Every Second of Every Minute of Everyday - Tom Holland - Book 1

1

Liz's POV

I've lived my whole life trying to be who everyone else wants me to be. It's about time that I step up and do what I want to be. What I want to do. Right?

I'm twenty years old, I have my own apartment and everything. I have a gym membership, I'm on my way to becoming a professional fighter. I'm living the dream...well, my grandpa's dream.

My grandpappy was my best friend growing up. Well, he was obviously years and years older than me, but I told him everything and he told me what I thought was everything. He helped me through my teenage problems, and he'd rant to me about his work issues, and I'd help him get a different perspective.

When my father passed away from lung cancer when I was fifteen, grandpappy took on the role of being my father figure, even though he pretty much already was.

Growing up, grandpappy and I would always watch professional fighting together, it's what we bonded over the most. We'd stand in front of the TV and we'd act out what they were doing. Then, he got me some fighting lessons.

When grandpappy started getting weaker from age, it was pretty much spoken that I finish out this career in his name, that's what my gran-gran and mum want and still want.

I don't mind fighting, it's just not my dream job. My dream job would be an explorer, writing fictional stories on each place I visit, like a whole bunch of short stories. But, I don't have enough money to go to big places.

So, here I am, going to the gym to live out my grandpappy's dream.

"Hey, Liz." Cole, the gym's secretary guy, greeted. "What are you going to hit today?"

"Um, the treadmill." I laugh. "Nah, probably just the bag and some rope."

"Nice." Cole laughs along, nodding. "I feel like the treadmill is like your warm up for your warm up."

"It's more of like I'm too lazy to do anything else." I wink before walking into the locker room.

Not very many girls attend this gym, just because it doesn't have that great of a cleaning crew, I guess? It's not always that clean, but it's a gym. It's going to smell like sweat, and it's going to look like a hundred guys exercised in it. It's a gym.

I put my bag into my locker, laying my jacket on top of it. Closing my locker, I walk out of the locker room and into the gym.

I take in a deep breath in, smiling at the old smell. There's a good amount of people here, but no music playing in the background.

I walk over to radio in the corner, faking a trip before cranking up the volume. I laugh as a couple of guys grin at me, giving me a thumbs up.

I do some sloppy dance moves on my way over to one of the punching bags. I stretch a little bit while putting my wraps on. Bobbing my head to the music, I begin doing simple jabs.

The name is Liz Hamilton. I originally grew up and lived in England. But since there's not very many fighting opportunities in England as there are here in the states, I moved here after I turned eighteen.

So, now I live in Atlanta, but with my manager getting me bigger fights each time, I move around the U.S. quite a bit. Lately, my manager has been slacking on his job on getting me fights. I haven't had one in a three weeks, which makes me nervous because that lowers my income, which means I can't pay the bills.

I trained until lunch, only drinking two sports drinks and the rest was water, and I ate two protein bars when I'd get really hungry.

"Got a lot on your mind?" A guy approaches as I wipe my face from sweat with my towel.