Part One

I look at the time on my phone. Six a.m. on the dot. Hope gymnasium is well known, right in the centre of town. Living up to its high prestige, it homes the best of the best, from bodybuilders and footballers to fitness models and boxers. I have no doubt that Jake is one of the best in his field. After researching more on his new career, to date, he hasn't lost a single match. His almost instant success has catapulted him through the rankings, paving way for him to easily conquer national champion status.

Watching wearily from afar at the entrance of the bricked building, the feeling of not belonging starts to overwhelm me. Both men and women with impressive physiques enter through the automatic double doors. I can't remember the last time I stepped into a gym, nor have I worked out in months. Especially with the weight I've lost over the last couple of years, physical weakness alongside my demotivation has proved to be the biggest barrier between myself and exercise. Trying to push aside the insecurities that are urging me to turn around, get in my car and go home, I instead force my legs to walk in after these people.

I'm here, where are you? I text Jake as I enter through the doors. It's a great way to keep me looking down at my phone rather than at the intimidating figures striding alongside me.

The gym is huge. The sound of steel clunking and crashing together is audible above the hip-hop music playing through the huge speakers angled at every corner of the tall concrete walls. It's not a commercial gym made for the everyday gym-goer, rather the atmosphere is more professional, everyone knows exactly what they're doing and they look like they're about to fight a bear.

My phone pings with a text from Jake.

First floor, come up the stairs, I'm in the boxing ring. Tell reception you're here to see me, they'll let you through.

As if on queue to his message, what looks like a personal trainer calls over to me from behind the reception desk.

"Can I help you?" She smiles, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth that gleam against her tan skin. Her brunette hair falls onto square shoulders, the toned muscles of which must have taken her years to build and perfect.

"Yeah, I'm here to see Jake," I say, conscious of my petite, weak arms compared to her strong ones.

"Ah yes, Flo is it?" She replies, to which I nod, a little surprised. "He said you'll be coming," she smiles a little wider. "Head on in, I think he's upstairs."

Walking through the barrier that she opens for me, I start for the large set of stairs that runs along the perimeter of the furthest wall and bends to reach the first floor. Right on the landing stand two enormous men with their arms crossed over their chests, both wear an all black outfit of a t-shirt and trousers. Their muscles bulge into the fabric, threatening to tear it at its seams. Hiding whatever is behind them by their freakishly massive builds, I can't see the first floor, or Jake.

"Alright love?" The more intimidating one of my left meets my eye. He's white and bald with a sternness to his demeanour.

"Yeah, I'm here to see Jake."

"Name?" The other asks, his facial features a little less rigid.

Are they even more of Jake's body guards? Is Kevin not enough?

"Flo Brine," I speak hesitantly.

They both turn to each other to exchange a look, the less scary one almost smirks. After the most awkward moment, they step aside to reveal the first floor. Right in the middle of the grey concrete is a square boxing ring, and right in the middle of the ring stands Jake. Actually, he isn't standing, rather he's quick on his toes to dodge an incoming jab from his opponent. His arms are flexed and held up to protect his face as he shuffles around him before he's able to swing a punch. The other guy isn't as quick to avoid it and gets hit square in jaw. The headgear worn by them both protects from much pain I'm assuming, but still, it was a good enough punch that leaves his opponent dazed for long enough that Jake was able to through another and send him to the ground.

"Good," a familiar voice mimics my thoughts. It's Jake's coach, leaning on the railing at one of the corners of the ring as he watches intently. "Up, up! Try again Richardson."

I slowly walk towards the ring, careful not to draw attention to myself. Richardson picks himself up from the floor and tiredly shuffles closer to Jake, almost as if he's scared.

Jake is drenched in sweat – the moisture makes his skin gleam under the sunlight filtering in from the high industrial windows. Sporting a white vest which is almost transparent and sticks to every groove on his stomach and back, it makes obvious the muscles beneath the fabric which contract with his every movement. Jake has always been attractive, though now I have to make an effort to keep my slacked jaw from dropping too far. When he fights though, there's something in his punch, in his stance and in the way he moves that makes him frightening. I don't blame Richardson, I would be scared too.

A whistle blows, "that's it lads, get your drinks. Be back here in two hours." His coach is the one to call it, before the middle aged man in a tracksuit steps down from his spot and heads to a back office.

