Paid to Catch

Boxing Out

Trace's P.O.V.

If Philip being inside a gym isn't considered as being a fish out of water, then I don't know what is.

Dad booked weekly sessions for me boxing at Diversion 21 Hotel. He thought it was best if I tried out a new sport, taking a break from my taekwondo, basketball and swimming lessons. And guess what? My trainer's one of my world famous uncles who claims that he's best pals with Manny Pacquiao. Pitiful. He's still a Spanish-Filipino relative, like my last trainers. At least he tends to get distracted easily, leaving me to shape up for myself, which is actually more preferable for me.

I'm caked with sweat as I land punch after punch at the dangling punching bag in front of me. The entire time, I remain poker-faced, void of any emotion, my focus on my drills. Somehow I'm just worked up that way.

No, wait. That's not it.

"Have mercy on the bag of lifeless sack of sand back there, Trace," Philip says from outside the ring, wincing at every echoing blow. "It's done nothing wrong to you."

I crack my neck, tilting my head slightly to look at him. "It's tough, dude. Tough enough to withstand me. You have no reason to worry." I say, dropping my arms.

"Do too," Philip argues. "If I recall correctly, you sent two gangsters straight to the hospital just a few hours ago."

Right, that; I'm worked up about that.

Earlier this morning, a couple of thugs dumbly decided to test other me's temper. The ending was not at all great, of course, and if it were in a movie, it would have been rated R. To pay for the damage, dad was to reassure that they lived through their wounds and injuries. In my opinion, though, we should have left them to die.

Throwing a white face towel over my shoulder, I leave the ring, hopping effortlessly over the ropes. A butler in a well pressed suit offers me a bottle of water on a silver platter, bowing. I manage to act normal, graciously accepting the water before chugging it down. I swipe my hand across my mouth, "You didn't have to remind me about that, you know." I tell Philip, walking over to him.

He shrugs; we sit at the bench, me wiping my face with the towel as he talks. "This is getting kind of out of hand though."

I scoff. Like that wasn't obvious enough already."You think I don't know that? You're starting to sound like my dad."

"I may not be your dad, but I am your cousin. Trust me, I may not be a genius like my little sister, but I know some stuff. Especially this type of stuff." he feigns a shiver, huddling closer to his knitted sweater which I suspect was woven by the hands of Jeremy's mother. The irony of his statement is that he's a genius, too, but more on the creative category.

'Nice sweater you got there,' I wanted to comment, seeing the reindeer and mistletoe prints etched onto it and all, but what comes out is: "Your line would have been better if you said 'friend' instead of 'cousin'." leaning down, I grab for my sports bag, setting it beside me.

Philip hums, "Point taken." he looks around, crossing his legs on the seat before turning back to me, whispering in a low voice, "What caused them to deal with your wrath this time? Their idiocy, cockiness? Or..?"

"The usual." I zip open my bag, yanking out a spare black t-shirt. With a start, I realize that it's also from Aunt Tammy's (or Maria, like she wants to be referred to as while in the Philippines,) clothesline. Guess she's that famous after all.

My cousin's eyes widen. "W-What are you doing?" he stutters when I strip off my damp shirt and begin wiping the beads of sweat on my chest and back, soaking the towel a shade darker- white to gray.