I don’t even have my sweatshirt off when Bougie notices me.
“Hey, Barbie! We just saw those posts from yourbest friend, Eli.” His smile, and the two other ones that appear when they allturn to look at me like sharks smelling water, have dread pooling in my gut. The sounds around the room dim, like everyone knows something’s about to happen. “Man, that little fairy is so in love with you!” He slaps a hand on his thigh and laughs, and my legs move on autopilot. “Good thing your brother’s already taken, or you’d lose your only fan.”
I barely hear him over the blood rushing to my ears. All I see is red, all I know is that suddenly I’m pushing him against his little posse. When his lip lifts into a sneer, I still can’t think. I only act.
One punch, delivered perfectly right to the side of his nose and cheek. Nothing cracks under my knuckles, but I know how much it hurts. He wasn’t ready for it, and he stumbles back again, crashing all of them against their cubbies.
I used to tell him to keep my brother out of his mouth, until Vinny told me to not bother, until Vinny made it his mission to humiliate my goalie every time we play against Vegas.
He’s big for a goalie, and even bigger wearing gear, but I’m still the son of the motherfucking Hulk, and I can act like it even though I rarely do.
My knuckles burn with the second punch to his eye, and I suspect I split his eyebrow open, but I don’t wait to check. I fist his collar with my left hand but someone grabs my arms, pulling me back back and away.
“Jankowski!” The roar of coach Rocco’s voice breaks through my haze and I turn to see him standing by the door. “Take a fucking lap.”
This is how he handles everything... a fucking lap.
I look around at the stunned faces and realize two guys from the fourth line were the ones who’d grabbed me. I shake them off, and I’m not gentle.
“Gladly.” I don’t bother with more. I don’t ask for permission, I simply grab my duffel and my sweatshirt and get the fuck out, and I keep walking until I’m throwing everything in the trunk of my car.
I don’t have a plan, at least I didn’t think one through until I’m parking behind Dad’s SUV, looking up at the house I grew up in... for the most part.
I walk in with my heartbeat still going crazy, with my ears still ringing, with my hand still throbbing.
None of that changes, even when I walk in to find Dad and Ally making out on the couch like they’re teenagers.
I can’t appreciate the hilarity of the moment, I can only clear my throat to alert them to my presence.
“Need you in the gym,” is all I say, and I see understanding dawn on him by how his face darkens, how that temper creeps in as he scans me from head to toe.
I nod at Ally before turning on my heel and walking to the door that leads to the semi-basement. It has huge glass doors that lead to the side lawn, but it’s still technically a basement, and it’s a full gym.
There’s even a sparring MMA ring, which I ignore for now and go right to the heavy punching bag by the wall of mirrors.
As I wait for Dad to come hold it for me, I finally look at my knuckles. They’re only red, only the middle one has blood on it, though it’s barely a drop.
Still... I walk to the rack on the other side of the gym and grab two gloves—Dad’s gonna make me wear them anyway.
He’s there by the time I get back to the bag, holding it steady for me, his hands high, because he knows I like to mix things up. I breathe out once, then release.
Dad stumbles back after the first punch, resets, nods at me, and I know he can take it, so I finally let loose.
Right, left, right, shift for a kick, left hook, right hook, left kick.
I’m not sure if Dad asks or if I just start speaking to let it all out, but boy does it spill out.
The harder than necessary hits during practice, the way coach Rocco turns a blind eye to everything, the resentment, the grumbles, the way management throws me to the wolves after every game.
As I speak, the memories flash, pain and fury accompanying them. I keep moving, punching, punishing the fucking bag, and I picture Bojarski’s face. I hear him calling Eli slurs on repeat. My mind conjures up a vision of me kicking the shit out of him and then moving on to Girard, to McGowan, then to fucking Coach Rocco.
Until Dad lets go of the bag and steps back.
I stop and pant for a long minute, just trying to calm the fuck down. They tainted the only fucking thing that makes me smile anymore, and I hate that I let them.
“You won’t play another game for them.”
That snaps me back to realityrealfast.
