by R. R. Banks
I need to keep reminding myself that I need this job more than I need to put some idiot in their place. That has to be my mantra from now on. It's not going to be easy – in fact, it's going to be downright brutal. But I need to do it. Have to do it. There is no other way.
I say goodbye to the girls and leave the coffee house, needing to go blow off some steam in the worst way possible.
~ooo000ooo~
I strapped the Velcro down, securing my gloves and stand up, jogging in place a little, getting the blood flowing through me.
“You ready?” Adrian asks.
I nod, letting my adrenaline surge through me. Adrian is my trainer at the PowerCore MMA gym I train at. I'm not training to be a pro fighter or anything, but I like to work out. Like the fact that I can burn off some energy when I'm frustrated. Truthfully, I like the fact that I can throw punches at people. Plus, I'm learning some self-defence techniques, so there's a practical purpose to it all.
Adrian is a friend of mine I first met at the coffee house. We dated briefly, but there wasn't really any chemistry or connection there – far more my fault than his. Instead, we became great friends. It's only been a year and a half or so, but I already can't picture my life without him. He's a good man. One of the very best I've ever known and I'm thankful to him for so many things.
Adrian recognizes that I've had a – difficult past. He sees the anger and frustration in me and sees my need to be able to blow off some steam and work through my demons. We've talked a lot about it and he knows that traditional therapy doesn't work for me. But at least physical activity and venting the pressure that builds up inside of me provides me with an outlet. A much-needed outlet.
When he first suggested it, I was skeptical. Not only because I didn't know anything about MMA fighting, but because I didn't know that throwing punches was exactly the healthiest outlet available to me. Back then, I actually was seeing a therapist and thought that talk therapy – perhaps even some medication – would be my best avenue.
But that little experiment proved to be a horrible failure. And that's when Adrian took me down to PowerCore for the first time and had me do some work on a body bag. He taught me how to punch and kick, and then turned me loose on it.
That first night, I must have beat on that bag for a solid hour. When I left the gym, every muscle in my body ached. I hurt in places I never even thought I could hurt. But, I went home and had the best, most untroubled night's sleep I'd had in years. It turned out that he was right – expending that much anger and dark energy was therapeutic. Healing.
After that though, I was hooked. I was like a junkie needing a fix and turned up at his gym day after day, wanting to punch something. Adrian kept encouraging me. Teaching me the proper techniques. When I got proficient at those, he taught me some advanced techniques. I'm like a sponge, absorbing everything he teaches me and always thirsting for more.
I wouldn't be able to afford a gym like PowerCore on my own. We're talking hundreds of dollars in membership dues every month. Not that it's not worth it, given the level of instruction and amenities the gym comes with.
But given my current financial situation, there is no way I could afford the place. Which is why it's a good thing Adrian owns the place. In exchange for unlimited access to the gym, I come in once a week – usually on Saturday mornings when I'm not scheduled at the coffee house – and clean the place from top to bottom. Adrian initially asked for me to come in once a month, but given how disgusting people can be and that his gym's reputation shouldn't be damaged by how dirty and gross it is, I told him I'd be doing it once a week.
It's a chore I do happily for all of the benefits Adrian's gym gives me. It's the very least I can do.
“You okay?” Adrian asks.
“Bad day at work,” I say.
He nods as if he understands – which he probably does. Adrian seems to be the only one who really gets me.
“Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “I'd rather do some sparring,” I say. “Anybody available?”
He looks around the gym and then turns back to me, giving me a smile. “I think I can find you a partner.”
I walk over to the sparring ring as he heads over to one of his guys who's training a client. They speak briefly and then the client looks over to me briefly and laughs before turning back to the Adrian and his own trainer. He shrugs and then the three of them walk over to the sparring ring.
I'm warming myself up, throwing a few combinations as I jog in place. The client – a Hispanic guy who stands about five-ten, has a shaved head, dark colored goatee, dark eyes, and a little bit of a gut – steps in and looks me up and down suggestively. He licks his lips and gives me what I can only imagine he believes is his best, most charming smile.
“Damn,” he says. “You sure you want to do this, sweetheart? You sure you wouldn't rather just go get a drink or somethin'?”
Oh, this is going to be fun. If there's anything I hate more than snooty, entitled bitches, it's obnoxious assholes – and calling me sweetheart, baby, or any other stupid pet name makes you an obnoxious asshole.
I strap on my headgear and cinch it down nice and snug. I don't like wearing the bulky things, but it's gym rules.
“How about we just stick to me kicking your ass?” I say and then slip my mouthpiece in.
He shrugs. “I'm into a little foreplay, baby,” he says. “It's all good.”
The adrenaline and anger are already surging through me when Adrian rings the bell, signaling the start of our first round. We both bounce lightly on our feet as we dance around each other, circling each other, looking for an opening.
“C'mon, ladies,” Erik, the other trainer shouts. “Are we fighting or dancing?”
My opponent, apparently spurred on by his trainer's words, rushes toward me. He telegraphs it so badly, I can already see his move coming before he even throws it. He thinks he can distract me with a left jab, his real attack being a right cross.
