Page 19 of 4th Degree

Sliding his backpack off his shoulder, he digs around inside of it for a second before pulling out a sheet of paper and handing it to me. “I’m applying for scholarships, and I was wondering if you could write me a letter of recommendation. You know, if…if you want.”

I take the paper from his hand, suddenly needing to swallow down the mess of emotions threatening to choke me. I met Nate when he was twelve years old and on the verge of going down a dangerous life path. With his dad not around and his mom working three jobs to make ends meet, Nate spent a lot of time on his own. And because he was at such an impressionable age, he ultimately got mixed up in a bad friend group. Before long, he was going with them as they did risky, and often illegal, activities. It wasn’t until I caught them in the middle of one such activity that anything changed.

I bet every single person in their group that I could make them look like Mike Tyson on mitts if they gave me an hour each week. They scoffed at me, but I saw the curiosity light in Nate’s eyes. He was the first one to take me up on my offer to learn real boxing. And even though he was the only one following my instructions in the park that day, the other kids were intrigued enough to linger on the basketball courts and watch out of the corners of their eyes as I taught basic footwork.

But it was the day I brought gloves, and showed Nate how to hit focus mitts, that I really got their attention.

Over the next month or so, every one of the boys ended up drifting over to the corner of the park I had claimed as our training area. I met them there once a week and I taught them footwork, head movement, and how to be sharp with their punches. They loved it the most when I held mitts for them. And whenever they showed me a good grade, I’d hold for a few extra rounds.

My days with them became my favorites—their hoots of laughter and playful teasing was my reason for coaching.

Unfortunately, because I was fighting at the time, there came more and more times when I couldn’t make it to the park. Most of the kids eventually faded out—only Nate and one other boy kept showing up every single week. And if I wasn’t there, then they’d work together.

In the span of less than a year, I watched Nate go from a lost, troubled kid, to a responsible, driven teenager. He started to take school seriously, he joined after-school teams, and he found a good group of friends. Seeing him applying to college so he can continue his education and work for a future he wants is the best ending I ever could have hoped for.

I read over the scholarship details, taking a few extra seconds to compose myself. “Of course, I’ll write you a letter of recommendation. When do you need it by?”

“Within the next few weeks. There’s no rush.”

“Did you decide what you want to major in?”

“I was actually thinking I’d go for business,” he admits with a nervous shrug. “Figured there’s a lot of things I could use it for, and you know I’ve always liked numbers.”

I nod, my mouth twitching with a smile. Every good grade Nate showed me was at the top of a math test.

“I’ll write something up and get it over to you next week,” I tell him. Hesitating, I add quietly, “I’m proud of you, Nate.”

His focus drops to his feet, hiding any expression from me. The only thing I can make out is his subtle nod. He turns around to leave with a mumbled “see you next week,” but right before he pushes the door open, he freezes.

And then he spins and throws his arms around me.

“Thank you,” he chokes out, his cheek buried into my shoulder. “For everything.”

I barely get my arms around him to return the hug before he’s pulling back. I catch him trying to blink his tears away, but just as quickly as he turned around, he’s through the door and out of the building. And I’m left staring after him.

My conversation with Nate stays on repeat in my head, filling me with pride and making me even more excited to help students than I usually am. I decide to teach class after all, despite Tuesdays being my usual night off.

There’s a lightness in my chest by the time people file out of the gym. “Awesome class tonight, Coach,” one of my students calls as he leaves, and there’s a rumble of agreement from everyone around him. I give them all a smile and nod of thanks.

Skylar’s the only one who seems to be dragging her feet. She’s mostly packed up, but her gym bag is still open, and she hasn’t put her sweatshirt on yet.

Tristan notices it, too. When everyone is packed up and shooting the shit, he slings an arm around Remy and hollers, “Hey, Skylar, we're going out to the pub to grab burgers and beers. Want to come? I'll let you ask Max all the jiu-jitsu questions you want.”

Max glares at my second-in-command, even though he doesn't look all too bothered by the idea.

Skylar smiles but shakes her head. “Thanks, but I already ate. And I don't drink.”

There's a stray thought in the back of my head that says the only food she had with her was half of a protein bar, but I'm too stuck on trying to figure out why she doesn't want to leave and what she's going to do next.

Tristan looks a little confused, too, but he's not going to push. He just nods and says, “Alright, well, the invite is an open one. You're more than welcome to come with us any time.”

She gives him another smile, this one softened by gratitude. “I appreciate that.”

He nods again, then drops the strap of his gym bag over Remy's shoulder. She lets out a grunt as the weight of it suddenly lands on her, and then glares at her boyfriend. Who just winks and blows her a kiss.

“Aiden, Max, you ready?” he calls out. “I'm starving, let's go.”

“Coming, Dad!” comes Aiden's chipper voice from the locker rooms.

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