Down and Out

After piling my hair into a messy bun, I slip on my worn sneakers and open my bedroom door, pausing when I see Declan in the hallway. He looks down at my ratty sweats and old t-shirt, his expression unreadable.
He has to know I’m about to have my first training session with Marcus. If not from my clothes, then from Marcus himself. Those two are tight, and there’s no way they haven’t talked about this.
Fiddling with the unraveling hem of my shirt, I tell him, “I can ask Jimmy to give me another trainer, if you want.” The last thing I want is for Declan to feel like I’m stepping on his toes by working with Marcus.
He shakes his head. “Marcus is the best. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with your training.”
When he doesn’t say anything else, it’s obvious the conversation is over.
I hate this. He won’t talk to me unless I address him directly, and even then, his answers are short and curt. I hate that he’s mad at me, and I hate that I’m mad at him for being mad at me. It’s my body and my decision. I get that he’s worried about me, I do. And it’s really sweet, and I really appreciate it. But this is something I have to do.
College costs a lot of money—thousands of dollars that I’m never going to see otherwise. I’ll never be able to afford it working minimum wage jobs, and without it, I’m gonna be stuck doing those kinds of jobs for the rest of my life. I want more than that. I want security, and that’s never going to happen living paycheck to paycheck.
And taking Declan’s money just isn’t an option, for several reasons. Being raised in the foster care system taught me that people and relationships aren’t permanent. Couples break up, spouses die. Shit happens and when it does, I need to be able to fend for myself. I can’t depend on anyone else to take care of me, because they won’t always be there.
But more than that, it wouldn’t be right to take his money. He’s already done so much for me. I can’t take more from him.
I brush past Declan. At the sound of his footsteps behind me, I turn. “Are you coming with me?”
He frowns. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
Seriously? “Because you don’t approve.”
The muscles in his jaw twitch as he grits his teeth and moves past me. “That doesn’t mean I won’t make damn sure you know what you’re doing.”
My lips curl as I fight a smile and follow him out the door.
There’s the bossy a*shole I’ve missed.

The gym’s busier at night than it is during the day. I look around, feeling awkward at having so many witnesses. Declan seems to sense my unease and says, “Get used to it, Kitten. You’ve seen how many people show up to these matches.”
Marcus waits for us by the ring. He greets me with a simple nod. “We’re gonna go over the basics tonight, then we’re gonna start you on a workout regimen. What do you weigh?” he asks, frowning as he tilts his head and looks me over. “A buck twenty?”
My mouth flops open as I self-consciously shield my stomach and glance at Declan. He looks pissed, but that’s nothing new. He’s been wearing that same expression since yesterday.
“Something like that,” I mutter, glancing back at Marcus.
“You need to put on at least fifteen pounds of muscle over the next nine weeks. That means astronomically increasing your caloric intake and working out every single day,” he says, slapping his fist to emphasize each word. “It’s gonna be hell. You’re gonna hate me, and you’re gonna want to quit.”
I nod in understanding. “I won’t quit.”
He lifts a brow, like he doesn’t quite believe me, but he doesn’t say so. Instead he says, “Let’s do it to it,” as he ducks in-between the ropes and walks into the ring.
Declan pulls up a metal fold-up chair and sits ringside as I climb through the ropes and join Marcus.
Once we’re center stage, he looks down at my hands and says, “Make a fist.”
Wow, he wasn’t kidding when he said we were starting with the basics. I clench my right hand and show him.
His lips turn down as his brows lift, like he’s impressed. “Good. Always keep your thumb on the outside of your fist, never in. You’ll break it if it’s tucked inside, got it?”
I nod, wondering who the hell would ever punch like that, but I don’t say anything.
He takes my fist in his hands and runs his fingertips beneath my knuckles, over the flats of my bunched up fingers. “The main reason why people hurt their hands when they punch someone is because they hit here instead of here,” he says, running his fingers over the hard ridges of my knuckles. “Always punch with your knuckles, specifically the first two. If you hit with your ring and pinky knuckles, you’ll more than likely break your hand.”
First two knuckles good, last two bad. Got it.
“Okay, now put your dukes up and show me your stance.”
I spread my feet shoulder width apart, turning slightly so I’m at an angle to him. You don’t want to face your opponent head on. It leaves too much open and vulnerable.
My right foot’s behind me, with my left leading. Keeping my chin down, I lift my hands. Left fist goes in front of my face, just under my cheek. Right goes just under my jaw. Knees bent slightly, I keep my elbows tucked in to my sides.
Marcus whistles, low and long, then glances at Declan. “You seein’ this? Your girl’s a natural.”
For the first time since I’ve met him, Marcus smiles at me. “Atta girl,” he says, his whole face lit up. For someone so serious, he’s got a beautiful smile—all straight, gleaming teeth and sparkling eyes.
I wonder why he doesn’t do it more.
He gets into a matching stance. “A lot of times you see people cock their fist back to ‘wind up’ their punches,” he says, bringing his elbow really far out to show me. “Don’t do that. It leaves you open and lets your opponent know exactly what your next move’s gonna be. You want to keep your motions tight. Start from right here by your face” —he shakes the fist next to his jaw— “and extend it out in front of you, pivoting your body with the movement.”
He does a slow motion punch for me to get the full effect, and I watch his torso turn in time with the extension of his right arm as he pivots on the ball of his right foot.
“Okay, now you try.”
I follow his instructions, turning my body with the punch.
“Faster.”
Repositioning myself to the starting position, I swing again at full speed, pivoting my body with the movement.
“Good.” He jogs over to a corner post and grabs two padded, circular mitts from the mat. Slipping them on his hands, he walks back over to me. “Now hit me,” he says, holding them out.
I reposition, exhale, and swing, connecting with a mitt.
Marcus whoops and takes off his glove, shaking his hand like I’d actually hurt him. He’s full of shit, but I enjoy the ego boost nonetheless.
After taking off his other glove and tossing them aside, he comes back to stand in front of me. “Your goal in this fight is to end it as quickly as possible, but despite what you might think, you shouldn’t aim for the face first. One, heads are solid and made of bone. That shit’s gonna hurt if you hit it wrong. Two, they’ll be expecting it. So you’ll want to target the body first—throat, sides of the neck, ribs, stomach, kidneys, liver—anything that’s open. Body shots are a lot more effective at stunning your opponent and they’re safer for your hands.
“Once you manage to stun them, capitalize on it, be it with another body shot, a blow to the face, a kick to the gut, or what have you. Do not stop raining blows on them until they tap out or knockout.”
Marcus seems pleased at my nod and says, “Tomorrow we’ll go over blocking and start sparring. Right now, I want to start you on strength training.”
Stifling my groan, I nod. Tonight’s going to be a looong night.