BRAWLER [under contract]

chapter two | SKIP

As he laid in the darkness, waiting for the time when he could sneak out and train, Rylee thought it to be such good timing that a trainer was visiting his school. He needed a distraction—something to remind him that he was more than just McCormick's boy. His father was a local welder; it seemed only fitting for him to follow in his footsteps. But Rylee was willing to risk his future just this once. He hadn't imagined boxing for a living, especially since he knew he aired on the smaller side. His slender, wry frame wasn't very intimidating, and he knew the faded red freckles and delicate facial features made him look younger than he really was. Feeling defeated already, Rylee pulled the covers up over his shoulders and snuggled further down into the sinking mattress. He set his alarm again, closed his eyes and slept until nine o'clock.

When the hour came for Rylee to practice, the alarm jumped to life and Rylee quickly slammed his hand over it, shutting it off. As he had done every night since the beginning of the year. It was now the end of September. The boy got dressed in his proper training attire and packed a small dinner. After bidding Riddick goodbye, he slipped out of the house and made his way to the school. He always enjoyed walking at night—it gave him time to reset his mind and forget about all of the stress in his life. The soft breeze and the whistling and beeping of traffic passing by was a far better sound than the argumentative shouting between his parents. He wanted so badly for his mum to get away and start a new life, but he knew fear was what was keeping her there.

Once he arrived at the school, he hurried to the back of the gym, where he knew the janitor would have left the door ajar. He swung the door open and slipped inside. The black boxing bag awaited his arrival beneath the swinging yellow bulbs, and he was eager to get started. He shut the door behind him, not bothering to lock, and tossed his gym bag to the side. He always trained without gloves, except when he knew he would be training longer—then he would wrap his hands with tape.

Going up to the bag, he raised his hands in front of him, fists balled, and positioned his feet so that his balance was distributed evenly. He threw an uppercut, making a crisp "pop" in the air. A smile formed as an overwhelming rush filled his body. He delivered another punch—this time faster and harder. He did this for quite some time and got so caught up in his movements that he did not realise someone else had joined him.

"Keep your feet a little further apart and move your outer hip forward, like you're pivoting your weight." Spoke a calm, deep voice, startling Rylee. Lowering his fists, Rylee turned around and saw a tall man walking towards him. He had a gym bag slung over his shoulder and was wearing a black trench coat, denim pants, and work boots.

Once the man came under the light, Rylee was at a loss for words. The man's face looked as if it had been carved by a German architect and his eyes were a piercing stormy blue. His hair was trimmed short and he had a faded, kept beard. He gave Rylee a wide, enthusiastic smile, showcasing almost all of his teeth. Without questioning, Rylee did as he was instructed. But instead of striking his target, his new stance caught him off-balance and he stumbled to the side. "Sorry, sir, I—"

"You're fine," the stranger said, with no ounce of aggression in his voice. He threw his bag next to Rylee's and hurried over to the boy. He was much taller than Rylee by a good thirteen centimetres. "Here." The man helped Rylee into a different stance, one more stable than he had been previously practicing in. "Picture yourself as a buoy. You know what that is?"

Rylee nodded his head, his eyes focused on the bag.

"You move with your opponent, like a dance."

"I don't dance."

"You understand the concept, I'm sure. Now, you've probably never been in a proper, fair fight, but you move from the waist up unless they back you against the rope. Your goal is to move out of the way just fast enough to counter or block. Use your feet and keep your elbows closer to your body. Hands up more."

Rylee quickly found himself in a more compact stance—one that could either explode into a punch or shrink down into a protective shell. He felt a chill run up his spine. He had never had anyone coach on him how to fight, except to strike or run. Their boxing lessons at the school were not great, and it was rumoured that Coach Walters learned from watching bad YouTube videos. "Thanks, sir."

"Call me Skip. And you are?"

"Rylee. Are you the boxing trainer?" Rylee knew the answer, but he wanted to make sure.

Skip meandered around the gym floor, looking at the photographs on the wall and the few trophies situated in a small, dusty case in the far corner. "You could say that. You've got a lot of power. I could feel it."

"Ta. Why did you come here?"

"Oh, friends recommended it. Some of my mates know a few of the teachers here. You've got a lot of lower suspension. That's good. Just don't get all jelly-like and let someone push you over."

"Right. But, erm, what are you looking for exactly?"

Skip, with his hands folded behind him and pressed against the small of his back, turned and faced Rylee. "Are you left or right-handed?"

"Left."

The older man smiled a closed smile and blinked thoughtfully. "Southpaw."

"What's that?"

"It means you fight with your left. You're left hand dominant, so fight that way. You stand as if you're driving with your right."

"What do you mean?"

"Whoever trained you assumed you were right-handed, so you've adjusted yourself to fight like a right-handed fighter. But you're not. Your strength is driven with your left. Listen, you seem like a kid that's never been in a ring in his life ... Neither have I—not a 'proper' one."

"What do you mean? You never fought in a ring?" Rylee asked, confused.

"I'm a street fighter, or was. I haven't been in a ring like you see in the movies, but I know the rules. Anyway, you also seem like you don't know the proper terms or slang. But I can teach you that as well. What I can't train is ..." Skip walked up to Rylee and stared him straight in the eyes, "that scared look in your eyes. The kind that lights up when the bell rings and everything inside of you is on fire. I can't train the way you see the game. From that bruised eye, you've been in fights."

"More than I should've been in, yes."

"I can teach you to be fair and strategic, you know?"

Rylee nodded his head. "But they're kids at school, I can't hit them—,"

"I'm not talking about them, I'm talking about other men who've trained for years. If you give me the drive, I can have you in a ring within months."

"I've got family. I might not be ready."

"No one ever is until they try. Don't doubt yourself so much, pal. When I was your age, I thought the world was against me, but it's not. Not all the time. I'll see ya again. Tuck your chin a little, but don't let your eyes drop." Skip gave him another smile and headed out of the gym.

Rylee remained where he was, thinking. The stranger practically offered him a chance of a lifetime, yet, he felt so incapable of such a chance. He was a small-town boy who enjoyed beating on a bag after nine o'clock at night. He wasn't a boxer. He couldn't go up against other men who had been training ever since their hands could fit in a pair of gloves. The thought terrified him. But what terrified him more was what would happen if he were to stay in Staines forever.

The boy watched as the tall figure disappeared behind the closing gym doors. He knew now this was only the beginning.