* * *
I wake up the next morning with my usual Kit-induced raging hard on. Climbing out of bed with a groan of frustration and a serious case of blue balls and carpal tunnel syndrome, I head to the shower to fix it.
I’ve never had to take care of myself so much in my whole life, but ever since meeting Kit, I just can’t imagine hooking up with someone else. Thereisno one else. We’ve yet to truly be together, yet I find myself adhering to an exclusivity agreement neither of us ever set down.
Kit might never give me a chance, maybe her life is just too hard for my kind of complication, but there’s no way in hell I’ll be hooking up elsewhere and considering it a decent substitute. That’s a guaranteed way of ruining any chance I might have been given. So, to the shower I go.
I finish up at home and snag my car keys on the way out the door, then climb into the Rav and head toward the gym. I intend to be there early just so I can catch a glimpse of her, then Jack will be getting his first ever big brother chat. I’ve had practice over the years. I’ve perfected the ‘I’m not mad, I’m disappointed’ expression. Jimmy says that one kills him, though he’s rarely ever been on the other side of it.
Jack needs to pick up his act and work with Kit. She’s carrying them. He might be a minor, but he’s not a baby. He needs to help make her life easier, not be a cause of tears.
I walk into the gym a few minutes later and stop to watch a few of our regulars sweat. I scan along the line of the morning people and note their progress. A total newb could come in here off the street, and within a week or two, his muscle memory already has his stance correct, his posture correct, his hands up.
These guys come in often, they work hard, set goals, and proudly, I can admit, they reach them. I’m impressed with them all – except one guy.
Timms, six and a half feet of brawn with peanuts in his head, he works on the bag closest to the mirror and watches himself more than what he’s doing. The first day he came in here, I almost tripped over my feet to watch him spar.
He has potential, and he had a hunger more than anyone I’d seen in forever. I went back to my office and scanned his gym application forms a million times. I wanted to know him, because I wanted him to be my next champion.
But in a matter of months, he’s turned lazy. He comes here now to maintain his biceps and social media posts. His strikes are sloppy. His feet are loose. He stopped caring. And since he doesn’t care, neither do I.
He can continue to use my gym and pay his fees, but he no longer has access to me or the guys for one on one sessions.
I step past him without saying a word, stop at the boxing ring, and watch Aiden and his client spar. Stephen’s a cool kid, about seventeen or so, and his folks obviously see what Aiden and I see – potential to be great, and that hunger we search for in every person who walks through our door. They pay for PT four days a week, and he’s here every other day in the group classes. He comes here, sweats his guts out, then showers and jogs to school.
He’s who Timms should model himself against.
Jack could take a leaf out of his book, too.
Jon walks in the door a few steps behind me and stops to watch Aiden and Stephen. Neither of us have early sessions today – in fact, I don’t have any clients for another hour and a half – but I wasn’t sitting at home alone when I could be here to catch a glimpse of Kit.
“How’s it going?”
I turn to catch Jon’s eye. “All good here, Jon Fart. You busy today?”
He crosses his arms and watches the guys with a smile. “Not too busy. I have four privates, two groups. Plenty of time leftover to ride Jack.”
Good, so we’re both on the same page. “Kid needs to sweat.”
“Definitely. He needs to nut up and stop dragging down the team. He’s old enough to know better. Old enough to do better. If he doesn’t see that, then he doesn’t deserve her.”
Again, “Agreed.”
“Well, hey there, darlin’.” Jon and I look up at Timms’ overly friendly greeting. “You’re a fine sight this early in the morning.”
I swing my head to the door, then to Timms, then back to the door to Kit. He was calling Kit darlin’.
What.
The.
Fuck?
Timms arrogantly turns away from his bag and flicks off his barely marked gloves. Hands on hips, leer plastered across his face, he swaggers toward the door.
Nope. No fucking way.
I charge across to intercept.