Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 102833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
I glance at the guy, who’s silently waiting for me to make a decision. I don’t know where he wants me to go with him, but since I have no desire to go home, I shake my head.
“I’m good. I’ll hit you up later.”
Lorenzo sighs and nods, but then takes off.
“Do you make it a habit of getting into cars with strangers?” the guy asks once we’re in his car and driving away.
I quirk a brow at him. “Are you trying to kidnap me? Because I don’t know if you know who Andrey Antonov is, but he’s my sperm donor.” I haven’t called him Dad since I was old enough to know what a piece of shit he was.
“Name-dropping while talking shit? Nice.” The guy laughs. “I’ve heard about your old man, but he doesn’t scare me. Only pussies hit women and kids.”
With that one statement, the guy has gained more respect from me than I’ve ever had for Andrey.
A few minutes later, we cross the tracks that separate North and South Harbor Point. I’ve never had a reason to come to the south side of town, but I’ve heard Andrey talk about it. It’s where his men sell his drugs and run his hookers. He also has guys who collect protection payments from the local business owners to ensure nobody fucks with them.
We pull up to a shady, run-down building, and the guy turns off the car and gets out, so I follow suit, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. The sign on the outside reads …
“I’m Lucian,” the guy says, saving me from having to try to read the sign. “And this is Lucian’s Gym.”
I follow him inside, never having been in a gym before. We have a private one in our house, and I work out in it all the time, but this is something else entirely.
There are several octagons set up with various guys sparring. A workout area with machines and bags hanging from the ceiling. In the corner are free weights. The outside might be shit, but inside is fucking awesome.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask, continuing to follow him to the back octagon.
“Put these on.” He grabs a pair of boxing gloves and throws them my way.
I drop my backpack on the floor and slide the gloves onto my hands while he grabs a couple of pads.
“You know your English teacher?”
“Mrs. Klein? Yeah …”
“She’s my sister.”
Oh shit …
“Look, I’m not trying to fuck with her class,” I start, but he shakes his head.
“Follow along.” He raises the pads and punches the air. “Left jab, right jab, cross, cross. Your turn.”
I mimic him, punching the pads, and almost immediately, the tension in my body starts to slide out of me.
“She cares about you,” he says as I focus on punching and jabbing. “Says you remind her of me.”
Left jab, right jab, cross, cross.
Left jab, right jab, cross, cross.
“You struggle to focus.”
“I suck at school.”
“No.” He lowers his hands and locks eyes with me. “You don’t suck at anything. You’re struggling because you’re dyslexic.”
“I’m not—”
He raises a knowing brow, and I have the urge to punch something.
As if he can sense it, he raises his hands, showing me a new combination. “Left jab, right jab. Uppercut.”
Left jab, right jab. Uppercut.
“You’re dyslexic,” he says again. “And from what my sister has told me and from the little I’ve seen, you have trouble regulating your emotions. You get frustrated and lash out because you have nowhere to release your frustration.”
Left jab, right jab. Uppercut.
Left jab, right jab. Uppercut.
Left jab, right jab. Uppercut.
“I’m almost sixteen,” I tell him, continuing to do the combination. “Then, I can legally drop out.” I hit the pad harder as I spit out the last word.
I hate that I can’t fucking read, that every damn subject requires words. Even math has stupid fucking word problems. I’ve never been diagnosed because my dad refuses to accept that one of his kids could have a learning disability, but I’ve looked it up, and Lucian isn’t wrong. I’m dyslexic.
He shows me another combination and then another and another, and before I know it, hours have passed, and I’m dripping in sweat. For the first time in a long time, my brain is calm, and my body is relaxed.
As if Lucian can hear what I’m thinking, he stops and steps toward me. “I know how it feels to not be able to control your emotions.” He lifts his pad and taps it against my temple. “It fucks with your head. When you feel like your head is pounding and your body is tensing and you have nowhere to release it, I want you to come here, and we’ll fight the frustration out of you.”
He lifts my chin with his pad, forcing me to look at him. “You’re not broken, Matteo. You just need an outlet.”