My muscles hurt, they hurt like they've never hurt before but I continue to punch the fucking bag in front of me.
In my mind, a scene from when I almost died keeps repeating like a shitty movie, and I never want it to happen again, never want to let anyone have the power over me the way Greyson had, so I keep on punching the fucking bag.
Hold on, keep it up, only five more fucking minutes and then you can take a breath, Harry.
I'm so focused on hitting the punching bag that when a hand touches my shoulder, I almost knock out the owner of the hand.
"Easy there, tiger." a man, about 50 years old says and puts his arms up in defence. "I don't mean no harm."
He speaks with a thick british accent, and looks like he's been through a shitload of crap in his life, probably because of all the wrinkles on his face.
Only now I realize how exhausted I am and how harsh my breathing is, my lungs screaming for air.
"What do you want?" I ask, probably slightly too harsh but it's not like I give a fuck.
Honestly, I just want him to fuck off.
He frowns slightly for a moment, and then raises his brows. "I was just checking up on you, you seemed like you're going to faint from overworking your body any moment now."
I frown at the man. "You don't have to check up on me."
He stares at me for a second before chuckling and shaking his head a bit. "You're just like someone I used to know. I like you. Do you want something to drink? Water?"
My frown gets bigger. Who the fuck does this dick think he is?
"Honestly, what I want is for you to fuck off." I tell him and surprisingly, he laughs.
What the fuck?
"I'll take that as a yes. Sit there on the bench and I'll bring you a bottle of water."
He turns away from me before I can tell him to fuck off again, and leaves me there wondering if I should just continue punching the fucking bag, or actually sit there and listen to the creep.
Fuck no, I'm not gonna sit with some weird fucking stranger.
I turn back to the bag, and take a swing, only to realize that my muscles can barely lift my arms up, much less punch the fucking bag.
"Come here, I won't eat you. Your body can't handle any more, can't you see? And it's no wonder, you've been here, punching it, for six hours now!" he exclaims as he looks at the watch on his wrist.
I gulp, realizing my throat is dry as hell and I know I don't have much of choice left.
The bench feels like heaven when I sit down, to be honest, but I won't tell him that he was right. My muscles are way beyond overworked.
"Here." he says and offers me a bottle of water, and I gulp the whole content down in less than 15 seconds.
He half-smiles at me and takes the empty bottle from me when I'm done.
We sit there in silence for a few moments, before he sighs and gulps.
"What brought you here, boy?" he asks and I frown.
"Why the fuck do you need to know?"
He shruggs. "Just curious. I've never seen you here before and I can tell you're american from your accent."
I don't say shit. He doesn't need to fucking know a thing about me.
He smiles after a minute of not getting an answer and shakes his head, looking at his feet. "You remind me so much of someone." hesays again and sighs. "Look, you don't have to tell me, but you seem pretty traumatized and in need of a talk, and who better to talk to than a stranger?" he raises his brown in offer.
Who the fuck is this guy and why does he want personal information about me?
Fuck it, I do need a fucking talk and honestly, this dick seems like a pretty nice guy.
I take a deep breath and scratch the bridge of my nose. "There was this girl-" I begin and then don't know how to continue.
His smile gets bigger and he shakes his head slightly. "I figured so. If anything can fuck up a man, it's a woman."
I raise my right brow and tilt my head slightly, kind of having to agree with him because up to now, I've done a shitload of fucked up stuff but the one thing that leaves me crying like a fucking child and drinking like a fucking drunk is Sophie.
"Well yeah. She left me because I've done some fucked up shit and I came here." Ain't no fucking way I'm telling him what kind of stuff I've done.
"Here to take it all out on my punching bag." he shakes his head again in mocking disagreement, and I gotta admit, I kind of like this weird dude.
"You know," he starts, "I've seen a shitload of boxers. Good boxers, brilliant boxers, but they could never keep on punching a punching bag, much less that bag you just took it all out on, for as long as you did." he tells me and I shrug.
"I used to train boxing." I tell him.
"Well, you're brilliant at boxing, my boy, and I wanted to offer you something." he tells me.
"What?" I ask.
"You see," he begins, "I have some connections here and there, and a few of them are with the boxing league."
I raise my brows and I begin to pay him more attention.
"It's been a while since I've seen such potencial as I see in you, and if you're up to making some money, I could try to gather a few judges and stuff and maybe bring you into the league." he tells me.
"Which league?" I ask and he smiles.
"Champion's league. World boxing association."
Love, Trish. ❤
Next update: tomorrow, same time.❤
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