9
Bobby
Little Revelations
After my fifth hourly“we’re safe and everyone is fine”text from Kit, I throw my phone down and run a hand through my hair. I know the secrets are about Iz, and I know that Kit and Tink know what’s up. But beyond that, I know nothing.
I fucking hate not knowing.
Not knowing means not fixing, and this time, with Kit being on the inside, her reassuring kisses and touches, means she’s taking control. I’ve been bumped out and Kit’s the fixer this time.
It hurts that she has to fix it. It hurts that they won’t tell me what’s going on.
And now I need to decide whether I’m going to bring it to the other guys. I need someone to bounce this shit off of. The weight on my chest is crushing, but I don’t know whether talking it out will help lessen my load, or if it’ll blow shit up.
I definitely can’t take it to Jon. He’ll go nuts when he realizes something’s up with his baby girl, but maybe Aiden or Jim. Aiden’s always good for a level head and shared responsibility. And Jim will no doubt make it funny. He’ll make it less of a big deal. He’ll be able to lend a slightly more objective ear.
After the girls left and Jack and I cleaned up the breakfast dishes, we came to the gym to work with Jimmy and take my last weekend class for the month. This time next week, I’ll be waiting for my bride to marry me. The day after that, we’ll be on a plane heading to Europe.
Jim has a day job outside of fighting, but he does that only because he doesn’t like to be inside all the time. Nine times out of ten, he takes his classes out of the gym and makes them flip tires in the sun. So when it was time to grow up and get a day job, he stepped back from training and got his builder’s license.
He’s in the gym thirty hours a week even with a full-time job outside of it. But when it’s time to train for a title fight, hisotherboss is cool – plus, he’s a fight fan. He knows two different Jim’s. There’s the apprentice he’s known since Jim was seventeen and useless on a hammer, and there’s the fighter.
He fangirls over the fighter in the lead up to a title bout.
Unsurprisingly, like any time there’s upheaval in his life and Kit isn’t around to smooth it for him, Jack’s been on my right all morning. He helped me clean the kitchen, he threw himself at the Highlander to come into the gym, and now that we’re here, he’s attended my classes and shadowed me as we work through one-on-ones.
He hasn’t said a word about Kit and Iz, but his Velcro impersonation is as loud as a canon boom. Shit’s going down and he needs his touchstone. Kit’s not here, so even while I work with Jim, Jack’s hanging out.
I’mit.
I’m working on stand up with Jim – something he has an advantage on. At six foot three, he’s taller than Anthony Venicila by an inch and a half, and similarly, his arms reach an inch and a bit further than Venicila’s. We have an advantage over the guy, so we work it, we perfect it, we use it.
Jack has his second amateur fight coming up soon, and though he and Jim are on completely different levels in experience, Jim’s looking for a warm-down, and Jack’s looking to level up, so I’ve thrown them in together.
“Hands up, Jack. Jab, right, slip, elbow.” I hang off the ropes and try not to continuously glance toward my phone. “Don’t forget your legs. Jim’s taller than you, so we find a different tool. You’ve got two of ‘em. Use them.”
“Yuh.” He skips around and slides under Jim’s hook with a tired grunt. He’s sixteen, but he’s good at this. He’s a damn natural, and apart from the whole ‘wanting to keep Kit’ thing, I’m damn glad they walked into my gym and not the Devil’s across town. I want Jack for my own. He’s going to the top, and I intend to be standing there with him.
“Move around, Jack. Watch your footwork, don’t cross over…” He moves around a half a second after I demand it. He listens to everything I say, and while he’s doing that, he throws his own hook that surprises Jim. “Step out, throw the knee. Don’t let him breathe. Jim, pick your shit up, man. He’s still a pup, but he just tagged you.”
The buzzer sounds at the same moment Jim kicks out with a wide roundhouse kick, and with a smirk that’s been missing lately, he stops his foot and taps it mockingly on Jack’s chin. “Gotcha, big shot. Don’t drop your hands just because the buzzer went off. Never stop defending yourself.”
Panting heavily, Jack nods and presses his hands to his hips. “Got it. My bad.”
“Yeah,” Jim chuckles. “Your bad.” He reaches out and taps his knuckles to Jack’s. “Good round. Awesome job. Let’s take a break, I’m fucked.”
I pass them a bottle of water each and watch them sip. Jack’s broad chest rises and falls dramatically. He’s our smallest brother right now, obviously, but he has the bones for a much bigger build. A few years from now, more hours in the gym, more protein, he’s going to be bigger than me.
I catch a glimpse of my silent phone in my peripherals, and shooting me right back to worry and reality, I run my hands through my hair with frustration.
I just need to talk it out.
I need help.
“Hey, Jim?”
I look up in time to catch him distractedly prowling his corner. “What?”