“She’ll be in on Monday?”
“Yeah, I talked to her. She’ll be okay.”
I couldn’t tell what was going on, but Rook started moving, resuming my tour.
“What’s your name, maintenance guy?” Tammy called out.
“Slayde,” I answered.
“Good to have you, Slayde.” She gave me a friendly smile, but I stuck with a nod in response. I wasn’t looking for friends either.
The Jungle Gym was bigger than it looked on the outside. Rook led me through an enormous, open room filled with free weights and machines on one end and treadmills and stair climbers on the other. The men’s locker room was off the back of it.
“You can get in here and clean whenever it’s slow. Our busiest time is after work hours during the week.” He stopped and looked around the empty room. “I don’t care when you clean it, so long as you hit it once a day.”
“Yes, sir.” I followed him back out and around a corner to a room that stopped me in my tracks. It was a small boxing area. A strike bag hung from the ceiling in one corner, and in the center was a speed bag. A smaller strike bag was on a pole weighted to the floor.
“What’s this for?” I instinctively reached out to touch it, but the onslaught of memories was almost too much—the sound of the whistle, the barked orders of my coach, the hours upon hours I’d spent working, chasing, dreaming. I’d gotten so close, and I’d lost it all.
“Cardio strike bag.” Rook answered, oblivious to my discomfort. “Kenny’s working up a routine for group fitness. I like to keep things fresh.”
It was the second time this Kenny person had come up, but I was less interested in her than in getting out of here. Clearing my throat, I nodded down.
“You still keep your chin tucked.” A grin was in his voice.
I didn’t even realize I was doing it. “I guess. It’s good protection.”
“Old habits. I know.” He chuckled. “Come on.”
As I followed him back toward the front, we met a guy who looked about my age. He had light brown hair and was dressed in nylon pants and a thick brown tee with a Nike swoosh on the shoulder.
“Slayde, this is Pete. He’s one of the trainers here.”
I nodded as per usual, but he stopped me. “Hey, nice ink. What’s that?”
The short-sleeved shirt I wore didn’t quite cover the pair of boxing gloves on my right biceps. I didn’t want to talk about it, but I didn’t see a way out.
“Just something I did a while back.” Briefly pulling up the fabric, I allowed him to read it before I dropped the curtain again.
“Never stop fighting. Cool. You a fighter?”
Rook interrupted. “That your three o’clock walking in?”
He glanced over his shoulder before turning back. “Yeah, okay. Take it easy, man.”
We were back at the front, and Rook faced me. “I’ve got a few forms you have to fill out, then you want to start today?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
He handed me the paperwork, and I folded it lengthwise, putting it in my back pocket.
“The supply closet is here.” I followed him to a small door, which he opened to show shelves of cleaning supplies. A heavy, plastic bucket on wheels was inside holding a mop. “The cubbies on the wall have a master key for everyone. When you’re in the club keep it around your neck. When you leave, put it in your slot. That’s how we know who’s here.”
“Got it.”
I reached forward and rolled the bucket out. This was my life now. Cleaning up other people’s shit. Keeping my chin tucked, guarding my vulnerable spots. It wasn’t about my dreams or what I’d lost. It was about taking the first step. Then taking the next step. Before long, I would have walked away from the past and found my new normal.
Chapter 3: “Life goes on.”