by Emilia Finn
I take my phone from my back pocket, check the screen, though Ben can’t be home yet, and when my messages show Bean wishing me a good time, and Mac tossing out winky faces because he’s obnoxious and gross, I toss it to the middle of my bed and laugh.
I love my friends, and being home has been hurried so far.
Tomorrow, we’ll be together again. The four of us, like old times, sweating in my gym while taking me back to our very foundations.
I look up when the floor outside my room creaks, and smile when Mom pokes her head through the door. I knew she’d follow me up. You can’t be best friends with your mom and not expect her to follow you up after your first date.
She steps into my room and closes the door with a soft snick, and when she turns back with a knowing look in her eye, sends electricity racing through my stomach. “I love you, baby.”
I pat my bed and invite her to sit. “I love you too. I love you more than you know. More than I knew, too. I didn’t figure it out until I had to spend three months away.” I wait for her to sit, and when she wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me in, I go, and lay my face on her chest.
“I trust you, baby.” She presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I know we all give you a hard time and say you’re crazy, but I do trust you. I wanted you to know that.”
“I do.” I squeeze extra tight and smile. “But thanks for saying that.”
“Did you use protection?”
My heart stops for a single beat before restarting and sending a calm through my blood.
“Yes. And all of my skills of persuasion to get him to touch me.”
She snorts and brushes my hair back off my face. “Poor kid stood no chance. We all know he adores you. Just like we know you can argue until you pass out. It was impossible for him to say no and mean it.”
“Are you disappointed?”
“Disappointed?” She pulls back. “No, baby. Nothing you ever do could disappoint me. As long as you continue to make good choices, informed choices without pressure from anyone else, then I trust you to take care of yourself. You know how you came to be here. You know I was only three or so years older than you are now when you were conceived. I don’t regret you, babe. But it was hard. I trust you not to do the same thing.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“You have such a massive future ahead of you. School, and then fighting. Once you’ve lived for you, even once you’ve lived for you and Ben, then you can think about more. But until then…”
I nod. “I get it, I promise.”
“Are you sore? Do you need anything from me?”
I shake my head. “He was very careful. I promise.”
“Lucky you.” She takes my hand and smiles. “Not everyone gets what you got. Not everyone gets to be with a man that loves them that first time.” She presses a kiss to my cheek and stares into my eyes. “I’m so proud of you, baby. I’m proud of you for making the choices you made that led you to this point in your life. School, fighting, your friends. Ben.” She grins. “You’ve set yourself up for a magical future. I can’t wait to see what you do with it.”
“Thanks for being cool, Mom. I wasn’t sure if you’d freak out.”
Standing, she fixes her top and places her hands on her trim hips. “I so rarely freak out.”
I laugh. “Only when you’re super mad.”
That flicks her into psycho mode when she does the crazy eyes and hurtles us back down memory lane. “A sixteen-year-old should not be getting arrested, Evelyn.”
“It wasn’t real arrested,” I protest on a laugh. “It was Uncle X whining about a lost bet and pouting. It’s not my fault the chief of police can’t handle himself against teens.”
“Smartass.” She steps across the room and stops by my door. “Your rap sheet is longer than mine, young lady. That’s all I’m saying.”
I scoff. “The fact you even have a rap sheet nullifies all of your lectures.” I mock her tone. “That’s all I’m saying.”
No more than thirty minutes after walking through my door and climbing into bed, my phone vibrates, and an hour after that, I fall asleep with Ben’s soft voice crooning in my ear.
Biggie and I walk through the front doors of the Rollin On Gym at eight the next morning. I stop in the middle of the reception space, and simply… breathe.
The scent is of sweat, and cologne, and wet dog, and antiseptic, and smelly balls. Technically, it’s gross, and should I ever lose my damn mind and invite horny-Clair here for some asinine reason, I know she’d back her ass out again and ask for a Clorox bath.
