercut. He had brown skin, wore small, but thick-lens glasses, and was balding in the middle of his head. He scratched his temple, which was silver-gray as his head tilted to the side and his eyes were on the ring floor. “How do you feel about sparring with…men?” He used his hand to swipe the back of his neck. It was obvious he was uneasy about this. “I got some amateurs at a gym I own who need to learn the basics. They ain’t that big—”