Page 27 of Under Pressure

Are you freaking kidding me? This is the fourth week in a row he’s forgotten them.

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Mrs. Yang is lingering in the doorway, a disapproving frown on her face.

I release a breath, gathering myself before replying, “Let’s go over them again.” If I lost my cool in front of her, I’d be fired for sure.

He’s easily one of the most frustrating students I’ve ever tutored, testing my patience at every turn. How does he think he’ll score well if he won’t study? And this is only the verbal section. Who knows what he’s doing for math and writing. If he doesn’t start showing improvement soon, I fear the Yangs will fire me. I have other students, but they don’t pay as much.

I gather my things at the end of the hour, not sure if I made any progress with him, but collect my check anyway.

“Do you think we should have him meet with you twice a week?” Mrs. Yang asks as she walks me out, glancing worriedly at her son, still moping at the dining room table.

The kid’s hopeless. If he doesn’t do the work on his own, it doesn’t matter how often you meet.

For once, I agree with my inner critic, but I keep it to myself. “If you think it’ll help.”

More sessions means more money for me. Oh God, I’m becoming a mercenary. Tyler’s Slytherin tendencies are rubbing off on me.

I exit and quickly bundle myself in the car and out of the biting cold, blasting the heater. Restlessness still courses through me as I drive home, wishing I could have really spoken my mind to Matthew. I park in front of my building, but stay in my seat, not wanting to go in just yet.

I pull out my phone and type out a text to Tyler before I can second-guess myself.

Me: Hey, where’d you say that boxing gym was?

Maybe I can punch out this agitation. That’s what he does, right?

Tyler: You want to box?

Me: Yeah, so I don’t murder my tutoring client.

Tyler: Meet me at Fourth and Roosevelt in twenty minutes.

Is he serious? I race inside and change into workout clothing, throwing my coat back on, and type in the address on Google Maps. It takes me to a nondescript building with a sign that readsBoxingand an arrow pointing down a set of stairs. Yeah, that’s the way girls like me get murdered.

I stay in my car till Tyler’s Camry pulls in next to me, then get out, snuggling into my coat in the chilly air. “Thanks for meeting me here.”

“I was coming anyway,” he says gruffly, passing by me to head down the steps.

Okay, then.

The bell over the door jingles as we walk in, not a soul in sight. The large basement is one huge open area, all dark corners, exposed beams, and a gritty, masculine feel. I might as well be in a Frank Miller film right now.

A few steps in, the smell hits me, like dirty gym socks times a thousand. I immediately cover my nose. “What is that?”

“You get used to it.” Tyler shrugs, taking off his jacket, revealing a black muscle tee that shows off the breadth of his shoulders, the definition in his biceps. Yum. I find myself staring and quickly avert my eyes. I don’t need him calling me out on ogling him.

He hangs his jacket on an empty rack by the door, continuing, “It’s a boxing gym where a bunch of sweaty guys hang out. What do you expect?”

I take my own coat off and hang it beside his, attempting to breathe through my mouth to mitigate the smell.

An office door opens at the far end of the gym, and a man in his fifties steps out of it and sizes us up, squinting. “Oh, it’s you,” he says to Tyler. His eyes seem to skip right over me.

“Where is everyone?”

“Johnson’s bachelor party.”

“Oh, right,” Tyler mutters.

“You need help training tonight?” His gaze finally meets mine. Am I supposed to answer?

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