Page 66 of Finding Hope

Brad comes here with a trust fund and an inflated ego.

Or maybe I’m just predisposed to hate the prick, because he called Britt his girl. Last I heard, she was trying to ditch him, but I haven’t seen her in ages, so the fact she may have changed her mind makes my gut churn.

She’s too good for this rat prick.

“That’s some nice head gear you got there, Brad.”

“Yeah?” He looks up like a kid showing a shitty drawing to his dad. “I got the right one?”

You got the exact right one, asshole. I’m about to knock your block off, and any padding is better than none.“Yeah, good choice. Let’s go.”

Waiting for him to stand, I lead him to the main ring, and when I turn at the burn of eyeballs on my back, I’m not surprised to findeveryonewatching us.

Bobby and Jon stand in the middle of the room. Jim and Iz stand in the doorway that leads to the weight room. And Kit, with her arms holding a set of Thai pads for a client, watches me with her brows furrowed low.

No doubt, someone has already called Aiden.

And Tink has crazy lady witchcraft powers, so she’s probably burningrubber on her way, because she just can’t bear to not be in the middle of everyone else’s shit.

Rolling my eyes, I turn and hold the ropes open. “Alright, Brad. Get your gloves and shin pads. And your mouthguard, too.”

Eager like a puppy, he starts pulling everything on. “This is a lot of stuff.”

“Yeah.” Rolling my eyes, I turn away and glare at my family.Read my eyes, fuck off.“Safety first and all that.”

“Alright.” Dropping to his ass, he pulls shiny black shin pads over his feet, then jumps up like a bouncy cat that drank six gallons of pre-workout on the way here.

It’s going on five o’clock. And it’s a school day.

He saw Bambie today, but there’s no way in fuck I’ll ask this prick about her.

I’d rather get arrested and ask her brother.

“Gloves on.”Dumbass.

“Oh, yeah.” Spinning, he picks up his gloves and pushes one on. Like every incompetent tool that’s ever come in here, he stops with one glove on, and ponders the second like it’s a puzzle he simply cannot solve.

He’s fought before, my ass.

I help him with his glove like he’s a cute girl I want to help. But he isn’t cute, and I don’t want to help him.

Thank God we’re charging him out the ass for this, because I have better shit to do than stand around and teach this prick how to fight.

“Alright, Brad.” I fasten the Velcro and step back. “Let’s go. Show me your fight stance.”

“My–” He looks down at my feet, then at his. “Huh?”

I plant my left foot, then shuffle my right so wide, it looks like I’m doing the splits. I separate my feet almost four feet, just to see if he’ll do it, too.

He does.

Snickers roll around the gym, until, shaking my head, I tap his shoulder. “I’m kidding, man. Jesus.” Rearranging my feet, I watch him watch me. “Left foot forward, right foot back. Shoulder width apart, correct weight distribution, hands up.” I meet his eyes. “Thisis your fight stance. Now show me.” When he does, I nod my approval. He’s as eager as a damn puppy, and if it were anyone else, I’d get a real kick out of having a student so eager to please. “Three-minute rounds.” I grab the timer remote. “Follow my instructions.”

He nods warily. “Okay.”

When the timer starts, the music starts. “Let’s go, Brad. Show me a left, right, then a left uppercut.”

Throwing sloppy strikes thatproveshe’s never done this before, I help him fix them, then I ask for another set. We work them, faster and faster as he catches on. His breath comes harder, but his strikes improve.

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