Luca
I’m left standing in the lobby with a dripping mop and a dirty bucket while Ana Maria and some jackass in a Cobra Kai outfit stare at me.
Ana Maria’s giving me a dirty look, as usual. It’s what she does when she thinks I’m slacking off. I don’t know what kind of look Cobra Kai guy’s giving me; he’s just too damn awkward looking and I can’t get beyond the ninja outfit.
“You finished?” she says.
“No. The lady needed her privacy, so the rest will have to wait till later. I’ll be in my office.”
I set the mop and bucket in a corner and leave before Ana Maria can berate me in front of the ninja.
Stepping out onto the gym floor, I’m reminded of why I work here, why I chose this place to settle down and try to start over. In every corner, from the punching bags to the free weights to the boxing ring that dominates the center of the room, there are people — men, mostly, but a few women — working hard to improve themselves and their ability to kick someone’s ass.
It’s a monument to sweat, blood, and hard work. People kicking the shit out of themselves and others in some relentless pursuit of being just a little bit better each day.
What can I say? I might be living clean and staying out of trouble now, but I can’t change who I am, and there’s just something about driving a fist into someone’s face that resonates with me.
Jose — my business partner, and the man who founded this gym forty years ago — looks up from his desk as I enter the office.
“That was fast, kid. You finish everything on Ana Maria’s list already?”
I shake my head. “No. I had to clear out of the women’s locker room. We might have a new member or two today.”
“Yeah, but did you get to that thing she mentioned in the men’s room?”
I shake my head and Jose lets out a long, slow whistle.
“You know she’s not going to be happy with you.”
“Yeah, I get it, but it’ll have to wait.”
“Sure, fine. It’s your funeral.”
“There were some extenuating circumstances.”
Which is really the simplest way I can think of to describe the fact that I didn’t want to clean up the locker room while a guy in a ninja outfit stared at me.
“Yeah, but were they important enough to put off something you told her you were going to do? That’s a big risk, man.”
Yes, Jose, I damn well know that. But I have self-respect, and I’m not going to have Karate Kid see me deal with that mess.
Ignoring him, I sit down at my desk and get to work. Running this gym isn’t easy. When I bought into this place eight months ago, I imagined I’d be spending a lot more time out on the training floor, working the bag, sparring, and just generally punching things and having a damn good time.
Instead, I’ve got a mountain of papers on my desk so tall that I feel like I need a fucking Sherpa.
Sometimes I miss my old life, where the only paperwork I had to deal with involved little sheets of green with president’s faces printed on them.
My phone’s intercom blares to life.
“Mr. Moretti, there’s still that issue in the men’s room.”
Frowning, I ignore Ana Maria’s nagging and focus on the paper ledgers in front of me.
This office is my quiet sanctuary in the gym. It’s sound-proofed; peaceful.
And whenever I’m tired of looking at papers, all I have to do is peer out through the two-way mirrors in the wall and see the combat taking place on the gym’s floor.
“You better get to it, kid. She won’t give you another warning, and you don’t want to see her when she’s angry,” Jose says, grinning at me from his desk on the other side of the office. “I made that mistake once. She hit me so hard, took me back to my boxing days.”
My phone buzzes again like some angry hornet and only shuts up when I unplug it.
“Hell no. I don’t know who it is — and when I find out I’m going to have a serious talk with that coglione — but one of our members treats the bathroom like he hates the sight of a clean surface.”
Dirty jobs included, there’s still no place I’d rather be. I was involved in some serious shit before I came here, before I made a promise that I can’t break: that I’d leave my old life behind, that I’d try and get clean.
And on rough days, when I’m wavering and my old life calls out to me like some bloody siren, all I got to do is tape up my hands and head out onto the floor and pound whoever has the guts to spar with me.
Working here is therapy.
But even so, the best therapy only helps you manage your demons. You recognize them, but you also recognize that you’re going to be wrestling with them the rest of your life. I’m doing good, for now, but there are always going to be days when the temptation to go back is strong.
“You think it’s someone with a bit of fetiche?” the old man’s grin gets even bigger, and he intentionally exaggerates his Hispanic accent on the word.
Sometimes, Jose redefines what it means to be a dirty old man; a boxer that grew up in the sixties and cut his teeth in the ring during the seventies and eighties, he’s probably seen the kind of dirty shit I can’t even imagine.
I frown. “You mean a fetish? No fucking way. You think this is something sexual?”
For fuck’s sake, I hope not.
Jose nods, still grinning. “I can think of a couple of the older guys that might be into that sorta thing. People tend to get freakier as they get older, kid. You realize you ain’t got a lot of time left, so you might as well enjoy it. Get weird with it.”
