The boxer’s only gym, Golden Gloves, is my sanctuary. Damion has been running this place for years, and I’ve been coming here ever since my amateur days. Right now poor Gabe is standing behind a punching bag, holding it steady while I go to town on it. I can hear him grunt every time I make a good, steady punch. “Come on; Jonathan quit being a pussy. Gabe can handle it, nail that thing,” Damion hisses. “Speed, speed! That’s what we’re working on, but don’t let your form suffer just because you’re picking up the pace. Come on!”

Damion’s voice echoes throughout the entire gym. Whenever he’s doing training, everyone in the small, private gym tends to take notes. They won’t necessarily stop what they’re doing, but they all hope that they can get a glimpse into a private training lesson and pick up on a couple of things. I do as I’m told, and I pick up the pace while still focusing on my form. I get about twenty good jabs in when Damion shouts for me to show him a hook. I guess Gabe didn’t hear because when I swing my arm around, I knock him and the punching back to the ground.

“Fuck, man!” Gabe shouts after falling flat on his back with the punching bag on top of him. That punching bag probably weighs just as much as he does.

“Pay attention!” Damion shouts down at him. He offers Gabe a hand, helping him back up onto his feet.

Gabe is rubbing his chest; I really knocked the shit out of him. “You all right?” I ask.

He stands upright and stretches his back. “Yeah, just give me a minute, would you?” he goes and sits down on a nearby bench, and Damion just shakes his head.

“I can’t believe you talked me into hiring that lightweight,” Damion says.

“He’s good, and you know it,” I say.

“He couldn’t take one of your real punches,” Damion says.

“Most people couldn’t,” I say with a grin. I know I can be arrogant at times, but this is just me being a little playful with Damion. He knows I’m joking –mostly.

“Awe hell, you aren’t getting a big head again, are you?” Damion crossed his arms. “Do I need to remind you your place, kid?”

I laugh. “Come on, old man; you don’t wanna cross gloves with me,” I say.

“Maybe I do,” he says and then shouts at one of the towel boys to go grab him his gloves off of his desk.

And now the gym is really quiet as everyone goes running up to the ring. Damion is not as hands-on as he used to be, so whenever he decides to square up with one of his students in a sparring match, everyone tends to flock towards the ring. He’s old as hell, but he can still pack a punch that would have left that Stockney punk stunned. “Come on, Damion; you don’t want to box me,” I say to the man who is nearly seventy years old at this point. I climb into the ring anyways as Damion has Gabe tie up his gloves for him.

“Hey, this is just a lesson on form,” Damion says, “but I still think I could give you a run for your money, kiddo.”

I laugh at the thought. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Damion.”

“Come on, Damion, you gonna let him talk to you like that?” one of the guys taunt me from outside of the ring.

Damion just laughs and tells me to put up my gloves. I go easy on him. I’m not about to break an almost seventy-year-old man’s nose or ribs. Like Damion said, this is all about form anyways. He’s always nagging me about my form even though it’s practically perfect. “Come on, watch those feet,” Damion snaps and then jabs me in my nose.

“Fuck!” I shout, and the guys all laugh. That old man’s hands are faster than I remembered.

“And keep your gloves up,” he adds as the two of us do our little dance around the ring.

Before we can go much further, a loud, screeching voice interrupts our brief match. “Jonathan!” a woman shouts from the back of the gym. It’s Vivian.

I drop my gloves and turn only to receive a serious blow to the side of my jaw. “Damn it, Damion!” I snap, “What was that for?”

“You’re distracted way too easily,” Damion says. “What did I say about letting broads in here?” He turns and shouts over at Vivian, “Members only!”

She just rolls her eyes. “I was invited.”

I quietly assure Damion that she certainly had not been invited. “Look, I need to take a lunch,” I say and climb out of the ring. “This is kind of important.”

“You getting some action on your lunch break does not qualify as important,” Damion hisses.

“Shut up, man,” I say

Gabe shoots me this judgmental gaze as I am climbing out of the ring. The crowd is slowly making its departure and working their way back to their individual workouts. “I’m a classy guy,” I say to Gabe, “I don’t break up over text.” Gabe gives me an approving nod and lets me pass by him without saying much more.

I head to the gym locker room, telling Vivian I’ll be with her as soon as I change. I throw on some street clothes –just a pair of jeans and old t-shirt that I have yet to sweat in –before heading out to meet her in front of the gym. The two of us head down the street to a place called Moe’s Subs to grab some lunch.

Vivian is drop dead gorgeous, but she is about as dumb as it gets. Not to mention high maintenance. She’s not at all thrilled that I chose a sub shop for our lunch date, and she’s not afraid to let me know. “I got all dressed up for this?” she grumbles as I order her what I know is her favorite vegetarian sub garbage she eats. I take a look at what she’s wearing: a skimpy black dress that shows off more leg than necessary, some expensive jewelry I had bought her close to a year ago, and tall, red stilettos to match the tiny ribbon she has braided into her hair. She almost looks like an upscale hooker.

“Well, you look good, Vivian,” I say as we find ourselves a seat in the back of the sandwich shop to enjoy our lunch. She looks like a whore who is probably going to make this a lot easier. She doesn’t normally dress so skanky; she probably had some sort of modeling gig this morning that required her to dress this way. She’s getting a little older so finding good modeling gigs has gotten more difficult; she about died last month when she was offered a job doing an anti-wrinkle commercial. She had turned it down, of course, just like she had turned down a hand modeling gig. She would probably prefer doing a Playboy shoot over a wrinkle commercial.

“So,” she says sing-song before I have a chance to start up the whole break up routine, “I have some news. I just got an interview to be a part of next year’s Victoria’s Secret lineup.”

“Are you serious?” I ask and smile. I can be proud of her. That was her dream, and it’s all she’s talked about ever since I’ve met her.

“I told you that I’ve got the goods,” she jokes. “This is just what I need to get back out there. I’ve wanted to be a Victoria’s Angel ever since I first started modeling, and my agent finally got me an in. If it goes well, I’ll be in their magazine and walk the runway come this time next year. This is real modeling that could lead to serious runway shows in places like Paris and Malan and London.”

“Good job, Viv,” I say, and she snarls slightly at the nickname, but obviously something so trivial is not about to ruin her excitement. I hate to burst her bubble, but I have asked her here for a reason. “Look, Vivian-” I start to say, but she cuts me off again.

“I mean, can you imagine? I can’t wait until this interview next week. My agent seems to think I am in; she’s got some connections, and the people I’m interviewing with have already seen some of my previous photo shoots, and they apparently loved it,” Vivian is apparently going to keep talking over me, so I give up on the breakup temporarily to let her have her moment. I’m not going to part ways today without ending things, though. It’s time; I know it.

She rambles on and on about her previous modeling experience that has led to this moment, talks to me in detail about her agent’s connections, and what all this could mean for her career. I keep my mouth shut for now and pretend to be interested in what she has to say, not wanting to completely destroy her excitement just yet even if I would probably give anything to avoid this boring conversation.