Fighting Silence (6 page)

THE DAY I FOUND ON The Ropes boxing gym, my life changed forever. I had been going to high school, working two jobs, and spending almost all of my paychecks to keep a roof over my brothers’ heads. I’d walked past that old vacant building every day on my way to and from my job at the grocery store. Then, one day, there were about twenty trucks outside and workmen covering the sidewalk. I didn’t give it much thought as I passed, but I swear, by the time I went home that night, there was a brand-new gym complete with decaled windows.

The next day at school, they passed out fliers advertising a new after-school 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 after-school 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 after-school 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.”

“Oh, okay,” I responded while scanning the “price chart.”

Slate had figured out the “cost” for everything from just hanging out at the gym after school to private one-on-one boxing lessons with him. You could “buy” workout clothes or your own gloves with extra jobs as well.

Jesus. He was running a sweatshop, but that was all right with me.

“Max ten hours a week. You do those ten hours then everything opens up to you free of charge: meals, training, summer program, one set of workout clothes a month. And that even comes with my promise to keep my mouth shut when I find you crying about your sore muscles in the locker room.” He smiled.

I rolled my eyes.

“I’m not going to bullshit you. I expect hard work in and out of that ring. You go to school and then come here. That’s it.”

“I work two jobs,” I informed him.

“Fine. You go to school, work, then On The Ropes. Nothing else.”

That sounded perfect. Well, nothing else except Eliza
.
Not even professional training with Slate Andrews would stop me from making time to spend with her.

After a few seconds, he cleared his throat. “So, you still interested in joining?”

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

“Well, okay, then. Take that packet home and get your parents to sign all the Xs and I’ll see you tomorrow after school. Now, go ahead and hit the track out back.”

“The track?” I questioned.

“You owe me three miles, remember?”

“I’m wearing jeans,” I responded, incredulous.

“Well, maybe you should have thought of that before skipping class.” He walked away without another backward glance.

One year later . . .

A STRICTLY FORBIDDEN BULLHORN BLASTED through the silent auditorium as my name was called to receive my high school diploma. While I never actually saw him, I had not one doubt that it was Till. I burst out laughing as my stomach twisted. It bothered me more than I’d expected that he wasn’t walking across that stage with me.

Till’s life had been busy. He’d been spending a lot of time at a nearby boxing gym as well as working two jobs: cleaning up after construction crews and stocking shelves at the grocery store. Even with all of that, he still never missed a single night at our apartment. He did, however, miss ninety percent of his math and physics homework, thus having failed both, which left him unable to graduate. He’d acted like it didn’t bother him when he’d been told that he didn’t have enough credits to walk across the stage with the rest of our class, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes. He’d laughed it off, saying that it wasn’t like he had any huge plans to go off to a big-name college or anything.

I, however, had been accepted to the local university on a scholarship. I’d decided to take out every possible student loan I could get and move out of my parents’ apartment. Till had laughed when I’d proposed a betting pool to see how long it would take them to notice that I was gone. I bet a decade. He chose a week.

I waited outside the auditorium after graduation was over, looking for Till, but deep inside I knew there was only one place I’d find him.

“Hey,” he said, crawling through the window. He froze just as his large body cleared the opening. “Holy hell! Look at you, Doodle. You’re in a dress.” He smiled a lopsided grin that would have melted other girls. For me, it sizzled.

“See? Just further proof of how messed up the educational system is in this country. I have no idea how they didn’t allow you to graduate today with observational skills like those.”

“Shut up, smartass. I’ve just never seen you in a dress before.”

“Yeah, I didn’t feel like going home to change. My mom was already complaining about having to go to my graduation today.”

“Jesus, that woman is a bitch,” he mumbled to himself. “Well, you look good. Those college boys aren’t going to know what to do with themselves.” His mouth twisted into something he expected me to believe was a grin.

I didn’t fall for it, but I knew why it was there. “Yeah, I’ve heard average-looking accounting majors who like to draw and paint are all the rage right now.”

His eyes narrowed at my assessment.

“However, on the off chance that I do find someone who appreciates my undeniable awesomeness, I’d still have to explain why some guy is always hanging out at my
new
apartment.” I waggled my eyebrows excitedly.

“You got an apartment?” His whole face scrunched up into a painful grimace before he was able to catch it.

“Yep!”

“Which one?”

“Um . . .”

“Which. One?” he repeated slowly, knowing the answer from my reaction alone.

“The one you didn’t like.” I bit my lip and looked away.

“Doodle, that one was shit. You can’t live there. It’s dangerous.”

“Well, it’s kinda my only option at this point. It’s all I can afford without selling off my organs. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty attached to my kidneys.”

“Come on. Be serious,” he chastised in a very unlike-Till way. The crinkle on his forehead was unnatural and looked out of place on his strong face.

Till was no longer a boy in any respect. He stood at six foot four, and every plane of his body was covered with chiseled edges and contoured muscles. His hands were large and callused like a working man well past his eighteen years. Boys didn’t look like that. Men did.
Till
did.

It seemed I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the changes in Till either. There was no shortage of women vying for his attention. But if they were lucky enough to catch it, I didn’t know. He always brushed my questions about his romantic relationships off. I’d eventually given up and stopped asking. I didn’t really want to know the answer anyway.