Jake tugs at the protective head gear, pulling it off of his head to reveal a messy, wet head of hair. Thanking his opponent with a pat of his gloved hand to the Richardson's shoulder, he walks to the edge of the ring, the one closest to where I stand, lifts one of the barrier ropes and ducks to pass from between them. His eyes land on mine when he regains his full height. He smiles with his eyes before his lips follow suit.

"Good show?" He raises an eyebrow, evidently chuffed with himself.

"Great show. You're good."

He jumps the meter that the ring is elevated from the floor, landing smoothly on his feet. A few strands of wet hair fall to be caught by his eyelashes, but he flicks them away with a quick flip of his head.

"I know," he smirks jokingly. "I'm glad you came, didn't think you would." He closes the small gap between us to stand face to face, only a few feet separate us.

"I just wanted to see you fight," I reply honestly, letting his smile influence mine.

"How come?" He asks. "Mind if you pull that for me," he nods towards his gloved hand which lifts towards me.

"I was curious, I've never seen you box before," I respond while using both hands to pull at the black glove, sliding it off of his left hand to reveal knuckles tightly wrapped in a white cloth. With his now free hand, he pulls the other glove off on his own.

"Have you ever?" He takes the glove from my hand and with a bob of his head, indicates for me to follow him.

"Boxed?" I question, receiving a nod. "Definitely not."

"Good, we'll start from scratch then."

"What?"

We walk towards the corner of the large floor, leaving the boxing ring behind us. Here hangs a heavy bag, still swinging gently from the last person who used it.

"I'm going to teach you,"

"To box?" I ask, feet halting at the thought.

He continues walking towards a bag sat on the bench beside the heavy bag and from it pulls a towel.

"No," he twists his head to glance at me with playful eyes. "To dance."

My smile blossoms to a grin as he brings out a small laugh from my lips.

"Come sit," he instructs, lowering himself down on the bench and tapping the space next to him.

Patting the towel against his face and neck, the glow of the sweat disappears, but the red hue beneath his skin remains. I do as he tells me, taking comfort in being close to him. Although, having his arm brush against mine as he fiddles with something in his bag ignites a heat behind my breastbone. Taking out the same bundle of white tape he has wrapped around his knuckles, he turns his upper body to face mine.

"Gimme your hand." His enchanting eyes, shaded by thick brown eyelashes, make my heart thump.

I hold my left hand out to him. His fingertips graze the skin of my palm that is facing downwards as his hand holds mine. For a split second, my fingers instinctively tighten around his. I feel a pause while I hold my breath, daring to look him in the eye and find his own are levelled on mine. However, he cuts the stare short to start wrapping the tape around my knuckles.

"I didn't want to do it either, boxing," he says. "But when you're angry, or upset, or stressed out, punching the shit out of that bag is the best kind of therapy."

"A pillow would suffice,"

The corners of his lips twitch upwards, "I ran out of pillows."

A million questions pop up on my tongue but I bite it, meanwhile he finishes one hand and moves on to wrap the other.

"What makes you angry?" I settle with the most broad of questions.

He takes a moment to think before the word with cruel connotations, in my case, sprouts from his kind lips. "Violence," his eyes flicker up at me for a second. "You?"

"Isn't boxing violent?"

"Well that's subjective. In my case, boxing is a sport, an art, like Karate. It's about discipline, patience, perseverance. It's controlled by a referee and voluntary, you know what you're getting yourself into. The violence I'm talking about is the one that is evilly inflicted, without justification. That makes me angry."

Are you talking about my past, Jake?

Finished, he lets go of my hand and stashes the tape away, pulling out a different pair of gloves, this time they're pink.

"You like pink, right?" He chuckles, handing them to me.

Eyeing them, I give him a sideways glance.

"Sure," I laugh jokingly, fitting both my hands snugly into them.

He bounces up from his seat and walks backwards towards the heavy bag, eyes on me.

"Well, I think it suits you."

***

"Punch it," he says, and I do.

Outstretching my right arm, I swing hard at the black bag, but my force does little to sway it.

He comes around to stand a few inches behind my back.

"Again," his voice reaches my ears from behind.

I punch. This time the bag swings a little more away from me.

"Turn around," he says with a gentle voice.

I turn on my heel, looking at him square in the face.

