Page 10 of Hits Different

My favourite sits above a vending machine with cracked glass that spits out brandless protein bars.

‘Only we can make each other bleed’.

I begin wrapping my hands, a familiar thrill buzzing around my stomach. This never gets old.

I’m starting my first official training camp. Eight weeks of chicken and kale. Eight weeks of twice a day drills. Eight weeks until I really become somebody.

My opponent is called Brent Jackson. I’ve spent all week watching footage of his only two amateur fights online, and I’ve already identified a handful of weaknesses in his standup that I’m determined to exploit.

Eight weeks of no distractions.

Especially not ones like Brandon Carter.

I head onto the gym floor, and stop in surprise.

Huh?

Six brand new treadmills line up in-front of the cracked windows, right next to an array of dumbbells, benches and boxing equipment. Some of it hasn’t even been unwrapped yet. A couple of guys have paused rolling around on the mat, and are regarding our new toys suspiciously.

This is expensive shit. Shiny. And it doesn’t belong here.

Red Gloves is managed by two brothers in their mid-fifties. Julius handles the business. Frankie handles the training. Both of them have pro-records, but never made it big time. “Did you guys rob Allstars Fitness?” I call, namedropping the cheerfully commercial gym over the road. They both stop talking.

“Something like that”, Frankie replies. “Get warmed up, Di Rossi. I’ll be right there”.

Weird.

I head to the boxing section and start smacking the shit out of the bag, picturing Darwin’s smug face. When I’m done, I mentally replace him with Volchok. I don’t know him well, but that doesn’t matter.

I’d happily get him in the ring for what he did to Brandon.

My phone buzzes. Local sports blogs have started to update on Brandon’s condition.College star and MLS prospect Brandon Carter took a nasty spill after scoring the winner in a nail-biting final thanks to a last-minute challenge from goalkeeper Dmitry Volchok. They go on like that, like it was no big deal.

Like he wasn’t just almost ripped apart right in-front of me.

My resolution to stop thinking about him is already forgotten. I can’t escape one thought. What if it had been worse? Concussions can be deadly. Brandon’s always been a risk-taker on the pitch. What if he had been really hurt before I had the chance to fix things between us?

I should have called him after all that stuff came out in the press about his mom’s affairs. A wave of guilt passes over me. He was there for me, after my dad died. I should have been there for him, too.

Even if he never came to the funeral.

I’m not being fair. My mom was clear. Family only. But still, back then, Brandonwasfamily. To me, anyway. It’s always stung that he didn’t show up for me when I really needed him.

Frankie joins me, hands in his pockets.

Across from me, a meathead named Tank is going to town on a training bag. He’s Red Gloves’ biggest success story, despite never turning pro. He’s got a 12-0 amateur record. He fights because he wants to. Not because he needs to. That alone makes him dangerous.

The bag splits, sending a shower of sand to the mat, and he snarls in frustration.

“D’you think I could get some sparring in with Tank?”

“You’re not ready for Tank”, Frankie says shortly. “Listen, I don’t know how to tell you this kid, but your fight’s off”.

A screech runs through me. I search Frankie for signs that he’s joking. I find none. “Did Jackson get injured?” There’s no way that my opponent pulled out. It’s almost impossible to coordinate amateur fights. “He needs this just as much as I do”.

Frankie opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “Fine. Fuck him. We’ll find someone else, right? There’s gotta be a hundred guys desperate for a match”.

“I don’t think so, Parker”. Frankie runs his hands through his thinning hair. “Now might not be the right time”.

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