Page 2 of Love Punch

My father sighed audibly down the phone line. “It’s my lumbago, Arty. You know I struggle too.”

“And what does your GP say about yourlumbago, Dad?”

There was another moment of hesitation. “Fine. If you don’t want to help, no worries. But when me and your mother are out on the street, we’ll remember this.”

The train squealed as it braked, letting me know I’d reached the station. “I don’t have much money, Dad. Just text me what you need and I’ll see if I can get some to you.”

“Oh, thank you, son. I knew we could rely on you.” Before I could pull the phone away from my ear, he ended the call.

I sighed, hauling my suitcase off the train and standing in the middle of the busy station. I found a quiet alcove to access my mobile banking and wanted to cry at what I saw. A couple of hundred in my primary account, whichshouldhave got me through the month. Then there was a few thousand in debt from my failed business in the other account. My father sent through a text:Five hundred x.

I pulled another couple of hundred out of my credit card account and sent him everything. I really hoped my new employer would pay weekly because I had nothing left.

I waited a few minutes for a thank you text, but none came. “Same time next month then, Dad,” I muttered to myself. I dragged my suitcase down the platform and through the crowds gathered in the main concourse. It had been years since I’d been in Bristol, so I checked my Maps, letting out a groan when I realised the gym was at least thirty minutes’ walk away. I already felt emotionally exhausted, and wanted to abandon my suitcase and sleep on one of the benches outside the station’s historic facade. But I had a job to do, and I was going to do it.

I thanked whoever was listening that Bristol was mercifully flat as I walked through its streets, my suitcase bumping over every crack and stone in the pavement. When I finally reachedthe boxing gym, it was exactly as I’d imagined: a big, corrugated metal industrial unit with IMPERIAL GYM in large red lettering over the doors. The rusty, metal door creaked as I gingerly pushed it open and stepped into the arena.

The place smelled like sweat and testosterone — if testosterone had a smell. There were men and a few women scattered about, fighting with one another or with swinging punch bags. The whole building was a bit dark and dingy, lit mostly by old yellow lamps hanging from the ceiling. One spot, however, was illuminated by fluorescent LEDs, and I found myself drawn to it. So, I dragged my suitcase over the crash mats and around discarded dumbbells.

In that lit centre of the room was a boxing ring. The ropes sagged and the canvas looked worn, but the man who stood in the middle was truly in his prime. I watched as he ducked and weaved around the ring, sparring with a masked opponent who wore huge flat mitts and protective headgear.

The man I’d been drawn to was shirtless, wearing light boxing shorts, and, of course, boxing gloves. His dark hair was slicked back with the same sweat that dripped down his body, giving off a slight sheen in the bright light. His muscles bulgedeverywhere, and with every strike of the pads in front of him I could see them flex under his skin.

His skin was like a canvas, with tattoos scrawled across his chest and down one arm. But none of them seemed to make sense. There were classic Betty Boop cartoons mixed in with gravestones and the Christian cross right next to a pentacle. But they all flowed into one another in a way that made me wonder if it even mattered. He moved, and a glint of silver at his nipple caught my eye.Was that a piercing? I could feel my mouth watering. He wasbeautiful.

A few swift punches had his opponent back on the ropes, even with all the protective padding. Each blow to the hand pads waswith unnerving accuracy. Eachsmackfelt like it was awakening something in me. At last, his opponent held his hands up as if in surrender and the beautiful boxer backed off, grinning. Sweat dripped from his brow and onto the canvas right in front of me.

I hadn’t realised how close I’d gotten to the ring until he turned around and spotted me. “Who the fuck are you? You look too skinny even for featherweight,” he said. His voice was so deep, so sensual, that I almost didn’t register the dismissal in his tone.

The opponent removed the protective headgear so he could speak. “Bradley, Ithinkthis might be Arthur, your new assistant.”

Bradley.Bradley. This…Greek godwas the guy I was meant to be assisting? Had I won the lottery? I’d assist him with whatever the hell he wanted. I would wait on him hand and foot—hand andmouth, if he asked nicely.

And then he poured cold water all over my little dream by spinning to the older man angrily. “Fuck off. I told you I don’t need an assistant.”

“And I told you, you do.”

“Who’s paying him, then?” Bradley asked. I tried not to take it personally when he pointed my way. “Do you think I want to pay for this shit?”

“Your millions will cope with a minimum wage assistant. As will the annexe you had built for this exact purpose.” The old man then turned to me with a slight smile, seemingly embarrassed by Bradley’s outburst. “Arthur, is it?”

I nodded, unsure where I slotted in this whole argument—or if I’d already been fired.

“I’m Jason, Bradley’s trainer. And this rather rude man is Bradley Tyler, current reigning World super-middleweight champion boxer. Say hello, Bradley.”

Bradley huffed. “If you’re my assistant, go and grab me a sandwich, will you?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Sure thing. Any preference?”

“Something with lots of protein,” he said. “And I need some water. And a new towel. And pick me an appropriate sparring partner and tell them to come over here.”

“Alright, Miranda Priestley.” I saluted him. “Though if I come back without Mohammed Ali I apologise for any disappointment.”

I walked back through the gym, noting everyone’s eyes on me. I probably wasn’t the usual patron. I scanned the sparse crowd, eyes landing on a man beating the shit out of a punch bag, his body glistening in sweat and knuckles wrapped in bandages. I smirked. He lookedmean. He might be able to teach that smug prick a lesson.

“Bradley wants to see you.”

The man stopped in his tracks and whipped his head in my direction. “Me?”

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