I can be somewhat useful.
“Don’t forget that I’ll be out of the country for the next three weeks with Barrett Landry,” Achilles says, throwing his bag over his shoulder. “We’ll keep everything the same except for my visit two weeks from now. Let’s try to Zoom that session so I can get a visual on you—make sure you haven’t gone rogue.”
“I love the faith you have in me. It really hits me right in the feels.”
“You’re an asshole,” he says, shaking his head.
We chuckle, walking side by side out of the room. Achilles pats me on the shoulder before heading to the parking lot.
Being at Alfie’s is such a mindfuck these days. On one hand, it’s a burst of nostalgia from days gone by. It’s familiar and comfortable, and everyone treats me like I’m a hero—which I secretly love. But, on the other hand, it feels like a regression.
Many of my friends wanted to leave Sugar Creek as soon as they graduated from high school, but I never had that need to get out of here. Growing up in this small town was a blast, and there’s something to be said for walking into Patsy’s or Piper’s Pizza and knowing every person sitting at the tables. But leaving was the only way I could take care of Mom, so I had to do it.
And I did it.
Now?I don’t get to choose anymore, and being at Alfie’s every day is a reminder of that.
“Hey, Brooks! Check this out!” A red-haired boy named Trent waves at me with a gloved hand from a heavy bag across the room. “Watch this.”
He faces the bag and squats down, circling the bag with his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth. Then he launches an attack, throwing decent combinations—ripping his right hand across the leather as we practiced. The black eye he got from getting a little too big for his britches while sparring a couple of days ago shines.
“Well,” he says, puffing up his chest and pretending to spit. “What do ya think of that?”
I think you have a long life ahead of ya, kid.
“I think that if you spit anywhere in this gym, it’ll be the last time you’re here.” I lift a brow. “Where’s your mouthpiece?”
“Home. Well, what’s left of it.” He sighs, dropping his shoulders in defeat. “Dad brought home a dog last night that he found in the alley behind Patsy’s. Mom started hollering as soon as he came in the door, but Dad said we’re keeping it.” He shrugs again as if this is just another day in his life. I guess it probablyis. “Anyway, the dog got on the coffee table and chewed up my mouthpiece while I was sleeping.”
I have a lot to say about this, but not a word of it is appropriate in front of a nine-year-old boy. “Did you ask Alfie if you could get into the Tooth Saver box and grab an extra?”
He shuffles his feet. “Nah. The one the dog ate was a Tooth Saver one. I didn’t wanna ask again so soon.”
The cloudiness in his eyes and his refusal to look directly at me tighten my chest. I don’t know his whole story. Alfie won’t divulge too much about his students, which is one of the things I’ve always respected about him. But I do know that Trent was here creating chaos before I came in last year—andthat Trent is here nearly every day, has gone through a lot of the cheap mouthguards that Alfie keeps on hand for emergencies, and the shoes he’s wearing came from Alfie’s donation bin.
“That’s what the Tooth Saver box is for,” I say. “Better to need a piece of rubber than a whole new set of teeth.”
He gives me a wobbly, crooked grin. “Okay. Ready to watch me again?”
“Let’s see it.”
He forgoes the windup from before and throws the punches.
“Not bad.” I toss my towel over my shoulder, then tap him on the hip. “This is where your power comes from, remember? If you don’t pivot your back foot and rotate your hips, you’re just pushing the punch with your arm.”
He nods, narrowing his eyes. He tags the bag again—jab, cross, hook. Jab, cross, hook.
“Better,” I say as the sound of his punches cracks through the air. “Don’t get lazy with the fundamentals. Your opponent will snuff that out in a second. There’s nothing worse than being knocked out because you got lazy.”
He pants, looking at me with wide eyes. “That ever happen to you?”
“Hell, no.” I scoff, making him laugh. “You don’t get to be the middleweight champion by not being prepared.”
“So even when you get to be champion, you still have to practice fundamentals? That sucks.”
“You gotta practice it even more when you’re a champion. Footwork, balance, and discipline—all the basic stuff Alfie teaches you. Might as well tattoo that to your forehead.”
I lightly tap him just above his eyes with the palm of my hand.