Before he can throw it though, I spin to the side and avoid him altogether. Though light on his feet when he's just bouncing around, he's actually a bit slow and plodding. In the time it takes him to turn around, I'm already squared up. And when he's finally facing me, he's slow to bring his gloves up, allowing me the time to throw a quick three-punch combination to his face.
His head snaps back and he grunts, stunned by the attack. Lowering his head, he looks at me with real anger in his eyes.
“You're gonna pay for that, sweet tits,” he says. “Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this.”
He rushes at me again and this time, I spin to the other side, turning quickly and kicking him in the back of the knee. He drops to his knees and growls in pain. I'm on him before he can get back to his feet though, throwing a furious combination of punches and knees to his head and midsection.
He tries to cover his head and is screaming something I can't understand. The anger inside of me, dark and abiding, has bubbled to the surface and all I can do is keep punching, keep kicking. I want to hurt him – and hurt him bad. My vision blurs and I suddenly don't feel like I'm in control of myself.
I just keep punching, keep kicking, unable – or maybe just unwilling – to stop. I just keep seeing that woman's face from the coffee house. Hearing her voice. Keep hearing the guy I'm sparring with calling me baby and sweetheart. It's like this perfect storm of anger has been forming inside of me and finally broke.
“Amanda, stop,” I hear Adrian's voice, but can't comprehend what he's saying.
Large hands, stronger than iron, clamp down on my arms. I feel myself being lifted up and then carried to the far side of the ring. When my vision clears and I come back to myself, I find myself staring into Adrian's face. He looks simultaneously irritated and concerned.
“Amanda, are you okay?” he asks.
I blink and shake my head to clear away the dark fog that clouds my vision. “Yeah, I'm fine.”
He takes my headgear off and tosses it to the side. “What happene
d out there?”
I shake my head. “I don't know,” I say. “I just – I just kind of snapped, I guess.”
I look past him and see Erik huddled down by the guy I'd just sparred with. He's flat on his back with his hands over his head.
“Is he okay?” I ask.
Adrian shrugs. “He'll be fine,” he said. “I think you damaged his pride more than anything.”
Erik helps the man get to his feet and sends him off to the locker room before coming over to join us. He and Adrian share a look and then a laugh between themselves.
“Is he going to be okay?” I ask.
Erik nods. “He's fine,” he says. “I wanted to thank you.”
I cocked my head and looked at him. “For what?”
“I've been looking for a way to take Armando down a peg or two for a while now. Thinks he's ready to take on Tito Ortiz,” he says.
“And you took him down about twelve pegs,” Adrian laughs. “It's stupid, but he's taking getting his ass kicked by a girl really personally.”
Erik claps me on the shoulder. “Great technique by the way,” he said. “You've come a long way.”
“Thanks,” I say and offer him a small smile. “I've had a great teacher.”
Erik nods and then walks away, leaving me alone with Adrian. Though somewhat amused, he still looks concerned.
“Looks like today was a really bad day for you,” he says.
“You have no idea.”
“I think I do now,” he says. “I think Armando does too. And I have a feeling he's never going to be calling you sweetheart or baby again.”
I laugh softly and Adrian gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“I honestly don't know what happened,” I say. “I just kind of lost it out there.”
He shrugs. “It happens,” he says. “Just one of those things you're going to have to learn to rein in.”
“Yeah, I'm getting that a lot today,” I say and give him a rueful grin.
He leans down and looks me in the eye, holding my gaze. “It's not bad advice,” he says. “And you know my door is always open if you ever want to talk.”
I take his hand and give it a squeeze. “I don't deserve you, you know.”
Adrian flashes me a cocky little smirk. “No, you really don't.”
I laugh and punch him playfully in the stomach, feeling better than I had all day.
Chapter Five
Brady
“Good morning,” she says when I step into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Miss Delia,” I reply.
“Coffee's fresh,” she says. “I'm making waffles for Nicholas; would you like me to make you some?”
I shake my head. “Sounds delicious, but I can't,” I reply. “I have a couple of meetings today. I'll just grab something out.”
I pour myself a cup of coffee and pour in a little creamer, giving it a stir. Taking a sip, I lean back against the counter and savor the rich, dark brew. Miss Delia is looking at me out of the corner of her eye. I can tell she wants to say something. I let her stew on it for a moment while I enjoy my coffee.
Setting my mug down on the counter, I sigh. “What's on your mind, Miss Delia?”
She shrugs and I know her silence is very pointed. Miss Delia has been with my family for a long while – and it's always been Miss Delia, not Delia, not D, nothing but Miss Delia. She started working for us when I was ten or so – and she helped raise me. My parents were busy people, always out attending this fundraiser or charity event, opening that business, going to this or that gallery opening – they weren't around a whole lot.
And because of that, I think of her as something of a mother figure. She keeps me in line – most of the time. I appreciate her bluntness and directness. It seems rare that I can get that kind of honesty from people.
“Do you remember when your father used to take you to all those football games when you were young?” she finally asks.
I chuckle. “I was just thinking about that the other day,” I reply. “When I was the game, actually.”
