Take Me On

“Did the trainer from Black Fire turn you away?”


Even though I knew it would be coming, the mention of my ex-boyfriend Matt’s gym wrings me of energy like water from a sponge. “I won’t go to them.”

“So you’re saying you need a recommendation for betraying your teammates? Your family? For being a quitter?”

I honestly flinch, because that dagger stabbed into my heart hurt like hell.

John flips through the paperwork. “Kinesiology. Study of human movement. A study for people interested in physical therapy or becoming trainers. A degree for sports people.” John slams the papers back into my hand. “Not you.”

He leaves. His back turned to me like I don’t matter. No. This isn’t how it’s going down. An insane flash of anger propels me forward. “I hold a national title.”

“Held.” John weaves through the punching bags and I follow. Twice I have to jump out of the way of a bag kicked too hard.

“That’s right,” I say. “Held.” A bag flies in front of me and I push it back.

“Out of the way!” the fighter behind it shouts.

“Screw you,” I snap, and then I say to John, “That’s a hell of a lot more than most of the people training here.”

John rounds on me so fast I stumble into a bag. “The people in here are dedicated. They didn’t walk away. They didn’t forsake everything and everyone who loved them.”

I try one more time through gritted teeth. “I need this.”

“I only write letters for people who earn them. You want it, then get your ass in that locker room and start sweating on my floor. Or are you still a runner?”

His face is in mine and it’s a testament to my stubbornness that I haven’t broken into tears. A wave of nausea disorients me. John’s not going to help me, and, to protect the two people I love the most in life, I can’t work out in this gym again.

With all eyes on me, I pivot away from my grandfather and walk out the door.





West

I ask why more than I should, some days I regret the decisions I make and most mornings I wake up on edge. The three don’t often combine, but today I hit the shit trifecta.

Leaning against an aging telephone booth, I withdraw the envelope from my coat pocket and ignore the chill of the evening wind. The University of Louisville logo stands out in red across the top. I snagged the envelope yesterday before my parents figured out it had arrived. They’ve been stalking the mailbox, desperate for news that isn’t bad.

My bruised and cut knuckles scream in protest as I unfold the paper. Each joint in my fingers pounds in time with the muscles in my jaw. A few hours ago, I got expelled from school for fighting.

Mom and Dad should know better than to expect good news from me. Mom holds on to hope. Dad, on the other hand...

I’m not a rocket scientist and don’t need to be to know thin letters aren’t good. My head literally throbs reading the words. I silently swear and slouch farther against the glass. It’s only February and the rest of spring is going to bring more rejections.

I crumple the paper and toss it into the ashtray sitting outside the doors of the Laundromat. The remains of a smoldering cigarette char the edges of the letter. Ironic. The rest of my life is also going up in smoke.

My cell rings and I snatch it out of my coat pocket. “Yeah.”

“Your father said you haven’t come to the hospital.” It’s Mom and my eyes narrow at the entrance of the shit-hole bar at the end of this decrepit strip mall. She steps out of the bar and onto the sidewalk, a black scarf hiding her blond hair. Huge designer sunglasses disguise her face, and she sports a tailored coat that costs more than every car parked in this dump.

Mom is high-end, high-style and high-maintenance. And this landfill? I glance around the gray lot. Not a car made in this decade in sight. A Laundromat, a dollar store, a grocery store, a pharmacy with bars over the windows and, down toward the end, the bar.

She stands out here. I blend in better with my sagging jeans and hat on backward, which is good because she doesn’t know I’m here. Mom’s a petite thing, and I tower over her at my six feet. I inherited Mom’s looks with the blond hair and blue eyes. If I need to, I can defend myself, but Mom has no business being here. Yet she shows once a month. Same damn time. Same damn day. Even with her youngest daughter, Rachel, in the hospital in intensive care.

“You’re not staying with Rachel?” I ask. Mom has no idea I’ve been following her for the past ten months. I came to this hellhole last spring to buy pot from a potential new dealer, someone cheaper than the guys at my school. Private school equates to marked-up.

“No,” she answers.

Shocked doesn’t describe the reaction I had when I saw my mother walking into the bar the first time. After that near encounter, I keep a tight watch on her. It’s my job to protect my family. I failed with Rachel and don’t plan on failing again.