Boxing is a form of art.
When Llewellyn told me that years ago I was too young, and too in my head to see past the adrenaline it sparked. Slipping my gloves on only meant one thing, and that was unleashing the hurt and fury that consumed me.
I relish impaling my fist through the bag when I’m in front of it. In releasing the intensity that fills me. In having an outlet that I can’t find elsewhere.
Here, in the gym, I’m in control.
It’s me and the bag.
Me and my fists.
The rest of the world doesn’t exist.
Mom isn’t sick with a disease that commands her life.
I’m not in over my head, thinking I can help her.
Finn is only a figment of my imagination.
It’s therapy. The rawest version of it I’ll probably ever get.
I jab my gloved hand into the bag, keeping my form and working on the power behind my punch. I don’t waste my energy showing off but keep my hits snappy. I turn my whole body with the punch, liking how it makes the tension in my shoulders and neck lessen.
I need it after the ordeal with Finn, and while it hurts my torso slightly to twist in proper form, I’m okay with working through it.
He could have given me a broken rib or two, but I’m not letting it keep me down. Not when I have enough adrenaline ripping through me to tear down half of Gulliver’s with my bare hands.
This workout…I need it more than my body needs rest to heal from the lingering bruises Finn gifted me.
The only thing that’d make it better is if I had my headphones. I like to drown out my surroundings when I work out. It helps me get out of my head and stay focused, but they’re back in Chatham Hills, and it wasn’t worth turning around and wasting the gas to get them.
The low music in Gulliver’s will have to do.Trophiesby Young Money comes on, and it reminds me ofRockyeven if it wasn’t one of the songs on the movie’s playlist.
Halfway through, with a partial post-workout euphoria flowing through me, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.
“You’re supposed to breathe out when you punch.”
I shift on my feet and glance over, seeing none other than Eli McPearson looking back at me. We may have been acquaintances in high school, but we’ve always kept to our own corners at Gulliver’s. He always has a trainer glued to his side anyhow, and when there isn’t one, he’s in the ring, training on his own.
With a dumbfounded expression, I say, “What?”
He motions to his face. “Exhale through the nose. It feeds oxygen back into your muscles. Gives you more control.” His eyes rove over my face, down to my lip then back up to my eyes. “You should get in the ring sometime.”
I shake my head. “Not my scene.”
“That bruise on your face proves otherwise,” he comments. “Unless you gave that to yourself, my guess is someone took a little something out on you.”
“It’s nothing.”
He chuckles, smile lines bordering his mouth. The vein in his forehead becomes more pronounced, and I swear I see one of his ears—the one that looks like half a cauliflower head—twitch. “You forget that we used to sit next to each other in history.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Means I know a bullshitter when I see one.”
I grunt in response, pulling a glove off and using my shirt to swipe sweat from my face. Part of me wants to mention seeing him in the Gauntlet, but I don’t want to mess up my chances of getting to go again if Llewellyn finds out. I also don’t know if he necessarily wants that aired out anywhere else besides the grungy basement of this place.
My assumptions tell me he’s working with a trainer to try and go pro. Fighting illegally would surely ruin those chances. I’m not going to be the one to steal it from him.