"You need a tight defence, you're vulnerable right now, there is nothing protecting you," he speaks as if he's talking about a matter completely unrelated to boxing. "Hold your arms up, like this."

Clutching both my arms, he brings them up to stand guarding my head.

"You drop your defence, you're screwed. Defend yourself before you punch, when you punch, and after. Got it?"

I nod once.

"Punch again."

I turn around and punch again, and for another however many minutes, he tells me to punch again, and again, and again, until the sweat droplets start crawling down my forehead. So entranced in throwing as forceful of a punch as I can muster and keeping my arms held up, I almost don't hear him when he tells me to stop. He even has to repeat himself.

"Flo, stop." He steps into my field of vision, his brows knotting together.

My arms fall to my sides, my fast-paced breath clueing to my unfitness.

"I lost you there for a second," he notes.

"I got into it," I reply through breaths.

"I can tell," he nods knowingly. "Take a drink, you're gonna need it."

Suddenly feeling the thirst scratching at the back of my throat, I make my way to the water fountain that Jake points at, taking a sip. Back in position, I take a stance ready to punch the bag again, but he stops me.

"Your punch is off, you're wasting too much energy. Boxing is all about efficiency." He paces to stand beside me, facing the bag. "This is home base, look at my feet."

He stands with his left foot rooted in front of his right, knees slightly bent and body well balanced.

"If your punching with your right arm, the punch starts with your back leg," he taps the side of his right thigh. "The power comes from there. Use your hips and abs to help you rotate into the punch, and when you follow through, shift your weight onto your opposite leg," he taps at his left knee as he leans forward. "Throw your best punch," he say before shooting his arm outwards to hit the heavy bag, which shoots backwards, the chains holding it up rattle from the force of his punch. The way every muscle in his arms and shoulders contract makes me eye them in awe. "And bring your arm straight back in, keeping your defence up."

He catches the bag when it comes flying back before it hits him, stabilising it in place, then steps back to let me have another go.

I mimic him as best as I can, turning to him for approval.

His lips twitch upwards, "quick learner."

I smile back, "good teacher."

Part Two

For the next hour, Jake taught me how to punch, jab, pivot and introduced some footwork fundamentals. It was exhausting and had me panting like a dog and sweating like a pig by the end of it. Being able to throw a powerful punch and let all my angst go with it is exhilarating. Like there was a cable connecting my fist with my emotions, they continued to seep through it and enter the heavy bag. I wish for them to stay there.

Plopping myself onto the bench, I breath fast to replenish the oxygen that my muscles are screaming for.

"You sound like you're dying," he chuckles, placing himself next to me.

I laugh, "gee, thanks."

"You don't run anymore?"

I stick out my tongue, making a disgusted face. "Why did I even do that in the first place?"

"You loved running,"

"I know, my question is why?" I receive a chuckle from him.

"Well, this"— he nods his head to the heavy bag still swinging—"will get your fitness up, if you keep at it. I could carry on coaching you, if you'd like?"

Both our gazes fall on each other after he puts out his offer. My heart jolts in my chest at the prospect of being able to see him and train with him for however long.

"I'd like that," I answer, being careful to hide the nervous shrill in my voice, but I can't stop it from heating up my face.

In response to my answer, he gives me another closed-mouth smile that reaches his eyes. I know I speak fondly about them often, but just look at them. Never have I ever laid eyes on another pair as beautiful as his.

Their beauty is more to do with the fact that they belong to him.

"Can I ask a question?" He asks.

"Mhm," I hum.

"Actually don't worry," his look refocuses on the boxing ring in front of us where two new fighters are practising.

"What is it?" Subconsciously, I edge a little closer to him.

"No, honestly, don't worry, it's not my place to ask,"

"You can ask, Jake," I assure him, willing his head would turn back to face me.

"Are you..." he pauses. "Are you and Aiden dating or something?"

Biting my lower lip to stop the spread of a mischievous smile from showing, I see a hint of jealously shaping his demeanour as he turns to me, awaiting my reply.

"No, Aiden and I are just friends. He's lovely, but I don't like him in that way."

"Oh, I see." He crosses his arms over his chest – the position makes his biceps bulge even bigger. I almost want to laugh at his concrete face, he's trying not to show he cares, but I think he does.

You hope he does.

