He offers you a hand and helps you sit. You shake your head.
“I thought I had it,” you manage between gasps.
You started out strong, your first two sets, but then everything fell apart on this one.
Coach Nico chuckles. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Think about where you started!”
When you started, you could barely press the bar by itself. Forty-five pounds.
Now you can do nearly three sets at a hundred and fifty.
“I guess.”
Coach Nico furrows his brows at you. “Seriously, Farshid. You’ve come a long way. You should be proud of yourself.I’mproud of you.”
You shrug and try not to let your smile show. You’re glad he’s proud of you, and you’re proud of yourself, too, a little bit at least,but you’re still not where you want to be. And you still don’t look the way you need to.
The way you want to, you mean.
Coach Nico makes you stand and clasp your hands behind your back, helping you raise them to stretch your pecs out. You stifle a grunt of pain.
“When’s the last time you took a day off?” he asks.
You try to remember. The gym was closed New Year’s Day. And the day after. And then that snow day two weeks back.
“Couple weeks ago,” you tell the floor. Yeah, that snow day, but what’s the difference if it was one week ago or five? You feel fine. You don’t need days off. You need to get stronger. Run faster. Punch harder.
“Rest is good for you.” He releases your arms and you stand up. “You doing anything for Valentine’s? I bet you break all the hearts at school.”
You’re still too sweaty for any blush to show, but you feel it starting anyway.
You shake your head.
Coach Nico laughs and goes over to the long bench with cubbies beneath it. He sits down, legs sprawling out, and motions for you to do the same.
You sit on the floor across from him instead, doing a pretzel stretch. But when you look up, he’s staring at you, and he’s not smiling. There’s a little line between his eyebrows.
“I’m serious, Farshid. Rest days are important. So’s eating right.”
“I track my macros.”
He sighs. “Right doesn’t just mean macros. You’re fourteen. You should be eating pizza and candy sometimes, too.”
“I’m good.” Pizza? Candy? No freaking way. That would throw everything off. All your hard work. All your careful planning.
“Just remember, the point of all this is to feel fit,” he says. “As in capable of doing work. Not to look some kind of way in the mirror. Okay?”
“I know,” you tell him. “I just want to be strong.”
You just want to look right. For your shirts to fit your shoulders and show off your arms. For your shorts to sit at your waist, above your hips and glutes, just so.
“I still eat pizza.” Or at least, you could if you wanted. “I’m good. Really.”
You’re not. Good, that is. But you don’t know how to explain it to him. How doing this—working out, eating right, looking the way you need to look—is your best defense against what’s out there. Against what people are saying about you, thinking about you.
Against that word.
“Okay. Good. I know I’m just a boxer, but you can talk to me, okay? Lots of guys get into their own heads about this sort of thing. I don’t want that for you.”
