Forever and ever 2. The adventure starts now.

Part 131.

Tom's pov~

"Well, considering your weekend supposedly went so well, your punches seem to suggest the opposite," Bob remarked as he trained me in boxing, my reflexes appearing rather dismal as I attempted to hit and dodge the pads.

"Be quiet," I muttered, trying to hit his right palm. Success, but too late.

"Tom, focus, lad, your mind's elsewhere," but how could it not be? My concentration had been lacking ever since I got back. A whole week. A whole week filled with sleepless nights and drinking until I passed out. At least I still managed to show up halfway decent on set without arousing suspicion. Although lately, I've been arriving later than usual.

"Damn it, Bob, I'm trying," I swung again, his hand already withdrawn before mine reached it, and the punch landed in thin air.

"Gotcha," he chuckled, delivering a gentle tap to my cheek to snap me back to attention. I rolled my eyes and clenched my jaw. It really wasn't the right time for Bob to play around; he should have known that.

"Do you need a break?" he asked. I shook my head. My stamina was shot, but my mind wasn't. I believed I could have worked through the night as long as I pictured Clark's face as the pads.

"Okay, let's try something different anyway. Come with me," he said, motioning for me to follow. I had to stop my punches, and he led me over to a massive tractor tire that looked as if it were chiseled into the ground.

"Turn it over," he nodded towards the huge thing. I looked at him, my brows raised in confusion.

"And then?" I asked. What was the point?

"Then do it again," he said all casually.

I approached the tire, grabbed underneath it and attempted to flip it. At first, with little success, my abdominal muscles trembling, blood rushing to my head, and my mouth filled with air. But once I got the first few centimeters off the ground, the rest wasn't much harder, and with a loud thud, the tire landed back on the ground.

I grinned at Bob, who looked only halfway surprised.

"Again," he said, and I tried again. I succeeded, but it was getting gradually harder.

"Again," and once more, thinking I had proved to him that I could do it, but one word was enough, and I flipped the tire over again.

"And again," until the eighth time I fell to the ground and felt like I had torn a muscle in my heart. Groaning in pain on the ground while the head of the 56-year-old appeared above me.

"Do you still want to continue training?" he asked. I shook my head, unable to find any words to leave my mouth. He produced his bottle, unscrewed it, and let water flow into my mouth from a meter high, half of it going into my hair and the other half onto my chest, but the refreshment felt good. Shortly after, I could at least speak again.

"What was that supposed to achieve exactly?" I asked, referring to flipping the tire.

"You just flipped 300 pounds eight times, kid. You went into a squat to use all your strength and overturned twice of your body weight," he said, making it sound incredible, yet his tone was unimpressed, lacking enthusiasm, making it hard to read him and figure out if he was praising me or belittling me.

"And that's good?" I asked, and he laughed.

"There's always room for improvement, but that was pretty impressive. You're a strong man, Thomas." I sat up straight, and Bob patted me on the shoulder as he walked past me. The clock was striking towards midnight, and Bob was packing up his bag, much like me having to work tomorrow.