Dealing With Trouble

CHAPTER 14 ?

I reach into my pocket for my money, but instead find another folded to-do list. "You carry a handwritten to-do list around with you?" Jeremiah says, almost incredulously, staring at the cursive words on the front.

I pull out my money and hand it over, ignoring him. "Everything is there."

He counts the bills in his hands as he flicks through them. "Are you certain you want to do this? If you quit, I'm not going to r****d your money."

This kid clearly has no filter. "Has anyone ever told you how rude you are?"

He finally grins, and I'm struck by how lovely it is, with all white teeth and dimples. "Every time. Will you respond to the question?"

I'm unsure. This is my chance to turn around and stop acting like someone I'm not. "I'm sure," I say instead.

He shrugs slightly. "OK, this first session is just to get you started."

He has me sign a waiver, then sits me down and begins the process. The fight camp is an eight-week training program that includes technical and fitness drills, cardio, and sparring sessions in the ring that are closely supervised. With technical and body sparing as well as tactical coaching, I'll learn to hit without getting hit. He's pacing back and forth, his hands clasped loosely behind his back; he's having a little too much fun playing the role of teacher.

"Is what Jenson said correct?" I inquire. "You don't think you're qualified to teach me?"

The interruption makes him frown. "No. Well, sort of. Unlike Jenson, I am not a member of USA Boxing. I have a level two certificate, but I still have a long way to go before I reach his level. The only difference for you is that when it comes to your fight, Jenson will be in your corner, not me."

Nothing he says makes any sense. But I do know that, regardless of Jenson's qualifications, I want to learn how to fight like Jeremiah. "Diet is key," he continues as if I'd never interrupted. "Throughout the process, I will provide regular nutritional advice. The event takes place in Las Vegas during the first week of May, and lodging is provided for free." He comes to a halt and looks around. "Are your parents okay with you going to Vegas?"

select a loose thread on my yoga pants "I'm going to keep this to myself. I'm eighteen, so I don't have to tell anyone," I say as he smirks.

"Hey, you can tell your parents whatever you want. It just can't endanger the fight."

"It won't."

Jeremiah leads me over to the scales and talks about the different weight categories, how I need to make sure to maintain this weight, how I need to keep up with my cardio even when I'm not in the gym. I hang off his every word, able to feel the adrenaline already working its way through me. He shows me the various equipment on offer, from punching bags and dumbbells to resistance bands and jump ropes. When he's finished, we move to the mats so he can show me the hamstring stretch

"How did you and Jenson end up running a gym?" I ask.

He's quiet for so long that I'm forced to look over. His eyes are closed, his body hunched over as he grips the back of his legs. "It used to be my dad's. Jenson pretty much runs the place on my behalf."

"Used to be?"

He pauses, then says, "He died last year of a heart attack."

"I'm sorry." I can't imagine how it must feel to lose a parent. As difficult and complicated as my relationship with Dad is, I don't know what I'd do if he died.

Jeremiah stands up and begins his triceps stretch. "Is that your fifth apology for the night?"

"Sor-"

I come to a halt just in Time, hating the smirk on his lips.

After a few stretches, he reaches into an equipment box and hands me a jump rope. I yank it from his grasp, startled by the jolt I feel when his fingers brush against mine.

"What now?" | inquire.

"Begin jumping."

It doesn't take long for me to realize how different jumping feels from running. The pain in my muscles returns, my heart beats faster with each jump, and the anguish in my chest gradually subsides.

I come to a halt to catch my breath when I notice Jeremiah is playing on his phone. If I didn't know better, I'd think he's just killing time. "I've been jumping for about an hour," I explain. "How is this instructing me on how to fight?"

"No, it's assisting you in getting in shape."

My cheeks are red-hot. "I'm already in great shape."

His gaze sweeps across my chest and stomach, lingering on my hips. They move to my thighs, then down my calves before landing on my feet. He makes no attempt to be subtle in his assessment of me. I will remain silent until he has finished. "Just because you have a nice body doesn't mean you're in shape." His gaze flits to mine; I have not met his approval. "You must be physically fit. Endurance."

"Listen, I used to be on the track team back home," I say, holding the rope loosely between my fingers. For the past three years, I've run three miles every day. I'm well-versed in the concepts of stamina and endurance."

"Rule number one," Jeremiah says as he leans in close, "is don't question me, and you should be running at least four."

I disregard him and continue jumping until he tells me to stop. Finally, when I'm hot and sweaty, he motions for me to join him on the mats.

"Your body has become too accustomed to one type of exercise," he says. "That's why you enjoy running but not this."

