Page 40 of Finding Hope

It’s probably a combination, but this is the first time in my life I’ve ever vomited at training.

Ever.

Even during fight camp, year after year as we’d step up my training for the title fights, even when my brothers had me going around the clock, even when I lived on pure steak and protein shakes and fresh air, I never felt as awful as I feel right now.

My chest hurts – more than a regular workout hurt. My injuries from the wreck make themselves known. I’m allowed to train; my doctor cleared me, but the fact I haven’t used my body the way it’s supposed to be used in so long, my injuries don’t know this training.

They only know laziness and bad choices.

“Get up.” Jon moves in so close, his hot breath fans my ear. “Get up, push through it. We’re gonna get it back, bro.”

“I wanna die.”

And yet, there’s a freedom in knowing that, for the first time since the accident, I want to dienotbecause she’s no longer here – there’s no elephant in the room sneering at me today – this time, it’s a simple case of good ol’ fashioned nausea and exhaustion tempting me to curl up and tap out.

“Well, we ain’t letting you.” Jon slams his palm over my shoulder. “We love you, Reilly, even when you’re a prick, so get the fuck up and start again.”

Wiping an already sweaty towel over my sweaty face, I mop up the liquid that continuously pours through my skin while my body detoxes. Standing tall, I toe the bucket toward Jon, simply because I want to be an asshole.

Screwing up his nose, he picks it up with his fingers and thumb and places it on the floor outside the ring.

“Let’s go.” Bobby lifts the Thai pads between us. “Shoe shine, Jack. Left, right, left, right, left hook, right rip. Go.”

Wearing the very same battered pair of gloves my sister bought me when I was a fifteen-year-old punk full of attitude, I lift my weak arms and channel all the poisonous anger from the last six months and let it flow into the pads.

It’s Wednesday now, four days after my breakdown, four days after I treated another nice girl like shit, four days since I asked to move back home.

Despite how horrible I’ve been – a half a year of pure hatred pouring from me, vitriol and anger aiming straight for my sister simply because I knew no matter what, she’d never give up on me – she still took me in after the hell I put her through.

Six months of treating everyone around me like shit, including myself...possibly especially myself. Six months of forgetting birthdays and parties, anniversaries and celebrations; six months of flushing everything away: my career, my body, my health, my money and reputation. I threw everything away, and now, finally, six months later, I’m back in the gym with what I started with – my ratty gloves and my family’s love.

That’s all I need.

The rest will come when I stop vomiting.

“Hands up, Jack!”

“They are u–” My petty argument is cut off by Bobby’s wild swing and the heavy pad smacking me in the ear.

“Hands up, dummy. Let’s go again. Shoe shine, then add legs.”

Angrily flicking my mouthguard with my tongue, I pop it off my teeth, then put it back in place as I catch my breath. “I forgot how much I hate you, B.”

Shrugging, he swings the pad and has me scrambling to get my arms up to cover.

“Again!” he snaps. “We have to vomit the rest of that crap out of your body. Half a year of burgers and weed.” He shakes his head. “You got fat and lazy. Keep going, kid.”

This is how we spent yesterday, too. And the day before that. The day before that was spent as a family squished in Kit and Bobby’s living room while we watched cartoons and ate a meal together.

I was a little… silent. I was mid-quarterlife-crisis, but everyone else was at ease, or at leastpretendingto be. Jimmy joked, he tried to goad me and stir shit up, and Tink tried to tease me about certain girls she’s seen around the club, though she used big words to keep the kids in the dark.

Everyone was acting fine, but I spent my time trying to not cry like a baby as I craved a beer so damn bad my hands shook and my stomach rolled.

I had no clue I’d created a dependency on alcohol, but there you go.

If you’d asked me last week, I would’ve scoffed and said I could pass up a drink any day, any time,easy. But those were the words of a man knowing his next beer was only as far as the fridge. Now that I’ve cut it out, now that I’ve banned myself, I’ve realized I might be somewhat addicted.

Just another reason to be disappointed in myself.

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