“Mr. Mason . . .” She scribbles what I assume to be my modified name on a sticker nametag and then slaps it to my chest. “Great, follow me, and I’ll show you where you’ll be working today.”
The Community Youth Center doesn’t look anything like I thought it would. It’s sleek and modern, and judging by the smell of fresh paint and new floors, I’d say it’s recently had a major facelift. We move through a series of hallways before we come to a big open gym. As tired as I am from having to drag my ass out of bed this morning, the scent of rubber mats, sweat, and the sounds of human exertion perk me right up.
“How long have you guys been at this location, Mrs. Thomas?” I raise my voice to be heard over the sound of squeaking sneakers and kids’ voices.
She smiles back at me, pride shining in her eyes. “We’ve been here for nearly thirty years; although, you’d never guess it by looking at it. The place was a wreck until Mr. and Mrs. Slade funded the complete remodel.”
Ah, Jonah and Raven. That explains it.
The gym is filled with kids of all different ages: some as high as my thigh and others that could stand with me almost eye-to-eye. They’re grouped off according to activity. A dozen are playing volleyball, and fewer are on a half basketball court. There’s a group running sprints, some doing tumbling on a large mat, and others simply sitting on the bleachers, watching.
“The children are allowed to pick whatever it is they’re interested in. Most days they’re happy to hop around from class to class, but we do have those who choose not to participate.” Her face twists in disappointment. “This is where you’ll be.”
The large section that’s sanctioned off for MMA is top of the line. It’s padded for safety, and a small pile of gloves, hit pads, and kickboxing bags is set up in the corner.
She hands me a slip of paper. “Here’s the sign-up sheet for today.” She waves over a group from the bleachers. A few kids amble over, dragging their feet with cautious expressions. “You guys are in for a treat today. This is Mr. Mason, and he’s a professional fighter with the UFL.”
I nod to the kids and take in their wide eyes.
“Alright, I’ll leave you to it.” Mrs. Thomas grins and walks away, but turns back, snapping her fingers. “Oh, I forgot! If you need anything, you can ask Trix.”
My expression falls and my jaw goes slack. Did she say Trix? No. I must’ve imagined . . . I follow her pointing finger to a group of girls who are lined up and seem to be working through some sort of dance routine.
“She’s our veteran volunteer. Been here longer than anyone. Any questions you have, she’ll have the answer.”
And sure enough, the stripper-phone-crusher from last night comes into view. Her tiny white shorts, tan legs, and blousy tank top are conservative compared to what she had on last night. Her long hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s grinning big, clapping out a count while encouraging the young girls she’s teaching.
“Have fun.”
“Great, okay.” My eyes are fixed on Trix as my mind tries to make sense of what I’m seeing.
An exotic dancer who volunteers to teach kids?
She must feel my eyes on her because she stops clapping and searches me out. Her body goes rigid when she sees me no more than ten yards away, staring. A tiny grin pulls at her lips, and her eyebrows dip in confusion.
“Mr. Mason, can you teach me how to kick someone’s butt?”
I rip my eyes from Trix and focus on the kid, who appears to be around eight years old, staring up at me. His shirt is two sizes too big, and I can see his mismatched socks through the holes in his shoes.
“What’s your name, kid?”
He flashes a mouthful of crooked and missing teeth. “Denny.”
I cross my arms at my chest. “Alright, Denny, whose butt needs kicking?”
He shifts on his feet and studies the blue mat below them. “My stepdad. He’s always tellin’ me what to do.” He wipes his nose along the length of his little forearm.
My chest tightens, and I squat down to meet Denny’s eyes. “Not sure it’s a good idea to go after your stepdad, bud, but I’ll tell you what.” I nod to his feet. “Take your shoes off, and we’ll work through some moves so that, if and only if you’re in a position to defend yourself or someone you love, you can take down a man five times your size.”
His eyes grow even bigger. “Really?”
“Really.” I push to standing and ruffle his hair. “All of you take off your shoes and socks and meet me at the kickboxing bags.”
Trix
“And that is exactly why I love coming on Sundays.” Alize, one of the teenage girls I’ve been teaching dance to for the last few months, points over her shoulder.
I don’t even have to ask who she’s talking about. I saw him earlier with Sylvia.
“That’s what I’m sayin’. What’s up with the man candy? Every Sunday it’s a different hottie.” Isabella has one hand cocked on her curvy hip, eyes focused on Mason as he works on some punching with a handful of boys.