Page 42 of Rent a Bad Boy

“I mean it. No more punching my teammates in the dining hall.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Tyler kind of had it coming.”

“He did. But still.”

As we’re leaving, Grandma’s voice carries through the parking lot. “David, sweetheart, if you ever want a home-cooked meal... you should know I can’t cook, but I make a hell of a mimosa.”

Isla closes her eyes. “Please take me home before I have to witness her earn a restraining order.”

With her hand in mine, we walk to the truck. “Let’s go home.”

She leans against my arm as we walk across the lot. The night air is cool and smells like cut grass. The chickens are waiting at home, and Brad Pitt is probably strutting around like he owns the place, which he basically does. Somewhere in this parking lot, Grandma Pickel is making a news reporter deeply uncomfortable. None of these are my problems exactly.

They’re better than my problems. They’re my life. And I’m fine with that.

EPILOGUE

ISLA

There’s a twelve-year-old kid named Michael who keeps dropping his left hand every time he throws a jab. Everett has corrected him about it six times in the last ten minutes without once raising his voice.

I’ve been watching while pretending I’m not, sitting on a bench by the front desk of the gym with a textbook open on my lap. Studying for a psych exam is nothing compared to watching my boyfriend teach a roomful of teenagers how to punch things correctly.

This has become sort of a routine. He finishes his sessions at five, and I pick him up because his truck is in the shop again. Something about the transmission, which I choose to believe is unrelated to the time I drove it and clipped a mailbox. Sometimes we go to his place, sometimes we go to mine. Grandma doesn’t care either way, as long as he compliments whatever she’s wearing on his way through the door.

“Hands up, Michael,” he calls out. “Every time. I don’t care if your arms are tired.”

He taps the kid’s gloves with his own, light enough that it’s a reminder more than a hit. “You drop your guard, somebody’s going to make you regret it.”

“But my arms hurt,” Michael whines.

“Good. That means they’re working.”

Michael groans but lifts his hands. When he throws the next jab, his left stays up. Everett gives him a nod. I’ve come to recognize that as high praise from a man who communicates primarily through jaw movements and single-syllable grunts.

He got the job two months ago. The gym owner is a retired boxer named Phil, who’s missing part of his left ear and has the kind of calm that only comes from getting punched in the face several thousand times. He saw Everett working out one morning and asked if he’d ever thought about coaching. Everett said no. Phil said too bad, you start Monday. That was pretty much the end of the discussion.

It pays less than fighting. A lot less. The first month was rough—he was short on the mortgage, and I caught him looking at his phone one night with Reece’s number pulled up, and his thumb hovering over the call button. I didn’t say anything because I promised myself I wouldn’t guilt him. He put the phone down on his own and picked up an extra shift instead.

The second month was easier. Phil started sending more clients his way, and it turns out Everett is actually good at this. Not just the fighting part—he’s obviously good at that—but the teaching part. The patience. That’s funny, because patient is not a word I would’ve used to describe him three months ago.

But watching him with these kids, I get it. He sees himself in them. The angry ones. The scared ones. The ones who don’t know what to do with whatever’s living inside of them. He doesn’t talk about it, and he doesn’t have to. I see it in the way he adjusts their stance without making them feel stupid. The way he lets them hit the bag as hard as they need to without asking why they’re so angry. He knows why, because he’s been that kid.

Michael lands a combo that actually looks decent, and Everett says, “Better.” That single word makes Michael’s entire face light up as if he just won an Olympic medal. One word. That’s all it takes.

God, I love this man.

The session wraps up at five on the dot. The kids file out, with a couple of them fist-bumping him on the way past. One of them waves at me because he’s seen me here enough times to know I’m part of the furniture. I wave back. Michael’s mom waits by the door, and she mouths “thank you” at Everett before guiding her son outside. He pretends not to notice, but I see the way his shoulders sit a little differently after.

He grabs his bag and walks over to where I’m waiting. His hair is damp, and his shirt is sticking to him, and he smells like gym mats, which shouldn’t be attractive but is, because apparently my standards have been permanently rewired by a man who once punched his own teammate over my glasses.

“How was it?” I ask, closing my textbook.

“Michael dropped his left hand again.”

“I saw. You were patient with him.”

“I’m always patient.”