"What about you and Becca?" I ask, ignoring the pang I feel when I say it.

"What about it?"

"Well, are you two serious?"

As soon as the question is out, he shakes his head almost violently.

"No, no, sorry, I know she's your sister and all, but it's not like that, at all."

"Step sister," I correct. "What's it like then? Still in your playboy ways?" I smirk, but it hurts to know it.

Chuckling, he throws his head back to look at the high ceiling.

"Let's not get into that, shall we?" I attempt to laugh it off like he does, yet that irritating sharpness that grips at my chest makes it difficult to force it.

There was one point when he stopped jumping from girl to girl. It was in the year eleven*, he was a mere sixteen years old, only older than me by a few months. His wealth, good looks and well-built body was always sought after by girls, older and younger. Though that year, when we became close, he stopped the dates and the chatting, and only focussed on me. I felt special, that I was able to get him to see only me. It's a naïve thought of course, nonetheless it's how I felt.

We didn't make it official, heck we didn't even talk about it. However, there's not a doubt in my mind that we both felt like more than friends.

I still feel it, more than two years on. Maybe he doesn't, and that's okay.

"Congratulations though, on everything you've achieved. You've done really well for yourself." Averting the subject at hand does us good, as you can practically cut the tension in the air surrounding us.

"Thank you," he responds. "I mean, you're partly to do with my success."

I cock my head, raising an eyebrow. "I am?"

"The other day, when I mentioned that boxing was something to rely on after you left," he reminds me, taking me back to a few nights ago. "Maybe if you hadn't gone, I would still be my lazy self. I definitely wouldn't have even thought about boxing."

"Was I that bad of an influence on you?" I laugh, gaining a shaking head from him.

"No, idiot. That's not what I mean. When you left it was like a kick up the bum, but instead of dwelling, I took my anger out on a boxing bag, and the rest is history."

"Did you imagine that boxing bag was me?"

His mesmerising eyes caress mine for a few seconds before he answers, "I would never be able to lay a finger on you, or even imagine to."

The gentle gaze causes my breath to hitch in my throat and never reach my lungs. For a second, his watch flickers to my lips before it falls to his lap. At the same moment, my heart tries to claw its way out of my throat, but the tightness that encases it makes me feel as if a lump is trapped in there, it's almost suffocating.

"I know," I say confidently, knowing that Jake never would.

I know you wouldn't, Jake. But others would, and they did.

"Everything happens for a reason, I guess. You just need to find the reason." His words are more like mutters, and he says them as he undoes the material wrapped around his hand.

"But that's the hard part, finding the reason."

"It kills, the amount of patience it takes, it pushes you to the edge, right?" He doesn't look up when he speaks.

I wonder what he's talking about. A feeling inside tells me that he's not just talking about my situation, it may be more personal.

"Jake?" I ask. "Can I ask a question?"

"You already did," he smirks, beaming up at me.

"Ha-ha," I fake laugh.

"Go ahead,"

"If there's anything up with you, I'm always here to talk."

Facing me with an at-first hesitant expression plastered on, it takes him a few seconds to digest what I've said. Then, comes a smile. It is a small, albeit heart-clenching smile, accompanied by a kindness in his eyes that almost looks like gratitude.

"I know,"

Part Three

I leave the gym ten minutes later with a bit more confidence than when I entered, excited for the next session with him tomorrow. Nevertheless, there's something that I can't quite edge out of my head. He's going through something, whether it be small or big, it is making its impact. All I hope is that unlike myself, he can conquer it before it conquers him.

Hello loves, 

Thank you so much for reading! I CANNOT wait to get into the rest of the story. There is so much more to unfold, and I'm excited, I hope you are too!

Honestly this chapter was special to me, because personally, exercise is a big part of my life. When I don't exercise, I tend to get a low mood more often than if I keep up a good workout schedule. I guess it's all the endorphins released, but it's also the mindset and the confidence that it gives me. I think it's very sweet of Jake to let Flo into his boxing world, something that is quite personal to him, even though he is very popular in the field. It's also very sweet not just because he's opening up to her, but he's introducing a form of exercise that might help her rebuild her confidence. I hope she will. 

Again, thank you for reading. Hope you've enjoyed this chapter. I will hopefully be updating a fortnight from now. 

Stay beautiful,

Indie xoxo