Page 14 of Fighting Jacob

Hank mocks the lack of oomph in my swing with a chuckle. “What’s your weak spot?”

When he bounces around the mat, I follow him. “I don’t have one.”

“Bullshit! Everyone has a weak spot.”

I take a step back when he swings his pad at my head, but I’m too slow to avoid colliding with it. He smacks me upside the head with the pad before stinging my left cheek with a non-playful slap.

My next set of whacks to his pads connect harder than my first few. I’m usually pretty laidback... until you piss me off.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

While shaking my head, I continue following Hank around the mat, jabbing left and right combinations as instructed.

“Daddy issues?”

I once again shake my head.

“Mommy issues?”

I glare at him over the gloves protecting my face. “My mom is dead.”

He murmurs an apology before attempting to wipe the arrogant expression off my face with a sneaky left hook. I block his hit this time around, his smile telling me I did the right thing.

“Okay, so no weak spots. Then why are you such a pansy? Hit me!”

He just found my weak spot.

There’s nothing I hate more in the world than being called a pansy. My brother Patrick calls me a pansy all the time. How was I to know when you're being called a fat cow by schoolyard bullies in kindergarten that you aren’t supposed to cry?

Patrick told our dad I cried, but instead of comforting me as all good dads should, he gave me a lecture on how boys aren’t allowed to cry—ever! I haven’t cried since that day, but my brother never lets me forget the one time I did.

As my anger rises, so does the power behind my swings. I pummel Hank’s pads over and over again until the occasional fist slips to regions of his body not protected by thick padding. Hank doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles before using his pads like gloves. He gives as good as he’s getting... until a right hook steals more than the wind from his lungs. It sends blood dribbling down his chin as well.

Regret hits like a ton of bricks when he gargles water before spitting it into a bucket. It’s vibrant red. “It’s safe to say we found your weak spot.”

“Shit, Hank, I’m sorry—”

He cuts off my apology with a swipe of his hand through the air. “Don’t apologize; your giant ass is going to make me rich!”

I chuckle when he jumps into the air with more agility than a man his age should have...

For the next four weeks, we trained sun up to sundown seven days a week in preparation of my heavyweight fighting debut. Another three months have passed since then, and I still haven't competed. I'm not scared. I'm just... scared? Not of losing. I just hate failing.

I’m done with that now, though. It’s time to put some serious thought into my career. I’m not getting any younger, so I need to seize the moment, or whatever other shit my dad said to me last week.

I also have a new motivator. I offered to drive Lola to and from her shifts without putting any thought into the ridiculously high gas prices lately. I'm studying, which means I don't have an income, so being Lola’s chauffeur is an expense I can't afford—but refuse to give up. I get Lola alone for eighty miles every shift. That's worth more than any prize money I'll make during my fighting career.

Chapter Seven

Lola

Butterflies take flight in my stomach when I send Jacob a text saying I’m due at Mavericks at 7 PM. He offered to drive me, but I still feel guilty, like I’m using him for a ride. I don’t have another viable option. A taxi would gobble up my pay before it hits my bank account, and my mom’s double shifts at the hospital mean she can’t pick me up at whatever ungodly hour my shift finishes. My dad could drive me since he’s unemployed, but with him rarely around, I haven’t had the chance to ask. Instead, I reached out to the one man who offered assistance without any stipulations attached.

God, am I making a mistake? I don't want Jacob to get the wrong idea. I like him; I just don't trust myself around him. It's like granting me a bite of my favorite cake, then telling me I can't have any more. That's worse than torture.

Forever a gentleman, Jacob replies to my text promptly.

Jacob: I’ll be there at six xx

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