But to me, it’s home. It’s where I had a magical childhood, and the very place I first fell in love. I stand now on the exact spot I sat when I was three, when Biggie painted my toenails. He and my mom weren’t dating yet, but he loved us all the same.
He’d laid on his belly and asked me to count while he painted. Back then, I thought my inability to count properly was simply because I was a toddler.
Now we know it’s because my brain doesn’t compute the way it should.
Continuing forward, I pass the trophy display that boasts belts and cups. From world title winnings, to toddler tournaments that I aced and cleaned up. Those kiddy trophies sit right beside world championship belts, and prove that this family is unconditionally supportive, no matter your goals, no matter your skillset.
I pass through the next doorway and enter the room with the boxing ring. Blue and black. Regulation sized. It’s home to a million memories. Some good, some bad. But whichever we think of as we move through, its presence is a constant. An anchor in the stormy sea we call life.
It’s only eight in the morning, but the music is already loud, the sounds of flesh hitting flesh are, to me, the same as a lullaby to a different girl’s ears.
“I love this place so much.”
“Come on.” Biggie tosses a heavy arm over my shoulder and leads me through, effectively calling everyone’s attention. I’m his showpiece, his pretty little doll to show off, since I’ve been away. “You get to slack off for an hour, since I want you to watch this kid.”
I cast a curious eye around the large room. “You want me to scout for you?”
“Of course. You’re the best I know. You know shit no one else does.”
“It’s because I’m a genius.” I roll my eyes and whisper through the corner of my lips, “Did you dump Knox yet? He’s a pussy, and you’re wasting your time training him up for the same division as Ben. You only need one contender, and he hasn’t got shit on the sasquatch.”
He barks out a laugh and leads me to the ring. “I did not dump him. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“I know you didn’t, because if you did, he’d be on his ass already.”
Biggie shakes his head and stops in front of a fighter I know… and one I certainly do not. “Evie, this is Danny. He’s your age, and looking to go pro.”
“He decided that in the three months I’ve been gone?” I reach out and tap his fist when he offers.
Danny surely does look to be my age. He’s tall, angular, and bears acne scars I bet annoy the hell out of him. His hair is a little brown, and a little blond. It’s like a white towel that hasn’t been washed in… ever. It’s the dirty brown color that’ll have people arguing over whether it’s more blond or more brown.
“You’re a brand-new face.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He’s nervous, and wrings his grappling-gloved hands together. “I came down from upstate. I wanna fight pro–”
“And to get there, you wanna train with the best?”
Relaxing a little, he grins and shows off a red mouthguard. “That about sums it up. Coach has been talking about his scout visiting this week, so we’ve been working my weaknesses in prep.”
I turn and grin at Biggie. “Your scout was visiting? You scared him.”
He shrugs.
“You prefer stand up?” I ask Danny. “Or grappling?”
“Stand up. I like using my legs.” He s
teps back and makes room when his sparring partner steps forward. “I’m okay on the ground, though I prefer to stand for sure.”
“Why’d you wait for me?” I ask Biggie. “Uncle Bobby is our stand up guy.”
“I wanted you.” He pulls me under his arm and waves for the two guys in the ring to get started. He produces a remote control from the corner of the canvas, points it at the timer on the wall, and sets it for a three-minute round. “Show her your best. Your career and placement in this gym counts on impressing this girl.”
“Slow is calm,” I coach in a soothing voice. “Calm is fast.” We step back and stop six or so feet from the ring, so we can see the whole picture in front of us. “Don’t rush your shit,” I add. “Make it precise. Don’t kick for the sake of kicking, kick for the sake of snapping his leg and ending the fight.”
This feeling of home is nice, of course, but it takes only minutes for the nostalgia to wash away.
I leave Biggie’s arms and get close to the fight. Danny’s left arm is weak, I make a mental note. He wants stand up, but he drops his guard and runs the risk of knocking himself out. Without the conscious decision to do so, I end up standing on the corner of the canvas, holding onto the ropes, so close to the guys that their sweat hits my bare skin.
