Page 67 of Good Graces

The guy at the front desk barely looks up as I pass. There’s no sign of the owner—Marcus, finally learned his name last week—and without him around, I feel a little less like I need to prove I belong here. Not that I’ve been trying to impress him exactly, but his presence sharpens something in me. Makes me stand straighter. Hit harder.

I could leave. No one’s waiting for me. No one would care if I turned around and went home. But then Warren’s words echo again, low and sharp in the back of my mind. You blink, and it’s over.

Five words, stitched into me like thread pulled too tight.

I roll my shoulders back. I’m not leaving. I need this.

At the lockers, I wrap my hands—thumb looped first, snug over the knuckles—and make my way to the bags. The first punch lands sharp enough to jolt my wrist. The second lands harder. The third starts to feel like relief.

For a while, it’s just the rhythm. The steady pound of my fists against leather, the dull ache crawling up my arms, the sharp bite of air when I forget to breathe. No questions, no memories. Just movement. Just the weight of my own body, the crack of my knuckles finding the target.

I don’t even notice the man standing behind me until I hear his voice. “For a rookie, you’ve got a good arm.”

I turn, breathing hard.

The unexpected intruder has dark, wavy hair, a few piercings, and fingers wrapped in bandages. He’s lean but solid, the kind of build that speaks more to control than brute strength. Definitely a fighter.

“Yeah?” I drag my glove across my face. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He steps closer, his movements easy, relaxed. Not threatening. But there’s something else, too. A steadiness behind his eyes. Like he’s already studied me and decided I’m worth his time.

“You’re pulling back too soon,” he says. “That’s why you’re not landing clean.”

I frown. “I’m landing just fine.”

He shrugs, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, but you could hit harder.”

I almost laugh, but something about him stops me. He’s probably my age, maybe a year or two older, with faint shadows under his eyes and a cocky sort of confidence that says he’s been doing this for a while.

“Show me,” I demand, stepping back from the bag.

His eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t hesitate. He unwinds his bandages as he moves, hands bare and calloused when he squares up beside me. “You’re cutting yourself short,” he says. “Here—step in closer.”

I do.

“Now, shift your weight,” he says, hand hovering near my shoulder. His fingers ghost along the sleeve of my shirt, and I swear I catch the hint of a smile when I glance at him. “Feel it in your hips, not just your arm. When you pull back, don’t rush. Let your knuckles sink in first.”

I follow his instructions, shifting forward again. When I throw the next punch, the sound cracks sharper—louder, more solid.

“There you go,” he says. “Better.”

I grin, just a flicker of one, but it surprises me. “Are you a trainer?”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Not yet, but I do work here.”

“Dayton student?”

“Used to be.”

“Is that right?” I pause, waiting for him to elaborate.

He doesn’t. “Keep your shoulders loose,” he says instead. “You’re too tense. You’re thinking too much.”

I huff. “Yeah, well. That’s kind of my thing.”

He snorts a laugh. “Noted. Are you here often?”

“Sometimes,” I say. “Late nights.”

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