Page 22 of Made for Wilde
I laugh despite the tension crackling between us.
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
Our names are called. I grab both coffees and the bag with the muffins.
“I’ll trade you,” I tell him. “You take the drinks, I’ll handle the food?”
Koda takes the cups from me. His fingers brush mine for a split second.
The contact is nothing, but it feels like an electric shock up my arm. I can’t help but notice how his hands completely swallow the cardboard cup, how the veins stand out on the back of his hand as he grips it. I want to ask if he ever misses fighting, but the words stick in my throat.
“What about you?” he asks. “School today?”
“Kind of. We don’t have class today but I’m heading up there after I leave here.” I try to sound upbeat, but the anxiety creeps in. “I’m going in for extra practice. I’ve got an extra credit assignment I’m working on.”
“Extra credit, huh?”
“Yeah. I’m sort of at the bottom of my class.”
He considers this, then says, “Nobody remembers the kid who got straight A’s. They remember the one who worked their ass off.”
I know that’s not true, but it’s such a Koda thing to say that it makes me feel better anyway.
I look down at the paper bag in my hands, not sure how to respond. Koda looks at the clock.
“I should probably get going,” He says. “I don’t want to be late for my class.”
There’s a finality in his tone, as if he’s reminding himself not to linger. I want to ask him to stay, or at least to walk me to my car, but I can’t make the words come out.
Instead, I say, “Thanks for the coffee, Koda. And the pep talk.”
His eyes dart to the storm clouds outside.
“Drive safe, Charlotte. And if you ever need anything, call me.” He grabs a napkin from the counter and scribbles on it. Then he hands it to me. “That’s my cell. I don’t always answer, but I’ll always call back.”
FIVE
KODA
I scanthe faces in front of me, and fifteen pairs of eyes stare back with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. The smell of fresh sweat and disinfectant hangs in the air, along with something else.
Fear.
These people don’t know what they’re in for. And judging by the pristine workout gear and unmarked gloves, most of them have never thrown a real punch in their lives.
This is going to be a long fucking hour.
“Morning,” I growl. “Welcome to beginner boxing. My name is Koda Wilde. I’ll be your instructor for this course.”
A murmur ripples through the group.
“For those who don’t know, I’m a former professional boxer. I’ve been training fighters for seven years.” I let that sink in. “This isn’t going to be easy. But if you stick with it, you’ll learn proper technique, build strength, and maybe even have some fun.”
A guy in the back snorts. I lock eyes with him until he looks away.
“Let’s go around and introduce ourselves. Name, experience level, and why you’re here.”
They take turns mumbling their names and variations of “no experience” and “get in shape.” I note a few standouts. There’s a firefighter with decent form, a middle-aged woman with surprising grip strength, and a scrawny kid who looks like he’d be more at home behind a computer screen than in a boxing ring.