I’m wearing my usual gym clothes – booty shorts – but with a Rollin On Gym hoodie that dwarves my body and covers me down to mid-thigh. I’m thinking Biggie’s laundry was mixed in with mine, but once I discovered it in my closet this morning and pulled it on, there was nothing anyone could do to convince me to take it off.
“Left arm up, Danny!” I crawl through the ropes, and skip out of the way when the fight changes and they steamroll in my direction. I duck and weave, and end up with the perfect view when Danny’s much stronger right fist slams down on his opponent’s chin. “Got it! Awesome work, now circle around. Make him chase you.” I stay light on my feet, moving when I need to, and coming closer when I can’t help myself.
Every fighter knows three minutes is both excruciatingly slow, and lightning fast. But as a spectator, the seconds fly until we’re down to twenty seconds and the guys end up on the canvas.
They slam to the floor with a booming thud, and wrestle for the top position. Biggie has stayed back so far, but he’s our grappling king, and he can’t help himself any more than I can as Danny uses all his strength and tries to come around to guard.
He grunts. He swears. He slips a jab into his opponent’s ribs and makes me smile when it helps. But the buzzer sounds before he makes any true progress, then the guys flop back like fish on a dock. They pant in tandem, and follow me with their eyes as I circle them and step up so Danny doesn’t have to look at me upside down.
“How much do you want this?”
He breathes heavily and watches me through big eyes. “I want it so much that I left my girl at home to come here.” He pulls his mouthguard out and ignores the saliva that follows and dribbles onto his chin. “I want it so much that I promised her I’d be back soon, but with a belt.”
My stomach jolts with pain. It’s kinda the same with me and Ben, but at the same time, not at all.
“You think it’s worth it? Breaking her heart, leaving her all alone, risking everything you have with her, all in search of a title that doesn’t mean a whole lot if you’re alone anyway?”
He nods and slowly sits up. His chest glitters with a sheen of sweat. “Yes, ma’am. She and I talked it through, and she supports my choices. As soon as she finishes school, she’ll meet me here, and everything will be back on track.”
I smile. “What’s she doing at school?”
“Art. She’s an amazing artist, but they don’t have a school for that here.”
“You’re both pursuing your passions, and you’re both supporting each other?”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he nods. “Yes, ma’am. We’ve been talking about this a long time. We had to graduate high school first, then she was moved into her new school, and now here I am. I have four years to make it worth it.”
Nodding, I study his shaggy hair and thin face. I glance down at the grappling gloves he wears, and the scuffed leather on the knuckles.
He’s working for it. He’s working hard, and has something to prove.
I look to Biggie. “Work on the ground game, and Danny might be a champion.”
“Yeah?” Danny shoots to his feet with a girly squeal. “I’m in?”
“I’m not saying all of your dreams will come true, but if you work for them, they just might.”
“I’ll work! I swear I will.” He sweeps an arm out and scoops me up into a giddy hug that makes me laugh. “Holy shitballs! I got the tyrant’s approval!”
“The tyrant?” I push away and stumble back onto my feet. “Who the hell calls me the tyrant?”
“Everyone.” Chuckling, Biggie makes his way to the ring and takes my hand to help me down. I don’t need the help, of course, but he wants the job, and I want him to be happy.
I step down off the canvas and land on the rubber mats, and when he thinks he’s safe, I shoot a fist out and slam it into his arm. “I’m not a tyrant!”
“You really are, honey.” He disables my arms with a hug – a trick he learned long ago – and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “And now he has your approval. Perhaps a slightly emotional seal of approval,” he narrows his eyes, “but approval nonetheless. We’ll work on his ground game and fly you in for his first big fight.”
“You bet.” I begin to back away, and wave to the still-panting, still-smiling future champion as I go. “Welcome to the family. Now the work begins.” I turn away with my own giddy grin, and head into the hall.
