The next day at school, they passed out fliers advertising a new afterschool program at On The Ropes. It contained my favorite word in the English language: free. Rumors were flying around that the former professional heavyweight champion Slate “The Silent Storm” Andrews owned the gym and would be personally running the program. Half the school had plans to enroll just to meet him.
In those days, I liked to keep myself as busy as possible. But when football season was over, I was left with entirely too much time between school and when Eliza would show up at the apartment. I sure as shit didn’t want to spend that time at the piss pot my parents called home—the same one I was working two jobs to pay for since they couldn’t get their shit together.
A free boxing program sounded like the perfect fit.
I decided to skip chemistry to scope it out and, hopefully, secure my spot before the afterschool rush hit.
“Well, that was fast,” Slate fucking Andrews said from the front desk as I entered the gym.
The place was amazing. Everything was new and crisp white, red, and black. Two rings stood in the middle of the huge, open room, weights and various types of punching bags filling the rest. Mirrors covered the length of the room on one side, and jump ropes were hanging from hooks in every corner. But my eyes were instantly drawn to the giant words painted in script above the mirrors:
“Your name going in that blank?” he asked when he followed my gaze.
“Uh . . .”
“Okay, maybe we should start with: what’s your name?” He pulled a clipboard from behind the tall, wooden counter.
“Um . . .” I continued to stutter, starstruck.
He chuckled and extended a hand. “Slate Andrews.”
I wiped my palm on my jeans before lifting it to his. “Sorry. Till Page.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Till.” He pushed the clipboard in front of me. “Our gym rates are as stated, depending on the membership plan you choose. We have yearly, monthly—”
“Oh, um, sorry. I thought it was free.” I looked up, embarrassed.
“Free?” His eyebrow quirked as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Yeah. I mean the afterschool program. Sorry. I must have been confused. I can’t afford to join a gym.” I stepped away, ready to bolt.
“You’re a student?”
“Yeah,” I answered.
His eyes narrowed. “It’s yes, sir.” Then he motioned for me to repeat it.
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded approvingly. “Christ you’re big for a kid. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Play football?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Senior?”
“Junior,” I corrected.
He gave me a quick head-to-foot scan and shook his head. “All right, then. Let me switch that out for you.” After pulling out a thick, manila envelope from the drawer, he slid it in my direction. “Why aren’t you in school right now, Till Page?”
“I don’t have class last hour,” I lied.
“So, can I expect you here at two every day, then? Ya know, since you don’t have class last hour?” He gave me a knowing smirk that read: busted.
“Well—,” I started but he cut me off.
“You miss school, you don’t come here. Got it?”
“Yeah,” I answered quickly, but he glared at me. “I mean, yes, sir.”
“Better. Look, this program is for kids with integrity. Lying to me will land your ass on the street. So let’s try this again. Why aren’t you in school right now, Till Page?”
I uncomfortably looked down at my shoes. “I, uh, wanted to enroll in the program. I was worried it would fill up before I got a spot, so I skipped class.”
“Okay. You owe me three miles.” He walked to a filing cabinet before returning with a neon-yellow piece of paper.
“Three miles of what?”
“Cardio! We have our own punitive system here at On The Ropes. Skipping class is three miles. Just be glad it was only one. Skipping a whole day earns you hand-washing jockstraps.” He laughed as I curled my lip in disgust. “It’s all outlined right there. As well as the membership fees.”
I tilted my head in confusion, “I thought the afterschool program was free. I just told you I can’t afford gym fees!” My attitude slipped.
His whole friendly demeanor disappeared. He was glowering at me, and even as tough as I pretended to be, it still scared the fuck out of me.
I amended the end of my outburst. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to pay me with cash, so technically, it is free. Don’t worry. I had a lawyer look over that flier before passing out. No false advertising here.” He winked. “Manual labor is my currency of choice. The back of that”—he nodded down at the paper—“outlines the fees for your time spent here. Everything from sweeping the floors to cleaning the toilets, right down to folding towels, is on there. It also outlines the price of meals in manual labor as well. You need something to eat? I’ll feed you. But it’s not a handout. You’ll work for that too.”
“Meals?” I asked, more than just a little interested.
“Yep. You’ll probably think they are nasty as hell. Real healthy stuff. Good for your body. I’m training fighters, not slouches.”