I spread out like a starfish on the mat, waiting for my heart rate to normalize. Jeremiah sits next to me, his expression somewhere between amusement and distaste. I'm so tired that I don't even check my phone when it pings with a message. "I'm going to die."

Before placing it between us, Jeremiah takes a long, slow swig of his water. "Are you ready to give up?"

"I'm not one to give up."

"You know, that's something a lot of people say." He rises to his feet and extends his hand. I wrap my fingers around his and allow him to pull me up. "Very few people truly believe it."

"Yes, I do."

"Come on," he invites. "Let's practice some breathing techniques before you have a heart attack."

He demonstrates a series of techniques for slowing my heart rate, and after a few minutes, I mimic him. Clearly, from the way he looks at me, I'm not doing a good job.

He points to his chest and says, "Breathe from here."

"I am." In, out. In, out. I think I've figured it out, but Jeremiah sighs in frustration and slides behind me, my back to his chest. I flinch as he places his palm on my stomach and sucks in a breath, surprised by the small jolt that passes through me.

"You've now completely stopped breathing. Megann, you're not very good at following directions, are you?"

I forcefully swallow. "Do not address me as such."

"All right, Megan."

I shut my eyes. Other than Jamie, I've never been this close to another boy. It's difficult for me to focus on anything else.

"Does your necklace have a kidney on it?" His warm, deep voice jolts me out of my reverie. He's staring at my necklace with his head tilted, an incredulous expression on his face.

"It's just a bean."

It's endearing and infuriating how he bursts out laughing. "I'm just not getting it." He shakes his head, and I know he's not talking about the necklace. A sliver of a smile remains on his lips, revealing the dimples in his cheeks. "What exactly are you doing here, Megan? Seriously."

"Training," I say, as if it's self-evident.

"No, seriously," he says. "You've just moved to Los Angeles for your senior year, and the first thing you do is enroll in a boxing boot camp. Ninety-nine percent of people who sign up for a White Collar fight do so for validation or to prove something. What is your motivation if no one knows you're doing it?"

"You wouldn't get it."

"Try me."

I finally look at him. His eyes are dark, but they aren't mocking or sarcastic this time. I find myself wanting to be honest, just like the night of the fight. "I'm sick of people stepping all over me. For once, I just want to stand out. I want to do something that no one expects of me."

He looks at me for a long time. I expect him to laugh or call me a freak, but instead he nods. "I understand."

"You do?"

"Yeah." He sighs. "For a while, I was pretty messed up, but going to the gym felt like a mental reset. I got to leave the old me and the nonsense behind."

There's a sense of relief in being tuned in with someone else, as if we've selected the same radio frequency. I take a quick step away when I realize his hand is still on me.

Jeremiah's eyes flit to my lips, then up again. "We're going to focus on a basic stance and do a little bit of shadow boxing. Which hand do you write with?"

"My right."

He nods as if this confirms something and tells me to stand with my left foot forward. He moves in front of me, feet slightly apart, and shows me how to stand: feet a little wider than shoulder-width apart, elbows tucked in, hands against my cheeks. I mirror his stance, but he frowns and steps forward, curling his palm around my wrist. He positions it lower, then steps back to assess me.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror behind him. Standing like this, I look focused and sure of myself; controlled.

Jeremiah slips behind me so his chest is to my back. "This is the stance you always need to find your way back to." Gently, he takes my lead hand and shows me how to throw a straight punch. My arm extends fully, elbow tucked tight as my fist connects with air. "Your punch hurts more when it hits the full extension." He lowers it back to its starting position, right near my cheek. "After every move, you should end up back here."

I'm well aware of how close he is, but he doesn't seem to mind. He has me add a right cross after the jab, in a move known as the one two. He steps back to watch me after demonstrating a few times until I get the hang of it. "Step into the punch with your lead foot just a little bit," he says.

I do as I'm told, but he complains that I'm moving too quickly, then too slowly. "Why don't you just show me?" I finally say.

He cracks a boyish grin. "You don't like it when things go wrong, do you?"

"Does anyone know?"

He kneels in front of me, still smiling, as if about to propose, and gently moves my foot into position. We switch between a straight jab and a one-two for the next thirty minutes, until Jeremiah's phone alarm goes off, signaling the end of the session. I rush to my bag, pulling out my phone to check for a message, but there is none. This phone is as volatile as my father.

I look over at Jeremiah, who is staring at his phone. "How did I fare?"

He begins packing the equipment without looking at me. "I'm impressed by the color."

My face lights up as I gather my stuff. The whole drive home, I replay the session in my head on repeat, thinking about how strong I'd felt when I'd looked in the mirror, how brave, and any doubts I'd had melt away.