Tristan sees the look, too, and immediately rolls his eyes before calling, "Alright, boys and girls, rest time is over. Back to work."
In a split second, the gym fills with the sounds of heavy breathing and leather hitting leather.
"Well that was interesting," I mumble to Max as we square up to start another round. "Who knew anyone could even catch angry boy's attention?"
"I wasn't even aware he had attention to attract,” Max returns.
We've only just shaken off the weird encounter and engaged for body control when I hear my name called again.
"Aiden, you've got company."
"Good lord, this place is like social city today," I comment, disengaging from Max. "This is the most rest I've ever had during a training session."
"Enjoy it while it lasts," Tristan says. "As soon as your dad leaves, I'm putting you through hell just to balance it out."
I turn toward the gym entrance in surprise. Sure enough, my dad is standing by the check-in desk.
"Dad? What're you doing here?"
He holds up the box in his hand. "I bought those gloves you wanted for padwork, so I wanted to bring them by since I was working in the area. Figured with the fight coming up you could use them."
I take the box from my dad in a daze. "You bought me Winning lace-up gloves?"
He only shrugs in answer.
And like a kid on Christmas morning, I tear into the box and pull out the gloves inside. "Holy shit, Dad," I breathe. "These are incredible." I think I hear a whistle of appreciation in the background.
"Damn, Mr. Reeves," Tristan comments, lifting one of the gloves from the box. "Any chance you want to adopt another kid? Because I would definitely be interested."
I chuckle, even though I know a part of Tristan is being serious. Unfortunately, not every parent of fighters is as supportive of the sport as mine is.
"Dad, you didn't have to do this," I mumble. "The gloves I have work just fine."
He shrugs again, clearly uncomfortable with being the center of attention. Because he is—everyone that just watched the Isabella interaction is now staring at my dad.
"I figured with you going pro and all, you could use the quality gear," he says gruffly. "Just take it."
I look down at the gloves in awe. They're easily the most expensive ones on the market, and definitely the best. This is a huge gift. One that I know my father can't quite afford, but that he made work because he supports my choice of sport.
Swallowing roughly, I eventually choke out, "Thanks, Dad. These are amazing."
Not one for affection beyond athank you, he merely nods his acceptance.
"Do you want to grab food later?" I blurt out. "I have to finish training, but I can meet you for an early dinner after if you have time."
He's shaking his head before I've even finished my sentence. "I'm working late on the site today and then I have to prep the new designs for the engineer tomorrow. So today doesn't work. But maybe this weekend?" He spares a glance at Tristan. "If you have time for a salad somewhere."
I let out a bark of laughter. "Sure, Dad, a salad sounds great. I'll call you."
He nods his approval, looking pleased with himself.
But then he winces and rubs a hand over his chest.
"Dad?" I ask. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," he says in an almost-wheeze. "Must be the Mexican I ate last night—my heartburn has been unbearable today. I swear I've eaten half a box of Tums already."
I can only shake my head in disbelief. "I will never understand why you keep trying to force your body to accept spicy foods. Just admit it, Mexican food doesn't sit well with you."