Page 4 of The Masks We Burn

Fuck.

I move to the side, just barely missing a fist, the cool wind coursing across my cheek acting as proof. Somehow, I’ve let my thoughts jump on a runaway train and haven’t been focusing on the man in front of me.

Left swing.

This one, I’m able to dodge easily. The guy is fast as fuck, but there’s no denying he needs to work on his less dominant side. Still, he packs a punch, and any time I get snagged, that shit hurts.

I take a step forward and put my power into a right hook, connecting with the rigid muscles in his obliques. Anoofwhooshes out of him, satisfying my pent-up nerves and untangling them a bit.

“Alright, killer. Let’s do a five-minute break.” My training partner, Blaze Bardot, takes a tentative step back before lowering his hands at my nod.

We both separate on either side of the small gym mat and drink some water. From what he’s told me, he’s practiced hand-to-hand combat since a little after he could walk, and I believe him. From his stance, his intense focus, to his lethal right hook, the guy is brutal.

The small world that it is, Blaze is also dating my old tutor and is best friends to my boy, Spencer’s fiancée. But even with all those connections, that isn’t the way we crossed paths. It’s like divine intervention or some shit that he works for the company who helped my parents convert our farm to green. It sounds odd to say out loud, but there’s plenty of ways you cannothave sustainable farming techniques.

After my pop found out Blaze was also the star running back for his university, he’s made a couple of bogus ‘need you here for an emergency’ calls. I think Blaze figured it out after the second call and started sending my old man football tickets. Somewhere in between all that and being around our mutual friends, we got to hanging out.

One night, he mentioned something about what it would be like to have a “proper” boxing match, and after a few drinks, that’s all she wrote.

We haven’t looked back since, meeting once a week and going head-to-head in what feels like part fighting, part therapy. Similar to the feeling of freeness I experience with women, there’s also a type of euphoria I feel from our fighting sessions.

If I’m being completely real, I’m man enough to admit that in those moments, I can forget just how lost I am. How far I’ve strayed from my path with no fucking clue how to get back.

If I even want to get back.

Fuck.

I scrub my hands over my face and suck in a deep breath, my lungs stinging slightly. Too much time not wrapped in a woman, or pounding my fists into someone’s face allows me time to think. Time to reflect.

Blaze sighs, staring down at his phone for a moment before, I assume, responding to emails. No matter how inundated with work, the guy stays calm and collected. The man has everything figured out. With his future so concrete, his senior year is just a formality at this point.

I bet that shit in itself is a relief. No impending doom hovering over the closer it gets to graduation.

“Everything okay?” I ask, grabbing a towel and refusing to succumb to my draining thoughts.

These sessions are supposed to bring me relief, not self-awareness. My mom does enough of that.

Blaze nods, and right as he begins to set his phone down, something must catch his eye on the screen. A smirk ghosts across his lips, and he walks across the mat toward me. “I overheard a client of mine talking to his son about a ‘match’ he won the week before, and when I asked him about it, he became tight-lipped. It took a little convincing, but he just sent me a name.”

My curiosity piques and my eyebrows rise. “And?”

The faint ping of my phone sounds as he throws his own into his open duffel bag. “I just airdropped the info to your phone. It seems fairly elite, so I’m not too sure what will happen, but it’s worth a shot.”

Blaze and I have talked about a few of my… issues, and he’s understood better than anyone the need to take control of your life. It’s not like I’ve dealt with some horrible shit in my twenty-three years, on the contrary, in fact, but that doesn’t mean I have control.

There have always been these enormous ass shoes I’ve been meant to fill, and because of it, and not wanting to disappoint the parents I love more than anything, control has always felt… nonexistent.

I hope that doesn’t make me sound like an ungrateful asshole. I’m not, really. At least, I don’t think I am.

“Thanks, man.”

“Yeah, no problem. But there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

Blaze’s face takes on a stoic expression, an emotionless one reeking of non-negotiation. He usually uses it when he has to take a call or answer an email, but I’ve never been on the receiving end. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, that’s for sure.

He clears his throat and shifts on his feet. It’s then I realize he’s, well, nervous? “With Spencer getting married and you being the best man, I know you’re going to be out here a lot.”

This is accurate. I live in Idaho, while my best friend stays in Washington, which is also where I go to school online. It’s only a three-hour drive, though I know the repetitive trips are going to grow old quickly. Not to mention my truck has a bottomless tank. But why he’s bringing up the obvious has my brows furrowing.

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