Page 20 of Good Graces

His eyes sweep over me—quick, sharp, unimpressed. Like he’s seen a hundred girls like me walk through the door and bolt just as fast. Like he already knows I don’t belong.

I lift my chin. “I was just—”

“Leaving?” he cuts in, one brow raised like he’s daring me to confirm it. “Yeah, figured.”

Something about his tone pisses me off. My chin tilts, shoulders going stiff. “I was actually gonna say I’m just checking the place out.”

His mouth twitches in amusement. He huffs a short laugh, then tosses me a pair of old, beat-up gloves from behind the counter.

“First day’s free,” he says gruffly. “You look like you need to get a hit in.”

The gloves are heavy, the leather worn. They smell like old sweat and chalk, and I’m not sure if that’s comforting or deeply disgusting. I blink down at them, then back at him.

“Er, I don’t exactly know what I’m doing.”

He shrugs. “Good. That means you won’t think too hard.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. I could still leave. I should leave, actually. I should definitely, absolutely not stay. But I’m too proud to back down now.

I exhale slowly. “Okay.”

He nods toward the far wall. “Locker room’s through there. Wraps are in the bin. Tape up first.”

I nod back, forcing my steps forward before I can change my mind.

The locker room is dimly lit, the overhead bulb flickering like it’s on its last leg. I step inside and scan the space. There are dented metal lockers, an industrial fan humming lazily in the corner, and a plastic bin filled with rolls of hand wraps. Nothing that tells me what the hell I’m doing.

I crouch down, pull a roll free, and hesitate. I’ve seen this before—on TV, in documentaries, the occasional YouTube rabbit hole—but watching and doing aren’t the same.

I fumble with the material, trying to figure out where to start, how tight to pull, how to keep it from bunching awkwardly around my wrist.

The first attempt is too loose. The second cuts off my circulation. The third ... better. Not perfect, but good enough.

I glance up, catching my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My hair’s a mess, my tank top clinging to the damp skin at the small of my back. There’s something unfamiliar in my own expression. Tension, maybe, or anticipation.

I’m not sure if I’m waiting for this to explode in my face or if I’m excited about the prospect of letting something out for once. Of hitting back.

I pull on the gloves he gave me, flexing my fingers against the padding. They’re still heavy, still smell like someone else’s fight. But when I curl my hands into fists, something about it feels ... right. Like maybe this is what I’ve needed all along.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in front of a heavy bag. My muscles are loose, but my mind is coiled tight, waiting for the inevitable second where the doubt will creep back in.

“Hit it,” the old man calls from his perch behind the counter.

I turn, blinking at him. “What?”

He gestures lazily with one hand. “You’re standin’ there like it’s gonna hit you first. Get on with it.”

I glance back at the bag. Shift my stance. My fingers twitch inside the gloves.

Of course, it lands wrong. An awkward thud, my wrist bending too much on impact. A dull shock shoots up my arm, and I fight the urge to shrivel up and retreat, to shake it off and pretend I wasn’t just embarrassingly bad at something so basic.

“You ever thrown a punch before?” The man—he still hasn’t told me his name—steps closer, arms crossed, weight shifted slightly to one side like he’s been standing in rings and gyms his whole life.

“Not really.”

He grunts. “Again.”

I adjust my stance, shake out my hand, then try again. This time, it feels better. Still not good, but better.

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