Page 6 of The Masks We Break

Two more minutes until my bi-weekly seasoning lesson begins. Since I was the ripe age of four, my father has insisted that the only way to become a man, a successful one, is to be molded under the blows of his fist. He assures me that without his guidance, I will succumb to weakness and the temptations that ruin even the strongest of men.

To the naked eye, we’re merely boxing. He’s shaping me into a man like any good father. But really, I’m just trying to breathe with his boot shoved into my neck. These sessions allow my father to remind me that while he wants me to be a formidable successor, he never wants me stronger than him. Hence why I am only to defend, never attack.

One minute.

I lean back against the cool metal of the small set of lockers. My father had a basement gym built in this monstrosity of ahome,making escaping these things impossible. A long-winded sigh escapes my lips just as my stomach contorts, a wretched grumble echoing in the quiet space.

It’s been a while since I had the dry wheat pasta and chicken, but only about an hour since the Greek yogurt with berries. Even though I feel as if I’m starving, I’m sure there’s still a little something left in my stomach, and I’ll need to be cautious. Keep the old man’s jabs centered so I don’t taste what little berries haven’t digested yet.

But even if I’m careful, I know our sessions will end the same. They always do.

My watch vibrates, and as if on cue, my father walks into the room. Not a second too early, but not a minute too late. As with all things my father does, he has a point to it. His entry lets people know he’s not too eager while being punctual means he’s still professional. Thathis timeis valuable or some shit like that.

He’s dressed in casual workout attire, with a dry-fit shirt that stretches across his broad chest. His salt and pepper hair is still pristine, combed to the side as if he has a business meeting right after. His dark muddled blue eyes narrow as I stand, nearing toward the mat.

“Report, son.” He walks to the lockers, opening one to retrieve some athletic tape to wrap his hands.

I take a quick breath, counting my pulse against the seconds. It bothers me that it still even responds to these things. That my father can still affect meinternally.

Control it.

I suck in another breath, watching as he takes his time, enclosing his wrists under the bright yellow tape.

“I’m completely moved into Solace Square. I have my final schedule from the counselor, and it includes the literature course you instructed me to take.”

I cringe at the mention of the reading class. Not only because I hate reading anything fictional, but because it’s at eight o’clock in the morning. Who in their right mind would want to go to class so damn early? I have no idea. I just know they aren’t the type of people I want to talk to.

Every semester I purposely put the class off. No football player wants to get up for a morning class after being run into the ground the night before at practice. But my father refuses to hear any of that.

“You’re the one who chose to play that sport. And the agreement was, and remains, that if it gets in the way of your future, you cut it loose.”

Football is the only thing I refuse to let go of, so I’ve chosen to deal. It’s only one semester.

The first jab comes without me even realizing he’s ready. A sharp fire blazes around my ribs and seizes the air from my lungs. I choke back a cough and quickly prepare myself, taking up my defensive stance.

“Roommate?”

I clench my teeth, taking in quick sips of breath through the throbbing ache. “None, sir. I worked it out.”

My father’s head tics to the side before a whisper of a smile graces his lips. It disappears faster than it came, and he nods. “Good. No distractions.”

A hook to the right, and I catch it just in time, deflecting his arm to the side. It was close, and he knows it.

“You’re too slow.”

Another hit to my upper right rib. The pain shoots across, jostling my stomach more. I can only take a few more as powerful as these before the berries make a reappearance.

“How can I trust you to run my business when you can’t move on your feet?” He sidesteps to the left, swings, and misses my nose by an inch as I dip back.

Running Clean Source has always been something I wanted for myself. At first, when I was young—naïve—and thought perhaps it would make my father proud. But as time passed, I learned three things. One, the company is something I’d actually be proud to work for based on the service it provides. Two, I want to knock his ass off his fucking throne more than I want my next breath. And lastly, I don’t give two shits if he dies never being proud of me.

Another dodged hit. “You need to jump on an offer before the competitors. Hell, before the seller even finishesthinkingabout selling. You need to be there, Blaze. Ready.”

We continue for what feels like an hour. My body moves as fast as I will it, and even then, it’s barely enough. But he hasn’t landed a single direct blow in the last fifteen minutes. He strikes again.

Misses.

Two more missed hits.

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