I stand up.
“No. Fuck no. I don’t want to even think about that.”
Then, even though I try not to, I think about it and it creeps me out on some deep, profound level.
I wasn’t a boy scout before joining Reyes Boxing, but this might just be too much for me.
I look over at him.
“Some of the older members?”
I don’t want to know, but I ask anyways.
Jose nods. Once. Slow. Still smiling.
“I know Eduardo’s into some freaky stuff.”
No. Just no.
Eduardo’s probably sixty and has a spare tire around his waist that’s big enough to fix a flat on a semi truck.
Jose’s desk phone comes to life.
It’s Ana Maria.
“Mr. Moretti, I know you’re there. Stop fucking around and do your job.”
Jose bursts out laughing. “Have fun.”
“Can’t Jeremiah deal with it? That’s what we pay him for, after all,” I say back over the intercom.
Ana Maria’s reply is immediate. “He’s not here yet. His shift doesn’t start until noon. You know that. Oh, and you’ll want the rubber gloves. And maybe a stepladder. Someone said it’s on the ceiling.”
“The ceiling?”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti. Apparently he wrote the opening to Shakespeare’s 40th Sonnet.”
“What the hell?”
Jose is going to burst a lung if he laughs any harder.
“Ok, fine, I’ll be there in a minute. I’m in the middle of some accounting stuff, alright?”
“Now, Mr. Moretti.”
“Yes, dear.”
An exasperated sigh is her only response.
Sometimes I wonder who actually runs this place.
I look out through the two-way mirror and onto the gym floor.
It doesn’t take me long to spot the two newbies.
My eyes are drawn to her right away. Jesus Christ. Somehow, she’s even more breathtaking when she’s dressed down in her gym clothes.
Yeah, I see the other guy, too. He looks like a kid on Halloween in a ninja getup doing his best attempt at... I don’t even know what. Ballet, maybe? He’s swiveling and prancing and doing a bunch of aerial shit that’s more suited to the dance floor. All he needs is a leotard.
But her?
I could watch her all day.
She’s dressed in some basic workout clothes. Conservative, even, but they can’t hide how stunning she is. Curves, hips, ass, everything in just the right proportions to keep me from concentrating.
It’s fucking hypnotic.
I can’t help but lick my lips every time she swivels her hips and shoulders and throws the world’s worst punch at the bag. I’m Pavlov’s fucking dog and she’s the goddamn bell.
“Something wrong, kid?”
I don’t answer.
I’m supposed to stay on the straight and narrow, but I would break any promise for her and I don’t even know her name.
Then, Jose whistles. Low, slow, and appreciative.
He sees her too.
God damn, I need to sit down, I think.
It’s going to take a good few seconds to get myself under control. Unless I want to say hello to her with my cock at full mast, which is really something I try to save for the first date.
“No, everything’s fine. I’m going to check the two potentials out first.”
Even though I’m not looking at him, I can hear the sly grin in Jose’s voice. “The chica, eh?”
He knows. Jose’s got eyes and a beating heart, after all.
“Well, yeah. It’s my job. Getting new members keeps the paychecks coming.”
“I know you. That’s not the only thing you want coming.”
I can’t help but to laugh.
“I’m just doing my job, Jose,” I say.
“You know she’s too good for you, right, kid? That one looks innocent. And you… Well, we both know what you were in to.”
“I’m not saying I want to marry her, Jose. I just want to sign her up for a membership. And spend a bit of quality time with her.”
His eyes twinkle. “Right. Well, you better take a second and calm the fuck down. I don’t think either of them is going to appreciate you pitching them on the gym while you’re pitching a tent.”
“I’ll just tell them I really like what I do.”
He rolls his eyes.
Breathing deep, trying to slow down my heart — which is determinedly pumping every drop of blood I’ve got straight to my cock — I sit and think about fighting. It usually helps get me focused, and right now, I really need to calm my cock down.
Two men.
Old men.
Men that look like obese versions of Marlon Brando in The Godfather.
Wrinkled. Sweaty. Shirtless.
Wearing fighting trunks that are a couple sizes too small.
Clutching each other. Grunting. Grappling.
Their hairy pot-bellies rubbing all over each other.
It takes more time than I’d like working through that horrible visualization before I get my cock under control.
“Alright, time to get to work,” I say, just as much a reminder to myself as anything else.
Sparing one last glance out the two-way mirror — that woman is bouncing on her feet in a way that could bring about world peace — I head out to the gym floor.
“Wish me luck,” I say to Jose.
“Good luck. And don’t forget to clean the bathrooms.”