Page 17 of Unwrapped

Ah, fuck no. I can’t let that shit slide as snickers break out on the gym floor. Slowly, I unlace my gloves and drop them on the mat. Raising my arms, I wiggle my fingers, “Say that again? To my face …”

He smirks, knowing I’m about to accept his challenge. I was done but he wasn’t. He still has more ghosts to fight. But punching air isn’t as satisfying as connecting with solid flesh. I peel my sweat-soaked shirt over my head throwing it out of the way.

Silence follows.

My ink speaks for itself. I know what everyone is staring at, the ink of my MC spread across my traps.

“What?” I turn facing the stares. “You never figured a pretty boy like me is about to kick some ass, eh?”

“Bring it.” Ernie beckons me forward. We waste no time circling each other, each of us eyeing the other looking for a way to land the first hit. He takes a cheap shot, aiming for my face. I dodge it, striking out with my right leg and hooking him behind the knee. I bring him to the floor locking him in a rear-naked-choke, MMA style. “What the hell, man?” He asks as he’s forced to tap out.

“You went for my face with that cheap shot. I get needing to blow off steam, but I can’t go into my office looking like I got into it, man.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just the holidays, you know?”

“I do.”

My phone buzzes from inside my sweatshirt laying on the floor outside the ring. I get up. Ernie and I clasp hands. and I grab my stuff and head toward the locker rooms.

Christ.

My PA texted a group message that included Claudia. he end of the year audit is finished and they need me to sign off on it before I leave for Oregon. I text back to push my flight back and that I’ll stop in briefly on my way to the airport.

I rinse off quickly and put on a spare set of gym clothes that I keep in my locker here. and I throw my dirty stuff in an old gym bag that I keep tucked inside the locker. The men nod their heads with respect as I walk back out into the freezing Chicago morning.

It’s barely seven, so I decide to pick up my favorite blend of black coffee at the shop a few blocks from my condo.

With my head bent, the icy breeze goes over the top of my hooded jacket. It’s early but the buses are running, their tires rolling to stops through dirty slush as their brakes groan.

I never lived in a city before I moved out here. Everything seemed fresh and new. But everything seems to have lost its magic. I pull up short at the sight of a young girl staring longingly through the window of a shop. Her sneakers are old, the rubber on the front missing a piece by her toe. She’s not even wearing a coat but has a man’s large sweatshirt hanging down to her knees. Her backpack looks as if its seen better days as well.

Hell.

She turns sensing my stare. Her eyes tell a story, I only know too well. Her face is sallow, large circles are half-moons under each eye.

“Have you eaten today?”

She ignores me, shuffling a few steps back and presses her palm to the cold glass. I turn, curious as to what grabbed her attention. It’s a music box with a glass ballerina spinning in graceful circles.

“I always wanted to dance,” she shrugs.

“So, dance.”

She pretends to brush her hair from her face instead of the tear threatening to spill down her cheek. “It’s not that simple.”

“Come on. I’m heading inside the café next door for a coffee. I’ll get you a hot chocolate and a bagel.”

“Why are you being so nice? I don’t trust anyone who is nice. They always want something.”

Rage builds, burning my blood. “Is anyone hurting you?” I step in closer.

“Everyone hurts me,” she whispers.

“What’s your name?”

“You’re a stranger.”

“I am. But in my experience, the ones who you know hurt you more than those people you don’t.”

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