I know where my squad will be. It’s like a sixth sense – or more accurately, knowledge that comes from the fact we’re always spending time in the same space – so I practically skip down the hall, fist-bump my Uncle Jack as I pass, and find myself sprinting as I emerge into the octagon room to find exactly who I suspected I’d find.
Bean is in the octagon in booty shorts just like mine, but without the hoodie. Her long hair is braided back, and her mouthguard makes it look like she has a fat lip. She wears grappling gloves, the fingerless kind, as she circles, and her opponent – Ben – squares up.
In any other gym, in any other world, you could probably be forgiven for assuming that it’s Ben teaching Bean. You could assume the dude that stands at more than six feet is the master, compared to the shy brunette who barely says more than she has to. But Ben came to our world when he was fourteen. He only has four solid years of learning under his belt, while Bean has been in this gym since the day she was born.
Mac stands on the outside of the octagon, coaching, bitching, heckling, as those inside step forward and trade jabs. Ben would never go so hard as to knock Bean – or any woman – out. But we spar here, which means we kick, we hit, we fight until submission, and if we lose, we don’t complain.
We get up and try harder.
“Circle,” Mac coaches. “She’s coming in for the takedown.”
“No she’s not.”
“Yes she is,” I murmur in the same second Bean shoots to her knee, wraps her arms around her half-brother’s waist, and slams him to the floor so hard that the whole gym moves on its foundations.
She’s fast, slippery, so before he can get his hands up, she slithers across his chest, grabs his arm, and throws herself back until his arm hyperextends, and he cries out.
“Shit! Fuck.”
“Tap, you little bitch.” Okay, so Bean is mostly quiet. But sometimes, on really special occasions, she likes to talk smack when the recipient is our Sasquatch. Tormenting him brings us all to the yard, so to speak. “Tap for me and tell everyone who’s boss.”
“Fuck!” He taps. He has no choice, so his spare hand slaps the floor, and as soon as she releases him, he rolls away and groans.
He makes it so easy for us to tease.
“Ben!” Mac grabs the cage and rattles it in a way that makes my
heart soar. He’s regaining strength after his brush with death. His new heart is healthy, his body is accepting of his new organ, and Bean and him are working on rebuilding what he lost. “I told you she was coming in! I warned you, and you still sucked.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Ben rises to his hands and elbows, but when I cough to get their attention, his eyes snap up and stop on mine. His are dark, hooded, hungry, and not at all indicative of the whine-fest he was about to put on because he lost a fight to Bean. “Evie…”
“Gag.” Bean climbs to her feet and tucks her mouth guard into her shorts. Her skin is sweaty like Danny’s was. The salty sheen makes her olive skin sparkle as she makes her way to the cage door and steps out. “Doesn’t it bother anyone else that they’ve stopped pretending, and are now solidly in the couple’s phase? He looks at her weird.” She turns back to Ben and scrunches her nose. “You look at her weird.”
“I like how he looks at me.” I make my way into the room with a grin, and give Mac a side hug in hello, since I haven’t seen him since Ben’s fight. It’s shameful of me to come back to town and take three or four days to get back into the gym, but Christmas happened… and then Ben happened. “You look good, Blair. Did something to your hair?”
He scoffs and reseats his Space Jam cap. “I always look good. You still got your hoodie on?” I frown and look down at my body, as though to ask so? “Means you’re lazy. Get that shit off and start warming up.”
“I’ll spar with you.” I tag his arm and turn to walk backwards toward the cage. “I’ll knock you on your ass.”
“I’ll take it,” he grumbles. “No one spars with me anymore. They act like I might die or something.”
“They’re all soft. I’ll give you three rounds before lunch. Pinky-swear.” I stop when my back hits a solid chest. Not Bean’s, but the one that I rested on last night while we lay in the cold. I turn when his hands go to my hips, and grin when his lips quirk up. He’s terrified of touching me right now. We’re inside my family’s gym. That makes this their turf, and there are probably laws about murder on private property. But he can’t help himself.