Page 35 of When Love Takes Root

“Swing, Cuzzo.” I stared at him for a second, then stepped back into stance. Juice lifted the mitts. “Don’t take it easy on me because I’m fine and fertile.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Melody likes it,” Juice said.

“She’s in prayer for you.”

“Daily,” Juice said. “One-two.”

I hit the mitts.

Crack.

Crack.

The sound sharpened the room.

Juice braced himself, nodded once, and brought the mitts up again. “Again.”

I threw the combination. Left jab. Right cross. Slip. Hook. Juice moved with me better than his mouth suggested. He’d always had hands, even when his stomach and foolishness tried to hide it. We circled each other in that cramped room, both of us older than the boys from the rec but still carrying pieces of them in our footwork. Sweat gathered between my shoulder blades. My breath steadied. The old grief didn’t disappear, but it found somewhere useful to go.

Pops used to say pain needed a purpose before it started calling itself your personality.

“Again,” Juice said.

I hit the mitt.

Crack.

“Again.”

Crack.

“Breathe, Siah,” Juice said.

“I am.”

“Breathe like you ain’t mad at oxygen,” Juice said. I laughed mid-combination and nearly missed the hook. Juice grinned. “There he go.”

I threw the next punch cleaner.

For ten minutes, we didn’t talk about county, or Domonique, or Kacey, or Pops. We let leather speak for what language couldn’t carry. When we stopped, my shirt clung to my back, Juice’s forehead shined, and the room felt lighter than it had when I walked in.

Juice pulled the mitts off and tossed them onto the shelf. “You good now?”

“I was good before,” I said, peeling the gloves from my hands.

Juice picked up his foil plate and inspected it like he’d left a child unattended. “You were one minor inconvenience away from quoting Proverbs at a subcontractor.”

“That’s growth.”

“That’s a warning sign,” Juice said.

My phone buzzed on the shelf.

Onyx:

Pulling up now.