SKINTIGHT (Watty Awards 2024)

Chapter 5

Rio

I bounce up and down on my feet, throwing punch after punch into the bag. I'm pushing it. I know I am. My hand has already started cramping, still recovering from yesterday's game. I need to give up soon or I'll push it too far and sprain my wrist again. I can't miss out on another game, but I don't want to quit either. I've barely broken a sweat yet.

"Careful," Lisa's voice sounds through the room. "You punch any harder, the thing will fly off its hinges."

"That's the goal, isn't it?" I glance over the balustrade, spotting her on the first floor of the gym. She's behind the counter, looking up at me with amusement in her eyes.

"If you break that thing, you can buy me a damn new one."

"Sure, I'll buy it. As long as you pay for it," I joke.

"Ha!" She fakes a laugh. "You're funny."

"Worth a shot, right?"

"Your 2 o'clock's here, by the way," she ignores me. "She's in the restrooms. Don't make her wait."

"She?" I pause. All my clients are guys.

"What – you don't think girls can get pissed?" she snickers. "How do you think I got here?"

"Nah, I just didn't think you could tell the difference," I tease. She scowls at me, unimpressed by my words.

"If that's a joke about my eyesight, it's not fucking funny."

"I don't know what you're talking about, man. I would never make fun of you like that."

"You better not. I may be old, but I'll still beat your ass."

"Sure," I snicker. We both know that's not true. Lisa is more than triple my age. She's well into her 60s. She may still be stronger than me, but she doesn't have the stamina. I could tire her out in minutes.

I drop my boxing gloves to the floor and unwrap the fabric around my hands. It's probably a good thing I have work to do. At least it'll keep me from ruining my hands some more. I need to stop taking advantage of them before I pull a muscle or something and ruin my entire career.

I make my way down to reception, greeting Lisa behind the desk. It's just the two of us working today. It's not a big gym, but it's dedicated specifically to boxing. The first floor is strictly for training and weight-lifting, and then there's a loft with the usual cardio equipment upstairs. There are rarely more than 6 clients here at once, but I manage to train at least one person per shift. 

Whoever I'm training today is taking their sweet time getting changed. It's five past two already, and I'm not about to start running behind just because they're late. Not that I have anything else scheduled for today, but it's the principle of it.

Finally, the door opens, but the person who steps out is not who I expected to see.

"Violet?" I frown. She furrows her brows, her usual look of disgust still plastered on her face. She's flustered, too, and I bet seeing me here doesn't help. People typically don't want others knowing they're in treatment for anger management. I'm surprised she didn't call in sick, considering she passed out last night.

"What are you doing here?" she asks.

"Working," I tell her. "I'm your trainer."

"What?" she scans Lisa and me, searching for a hint of humour between us, but all she gets is my hesitation and Lisa's confusion. "You're kidding, right? You can't be my trainer."