Page 13 of Fighting Jacob

I laugh at the disgust crossing his face. I’ve dragged him to the gym a handful of times the past twelve months, but his limit is an hour—max. I like to go much longer than that. I’m not a gym junkie by any means; I just grew an obsession with fighting after I was approached by a trainer a little over four months ago. . .

“Can you fight?”

Peering up from my large Taco Bell meal, I’m met with the curious eye of a dark-skinned man wearing mirrored glasses and a wonky smile. I glance over my shoulder, unsure if he’s talking to me or someone behind me.

As my eyes return front and center, I witness him pulling out the chair across from me, spinning it around, then straddling it backward. “Can you fight?” He talks at me as if I’m slow, which I find amusing.

“I haven’t needed to. Because of my size, no one is game to take a swing at me.”

The stranger chuckles while pulling off his sunglasses so he can look me in the eyes. "Hank." He nudges his head to the back entrance of the food court I'm dining in. "I own a gym in this complex. I also train fighters. Would that be something you'd be interested in pursuing?"

I take a moment to consider his question. I've been studying business via correspondence, but my efforts have severely lacked the past few months, so a changeup couldn’t hurt.

"I could be interested."

Grinning as brightly as a sky of stars, Hank's hand delves into his trousers to pull out a wallet. After securing a tattered business card from inside, he hands it to me. "Come to the gym. I'll put you through some drills. They'll soon tell us if you have what it takes."

Not speaking another word, he stands then stalks away. I wait for him to be out of eyesight before dropping my eyes to his card. “Hank’s Gym,” I read off the card. Nothing original there.

When a sweet voice above asks, “Is this seat taken?” I shove his card into my pants pocket.

A pretty blonde in a light blue sundress is standing above me, raking her teeth over her lower lip. She has bright blue eyes that pop off her face and an enticing body. I noticed her when I entered the food court ten minutes ago, but figured it’d be best to finish my lunch before going on the chase.

Clearly, she has other plans for us.

“It is now.”

I kick out the chair Hank just vacated with my foot before gesturing for her to sit, liking that she came to me instead of waiting to be chased. As I said earlier, a changeup rarely hurts anyone.

By the time I enter my room later that night, I’ve completely forgotten about my run-in with Hank. If his card hadn’t fallen out of my pants while I was stripping for a shower, I wouldn’t have given our conversation a second thought. Now I’m giving it a third and fourth once-over.

I’ve never considered professional fighting as a career, but there’s no harm giving it a shot. I'll try anything once. It’s not like I’ll be beating the shit out of some random for no reason. It's a professional sport with referees and shit. It's above board and legal, unlike some activities I undertook in my teen years.

I’ll try it. If I hate it, I won’t do it again. Plain and simple.

My stomach launches into my throat when I enter Hank's gym early the next morning. There’s a funky smell in the air. It’s not a stinky armpit smell you’d expect after a hard workout. It’s an indescribable scent that fucking reeks.

“It’s about time you showed up.”

When my eyes drift to the voice, I spot Hank skipping rope near a ratty, old punching bag chained to the ceiling. For a guy in his late fifties, if not sixties, his body is ripped. His black afro is clipped close to his scalp, and his torso and arms are covered with tattoos.

After slinging the jump rope around his neck, he grabs a towel from a worn-out bag on his left. "You can't work out in cargo pants. Go change into gym clothes, then meet me in the ring."

Once I'm dressed in black gym shorts and a long-sleeve shirt, I make my way to the boxing ring at the back of the deserted space. Compared to the gym I lift weights at, the equipment here is badly outdated. It doesn’t look used, just old.

When I stop next to the ring, I stare down at the ropes, unsure how I’m supposed to get into the ring since they go all the way around. With a shrug, I pull them down before stepping over them. Hank laughs loudly. “You’re supposed to go through them, not over them, but whatever works, man.” He strolls toward me with a pair of red boxing gloves in his hands. "Lose the shirt."

I hesitate. I’m no longer the little fat kid who got bullied at school, but I’m self-conscious enough about my body that I’m not a fan of wandering around shirtless.

Noticing my hesitation, Hank gives me a look, one that reveals I either remove my shirt, or he’ll remove it for me.

“Fuck it.” I yank it off before hanging it on the ropes.

My biceps flex when Hank pulls my hands in front of me to slip on the gloves he’s holding. “I knew you’d be ripped, so why hide under baggy clothes?”

I don’t answer him. I’m not being ignorant; I just don’t know how to explain my annoying neurosis. I’ve always worn layers of clothes. It’s just the way I am.

Once my gloves are in place, Hank inches back before raising a set of protective pads in front of his face. When he instructs me to hit them, I do, albeit hesitantly. Hank is buff for his age, but he isn’t overly tall or wide. I don’t want to knock him on his ass.

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