She nods. “I remember you used to get so excited about going to the games and spending time with your father. Your face would just light up like the sun on Sunday mornings.”
“Yeah, I remember,” I say, already knowing where she's going with all of this.
“You know, your son is only going to be young once,” she says as she puts a waffle into the oven to keep it warm. “Do you want his memories to be happy ones? Or do you only want him to remember having me around?”
“Well, in all fairness,” I say, smiling wide, “I can't make waffles quite like you.”
The look she gives me could have curdled milk. I understand her point, but it's not quite that simple. I'm a single father – an unexpectedly single father. I hadn't planned on having Nicholas and shortly after he was born, his mother Angie, just took off. Abandoned him. Abandoned us. I would have married Angie – it would have been the right thing to do. But I never got the chance. She was just gone one day. Like she never existed. But of course, she did – and I have a son to prove it.
At the time, I was twenty-four years old and wholly unprepared to be a father. I'm twenty-eight now, and I can't say I'm all that much better prepared. I do what I can to help give him a comfortable life – much like I had growing up. Like me, he wants for nothing.
But truth be told, I know I'm not cut out to be a father. I feel like I should still be out there chasing girls, having fun, buying expensive toys, and doing all the stereotypical things trust fund kids do. And there is a small sliver of me that resents being tied down, having the responsibility of a child.
Don't get me wrong, I love my son. I love my son in ways that scare me. Ways I'm not ready for. I just don't feel like I can do right by him. That I can be the kind of father he deserves. I just don't feel cut out to be that guy.
My dad, for all his faults and all the time he wasn't around, was a good man. A good father. Even though he was always busy, I never felt like I came second for him. He made the time to be with me when he could. Our Sundays at the stadium were sacred and nothing ever intruded on that time. That was our time and he never let work or any other obligation get in the way of it. He made me feel like I mattered to him.
And try as I might, I just don't feel I'll ever be able to live up to him as a father. I don't think I can ever be the kind of man my father was to me, to my own son. And that has me keeping him at a bit of arm's length. The last thing I want to do is be a disappointment to my own son.
“You're trying too hard to be perfect, Brady,” she says. “And you're scared.”
I nod. “I'm very scared,” I say, surprised by my admission.
Miss Delia walks over to me and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “No parents are perfect, Brady,” she says. “You know that as well as anybody. For as great as they were, your parents didn't walk on water. My own children can tell you that.”
“I have a feeling your kids would say that you actually can walk on water, Miss Delia,” I say. “Because you practically do.”
She slaps me lightly in the shoulder, a smile on her face. “Hardly,” she says. “There have been some hard times and I've made some mistakes. I'm not perfect. Your parents weren't perfect. And you shouldn't hold yourself to an impossible standard you'll never reach. It's not fair to Nicholas and it's not fair to you.”
“Trust me, I know,” I say with a rueful grin and a sigh. “Still, my folks were great people doing great things. I'm – I'm nobody, Miss Delia. I'm a kid living on the fruits of an empire I didn't build. And frankly, I feel like Nicholas deserves more than I can ever give him. Deserves a better father than I can ever be.”
“That's garbage,” she says. “All Nicholas wants is a father who loves him. Somebody who is there to throw the ball with. To go to the zoo with. Somebody who spends time with him and makes him feel important.”
“Don't you think he also deserves somebody he can be proud of?”
She shrugs. “He deserve
s a father's love, Brady,” he says. “Somebody who wants to be in his life. I think in the end, he'd be prouder of that than anything you could ever achieve as a businessman.”
I look down into my coffee cup, feeling all of the familiar insecurity and uncertainty rising within me. What I said to Miss Delia is the truth of the matter. I really am a nobody. My parents built the Keating empire from the ground up – I'm simply riding on their coattails because of my name. I've done nothing. Accomplished nothing. There is not a single thing I – or Nicholas – can point to and say, “yeah, I built that.”
And more than anything, I want my son to be proud of me. Proud of my accomplishments. I want to build something for him. Build a legacy that he can be proud of.
“You put too much pressure on yourself, Brady,” Miss Delia says. “You don't have to live up to the bar your parents set. That was for them. All you have to do is be the best man you can be, set a good example for Nicholas, and be a good father to him.”
I finish the last of the coffee and set the mug down. “What if I'm not a good man though?”
She scoffs at me. “You forget how long I've known you,” she says. “You're a good man. You have a good heart. I've seen it. You need to let Nicholas see it now.”
“And what if I fail?”
She gives me a gentle smile. “You won't fail,” she says. “I know you. Know what you're capable of – even if you don't right now. Let your heart guide you and you cannot go wrong, Brady.”
I give her a small smile and lean down, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Miss Delia,” I say. “Mind if I take Nicholas his waffles?”
She gives me a gentle smile. “I think he'd like that.”
~ooo000ooo~
I set the tray down on the table in front of Nicholas and give his hair a ruffle. He looks up at me and smiles. Just looking down at him, I feel my heart swell with pride. He was unexpected, but I'm learning that sometimes, the best things in life are.