He tosses my jacket at me. “Get out. Nobody wants to see you fight.”
I frown fiercely as I catch my jacket in my fist and edge forward, equally mad now. “That’s too damn bad. ’Cause I’m fighting anyway.”
I keep my eyes on him as I pull off my left glove, shove my arms into my hoodie, and zip up.
I walk out and the door slams behind me. I clench my jaw and shove my gloves into my bag and spot the old, black gloves inside too. I push them down into the bottom of the duffel bag and zip it up.
The season starts in a week and a half. No coach? No fight. I can’t even get into a gym.
But I won’t let anyone or anything keep me from the ring.
I pick up a penny from the ground.
And I spot a girl in workout clothes across the street, tying her shoelaces. She’s a step away from the gym door. I straighten, pull my hoodie over my head, and cross the street, following after her like I belong.
THREE
“HE’S WITH ME”
Reese
Today is the first day of my very own personal boot camp. One day spent with the Tates and the good news is, there are no tempting Snickers bars in sight. Only green food with organic labels on them. All fresh. Fruits, lean meats, all I need to finally—finally—lose the ten annoying pounds I’ve been carrying with me for the past few years. They come with feelings of insecurity, dissatisfaction, and frustration. They are proof of me having absolutely no willpower against my hunger pangs or my cravings. A reminder of why I didn’t go to dances, or—despite my love of the beach—head out in a swimsuit to take in some sunlight. I plan to work out like a fiend.
When I get back home, I’m going to walk into a crowded room with a great smile and sans my Himalayan butt, looking so pretty Miles Morris is going to drool in his mouth at the sight of me. He’ll admit that it’s always been me and only me for him, and he was too blinded by our friendship to notice.
And I’m going to sleep with him—the first time that I will ever sleep with a guy—and I’ll do it with no insecurities about him seeing me naked because I’m going to look beautiful and slim and, most of all, sure of myself. So sure of myself I’d do it in broad daylight for him if he asked me to.
Pulling my T-shirt a little lower as it rolls up my hips, I start panting and drop the treadmill speed a little bit. If I don’t, I’ll have to crawl my way to day care to pick up my little package and, carrying him back home, I’ll be trailing my tongue on the sidewalk. No, thanks.
I’m on a healthy living boot camp.
Brooke says I look like Jennifer Lawrence and that she envies my hourglass figure. It’s like my torso was cinched with a corset since I was born. Curvy. But I’ll take Brooke’s athletic physique any day. Genetics made my hourglass figure, but athletic physiques take more than genetics; they take hard work and I admire that.
I press the treadmill speed a little bit faster and survey everyone inside the bustling gym. But my eyes come back to the guy who slipped into the gym after me.
He’s at the far end of the room, pummeling a heavy bag. He looks totally concentrated. He’s the only fighter here who’s not talking to anyone and not with a trainer.
I’d say he looks friendless, but it’s more like he doesn’t want to be bothered and doesn’t need friends: he’s got his fists.
The beautiful boy is getting attention from everyone in the gym by now. Maybe because he’s really working out the heavy bag, causing the chain holding it to rattle. But I think, for the most part, it’s because he crackles with passion for what he’s doing. And looks sooooo good doing it too.
To my right, I spy one of the front-desk attendants walk into the weights and cardio area. A second one joins her, speculating. “No membership,” I hear.
One heads back to the desk, the open-plan concept making the reception area visible from my treadmill, and she picks up the phone and hangs up just as quickly. “They’re coming,” she says when the second attendant joins her behind the desk.
I keep walking, now focusing on the guy. He’s a badass. I’ve never seen someone hit a bag so hard, and he’s not bothering anyone. Nothing seems to exist to him except that bag he’s hitting.
I’m watching him when a pair of uniformed security guards appears inside the gym.
The lady by the entrance points to the young man. He seems to sense them, and he lifts his head, frowning. And then, he slowly starts walking forward. He stops a few feet away from them and stands there in the cockiest, most challenging way I’ve ever seen. Almost as if he’s waiting to be kicked out.
“We need you to come with us and confirm membership at the front desk,” one of the guys says threateningly.
I stop the treadmill and suddenly step down. “He’s with me.”
The guy and the security guards turn in my direction, and I nod quickly. “He came with me.” I pull out my gym card. The guards come over to look at it. One of them brings back a lady from the front desk.