Page 25 of Caged

Until today.

Hell no. I’m not giving up another good job because some asshole can’t handle working with a woman.

“Sir, what happened today was a mistake.” No excuses, no explanations, just owning my shit. “And it won’t happen again.” I made eye contact with each of my bosses. “If you give us a second chance, I believe we can work together and find Wendy.” I refused to say bring her home, because none of us could guarantee that.

They nodded. Then John asked, “Jaden?”

After Jaden echoed my sentiments, we updated John on the case. Afterwards, he told us to go home, making it clear it was an order, not a suggestion.

Since I couldn’t stay at the office, I took a picture of the whiteboard and packed up my notes so I could work from home. But first, I had to blow off some steam.

Once my phone connected to the car’s speaker, I called my coach, Brian.

“Hey Cate, how’s it going?”

“It’s been a day. You available tonight?”

He mumbled about wanting to get home early.

“I’ll double your hourly fee,” I offered.

“That bad, huh?”

You have no idea. “Yeah. What do you say?”

“I’ll see you in the ring at seven.”

“Thanks, Brian. I appreciate it.”

An hour in the ring with Coach Brian was just what I needed. I’d get in a work out, hone my boxing skills, and work off my anger. My right hand would suffer for it, but in that moment, I didn’t care.

I got to the gym early to warm up. After five minutes on a treadmill, I wrapped my hands and put on my favorite gloves, the Marine logo faded from use. I put in my earbuds, pulled up my workout playlist, and faced off against the bag.

I let the upbeat tempo of the music set my rhythm as I set the bag swinging with punch after punch.

By the time Brian showed up, I was dripping in sweat.

I worked harder than I should’ve, knowing I had an hour with my coach, a two-time, lightweight national champion.

“Thanks for meeting me,” I said as he wrapped his hands.

“No problem. Want to talk about it?”

“No, I want to hit shit,” I said with a laugh. My hand was already throbbing, so I took two ibuprofen, knowing I’d need more later while I iced it.I’ve boxed through worse pain.

I’d been boxing most of my life. I was a hurt, angry five-year-old after my mother left us, and my father thought it’d be a good way for me to channel my aggression.

He was right. I thought about quitting as a teen, but boxing brought me closer to him, so I stuck with it, boxing through high school, college, and the Marines.

Brian started off slow with basic drills: blocking, high and low. Each block followed by a three-punch combo.

Before long, he called out longer, more complex combinations, testing my speed, accuracy, and concentration. I messed up more than once, but understanding my need to go fast and hard at the pads, he never slowed down.

He called out strikes, “Jab, jab, uppercut.” I slipped right and left. “Three, two, three.” I slipped and landed two body shots to his padded body protector before rolling under his hook. “Cross, hook, cross.” I landed the last punch with a solid thud.

After twenty minutes, I asked him to take off the pads and glove up so we could spar. I didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of beating him, but the workout would drain the last of my frustration.

At first, he went easy on me and I held my own. Slipping out of the way of jabs and crosses, returning blows, rolling under hooks, and connecting with my elbows.

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