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“Ah, no. I’m conducting the interview.” I reached into my jacket’s inner pocket and pulled out a small business card to hand to him. “I’m a reporter forSalt Lake Times.”
“No kidding,” he said, looking it over. “Julianna Thatcher, Investigative Reporter. Fancy. Is there some secret underground crime ring in town you’re trying to get the scoop on?”
“No, uh… I’m here to write a sports spread…” I sighed. “Thingy.”
“Is that the technical term?”
I probably could have talked his ear off about how I wound up with this dumb assignment, but it hardly seemed like the time or place. Plus, I doubted a man I just kissed with my front bumper really wanted to hear about the Leo Holistic Lifestyle fiasco. It pissed me off just thinking about it.
“I needed a palette cleanser,” I lied instead. “Chasing major stories is fun and all, but it’s good to stretch my figurative writing muscles. Fill that portfolio, you know? You wouldn’t happen to know how to get to Old Marty’s Boxing Gym, would you?”
There was a faint hint of amusement behind his eyes. “You’re headed to see Old Marty? Who exactly are you interviewing?”
“A couple of UFC hopefuls. They’re new to the circuit, apparently. That’s what my editor told me. I think their names are Jonathan Smithson and Charlie M…”
“Mitchell,” he finished for me. “Talk about a small fuckin’ world.”
“Do you know them?”
“All too well, actually. As luck would have it, I was actually on my way to see them.”
“Seriously?”
“We go way back. I was supposed to help them run a couple of training drills today.”
“We could maybe go together, if you’d like. It beats walking.”
“Only if you promise not to run over any more pedestrians.”
I held my breath, hands on my hips. “I said I was sorry.”
And then, miracle of miracles, Dylanlaughed. It was a deep, low, and warm sound that left me breathless.
“I was only kidding,” he assured.
“Ha ha,” I replied dryly, though I couldn’t help my smile. “Hop in. And buckle up.”
“Trust me, I will.”
* * *
As it turned out, I wasn’t that far from Old Marty’s Boxing Gym. I was off by a couple of blocks but were it not for my chance encounter with Dylan, I likely would have spent the next half an hour hopelessly lost.
Sniffing out interesting leads and tearing bad people and corrupt corporations asunder with words alone was my specialty.Navigation —not so much.
When I still lived in Sunville, there hadn’t been a boxing gym. They must have built the place after I shipped off to college.
While it was a new building to me, it didn’tlooknew, though that might have been by design. There was an almost rustic feel to the place, like it was trying to emulate the glory days of the 70’s.
Red brick walls, worn wooden floors, beaten leather punching bags suspended by heavy chains from the ceiling. My nose was immediately assaulted by the heady smell of sweat, dust, and the chemical tinge of cleaner.
The rhythmic sound of hard punches filled my ears, along with the squeak of sneakers against the floors and deliberate exhales with every jab.
There were a handful of people here —the majority of them men, though I did spot a couple of women training together in the corner— but I was only here for two.
“Red!” Dylan called out. “Cash!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two fighters in the center of the ring. They both turned to face us, walking over to the ropes to hop down from the platform.
