Page 10 of Habits

When my parents realized that hockey wasn’t just a passing fling for Max and that he’s actually good at it, Dad decided to make a gym for him so he could exercise at home. You’d think the talent is enough, but you’d be wrong. He spends every free moment of his time either in this gym or on the ice, practicing and shaping the natural talent he has.

The gym isn’t as big as a professional gym, but we do have a treadmill, bike, elliptical, a set of weights and a boxing bag.

As soon as I get down there, I turn on the lights, and the radio starts to play with some kind of heavy music Max likes to listen to when he works out. It’s usually not my jam, but since this is Max’s space and I’m feeling on edge, I let it be.

I quickly tape my fingers before I pull the gloves over my hands. I’ve done it so many times that I could probably do it in my sleep by now. I don’t think I actually need double protection, but Max always insists. He doesn’t want me to damage my “musical prodigy” hands, as he likes to call them.

I do a few test punches to check that everything is okay before I turn toward the bag hanging off the ceiling, and that’s when I unleash everything.

My frustration.

My anger.

My disappointment.

Punch after punch, I let my gloved hands connect with the bag, enjoying the feeling of pounding into something. Two jabs from my left hand, one from my right, left, right, right, right. I do different series of punches, trying to keep my feet moving the whole time.

If you think about it, boxing is a lot like dancing. You have to keep moving with elegance, grace and speed. And although strength is important, being fueled by anger will not lead you to the win. You have to keep focus, have a cool head on your shoulders. Your mind has to be sharp so you can predict your opponent’s next move and strike before you get knocked out.

And although my opponent is imaginary, or maybe it’s myself I’m fighting, I don’t let the anger rule over me. I get it out, but I’m the one controlling it, unleashing bits and pieces at a time.

One jab at a time.

One hook at a time.

As my legs move across the mat, I slide in a dance known only to me, punching and kicking until my eyes are blurry from the sweat coating my face.

With one final ounce of strength, I grit my teeth and lift my leg in the air. In a perfect arch, I swing my leg and focus all the energy I have left into that kick. My foot connects with the bag and makes it swing as I fall onto the mat, a sweaty mess.

“Who pissed you off?”

My head lifts and I turn toward the door, surprised by the audience.

“Max!” I scold. “You scared me!”

He grabs the towel and water bottle off the shelf and throws them to me. Grateful, I dry my face before I take one long swig from the bottle, downing half of it in one go.

“I called you when I got home, but you were too busy locked down here to hear me.”

I look at the clock hanging on the wall. “It’s already that late?”

I was so concentrated on my training that I didn’t notice the time pass.

“Yeah, I got home a while ago.” I nod my head, getting on my feet. They feel wobbly from all the work, but it’s a pain I’ll welcome every time. “So, will you tell me what demons you’ve been slaying down here for the last two hours?”

My eyes lift to his, our gazes connecting for a long while. Stormy grays meeting stormy grays. We might not have the same interests and abilities, but we’re the exact replica of one another. As much as two fraternal twins can be. We have the same olive skin, dark, almost black hair and gray eyes.

I blink, breaking our stare, and offer him a weak smile. “No demons. It’s just been a long day.”

Slowly, I walk toward the door, intent on going back upstairs and washing off the workout before I attempt to work on my homework again. But of course my brother doesn’t let it slide that easily.

Max stands in the middle of the doorway, not letting me through. His cool fingers brush against my cheek softly before he lifts my chin in the air, making my eyes meet his.

I can see worry play in his irises that makes me nibble at my lower lip.

“Are you really okay, Anette?” He gulps down slowly. Painfully slowly. “If there is something …”

“I’m fine.” I stop him before he can finish his sentence. “Really. It’s just been a long day.”

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