Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“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 probably is. “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—and that 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.
It feels like only yesterday that I was Trent’s age, popping into the gym to burn off some of the energy that always seemed to be coursing through my body. It was the only thing that could effectively wear me out. Baseball, rugby, football—none of it came close to calming me down like Alfie’s. I didn’t understand why then, but I get it now.
The thought makes my heart tug, and tears gather in the corners of my eyes.
“Well, maybe I won’t be a champion,” he says, circling the bag in his half-squat stance again. “Maybe I’ll just teach kids how to throw punches.”
“Good plan. But you need to learn how to throw them the right way first.” I chuckle at his movements. “What movie have you been watching, kiddo?”
“What makes you think I’ve been watching movies?”
“Oh, just a wild guess.”
Trent stands tall, his eyes sparkling, and comes to my side. He leans his head against my ribs, sighing. “Thanks for teaching me, Brooks. You’re a real good pal.”
A real good pal? I run a hand over my mouth to hide my smile.
Trent stands, shoving away from me, his attention grabbed by two kids his age that I see in here sometimes. He races off to them without so much as a goodbye to his good pal.
“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride,” I say, chuckling as I turn toward the door. I don’t get more than a few steps before I notice Alfie standing in the doorway of his office. He motions for me to join him.
Alfie’s office is tucked into the corner of the building. The chipped paint is barely noticeable under the plethora of plaques and awards hanging on the walls from his career, spanning nearly every aspect of fighting. The man is a legend. The kids in this gym don’t know how lucky they are to be trained by him.