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When I first entered the world of boxing, I didn’t know what I was doing. All I knew was that I was decent at fighting; all throughout my childhood, I fought my way out of care homes. It was shitty, but when I landed under the care of Ebb, I stopped fighting. At home, at least.
At school, meanwhile, life was a different story. I still fought, but I usually had my reasons. For instance, when I finally settled in at school, I became bothered by bullies. After a few meet and greets, though, they realized that I wasn’t to be messed with, and soon directed their attention to others; suffice to say, they also figured out that I wasn’t having that either.
Eventually, I graduated high school, but struggled in college. I dropped out after a single semester, and soon found myself back in the comfort of Ebb’s small, cozy home.
After a few months of holding odd jobs, I had enough cash to buy a gym membership. Shortly thereafter, I started attending my local gym.
At first, it was a matter of managing frustration—frustration that festered from the annoyances of everyday life, and frustration that had seemingly began to get in the way of performing simple tasks. I could go to the gym, and vent out my anger to make sure it didn't become misplaced.
In time, however, it became an escape. Or a haven, if you will.
I worked out often, and soon I caught the attention of the gym’s owner. Slowly but surely, I moved up the rankings of his small ring to gather even more attention. Looking back, it was a whirlwind; within just a few months, I had won half a dozen matches, and had been offered a few minor contracts to fight on slightly bigger stages.
I think my biggest break was when I met Baz Pitch, though. Before him, I turned down those contracts; I just didn’t see my future in them. However, when I met him after another successful fight, he offered to help me.
One day, he had approached me after a long round in a local gym boxing ring, asking if he could talk to me. I was skeptical at first, but after he offered to talk to me over a few rounds of drinks, I reluctantly agreed. Later, he explained to me that while he never fought, he had spent the majority of his own childhood studying his mom—a legendary fighter in her own right, apparently—and her varying techniques. The bottom line? He wanted to train me.
I eventually folded, and we had started planning out a beginning regimen by the following morning.
A few years later, it seems that hiring him as my trainer has turned out to be the best decision of my life. I’m a bit richer, and I've tried to put most of that money to good use. While I’ve donated a large sum of money to the foster care system and bought Ebb a slightly nicer house, I would say the most pleasant thing to have come out of our partnership has been friendship.
As my trainer, he’s been tough on me at times, but it’s been nice to have someone to relax with after a hard night. Sometimes, when we don’t have anything scheduled, we’ll just hang out on one another’s house, or go to the theaters, or just go out to have a nice dinner.
Overall, it’s been nice.
Up until a few days ago, my career has been pretty nice, too. Like I mentioned, it provides a good paycheck, and I was on a streak of ten victories. (There was a few hiccups here and there, but most fights been decisive.) To my delight—and Baz’s, I presume—I had been chosen to suit up to fight against an equally successful fighter, and was excited to hopefully score another big payday.
A few broken ribs and a bruised face later, however, it’s evident that it did not go well. Not well at all.
I spent a few days in the hospital—with Baz at my side, I might add—but eventually recovered. It’s been nearly a week since, and I’m aching for another fight. I don’t know who, but I know it should be something. But before I enter the ring for another fight, I need to start training again.
--- --- ---
On most days, I tend to wake up, make myself a small breakfast, and then chill out for a while, doing my best to relax before checking on any deals that have come through. Typically nothing happens—especially after a loss—and today is no exception.
In the morning, I try and relax a bit more than usual, even taking the time to run a hot, deliciously scalding bath to help loosen my sore body. It helps a little, and I spend the rest of my day catching up on possible future opportunities before I start to head out to train.
Around 7:40, it’s time to get going.
When I try and call Baz while driving to our frequented gym, I'm surprised to hear no response. Huh, I think to myself. He must be practicing or something. (When he's stressed, I've noticed that he tends to put gloves on and punch the bag.)
It doesn't bother me, though. The idea of him not picking up the phone, that is. I'll just turn it into a joke when I see him.
--- --- ---
I pull up to the gym, parking my newer blood-red Mustang next to Baz's beautiful, dark green 1968 model. (In the conversations we've had, I've found that Baz adores his "baby"—his words, not mine.) I get out of the car, grabbing my bag of supplies, and make sure to lock my Mustang before I step inside the gym.
The gym closes at 8:00 at night—it’s a Friday night, and I think the owner likes to party more than he likes to admit—but Baz and I have worked out a deal with the gym’s owner to allow us to work after closing time. For him, it’s a good endorsement deal, for I make sure to slip in the gym name in interviews; for us, it allows time to practice without dealing with the press, curious onlookers, and the general public.
Once I step inside, the gym is mostly deserted. There’s a few people here and there, grunting and sweating alike, but I know they’ll be gone within the next 10 minutes or so.
Taking a few seconds to look around, I see a water bottle placed next to one of the punching bags. I’ve known Baz long enough that he uses a specific, quite expensive bottle, and I recognize it. However, Baz is nowhere to be found in the main facility. I don’t think much of it, though; judging by the faint perspiration that’s on the ground next to the punching bag, and Baz’s bottle, he’s most likely taking a shower.
I know Baz is prickly about starting at a certain time—our regimen almost always starts at 8:05, after everyone has left—so I linger in the gym. For a few minutes, I walk around, even giving the few remaining people small pointers.
Finally, around 7:55, I decide to head to the locker room in order to get ready. (Baz is also quite prickly about starting at exactly 8:05, so it’s important that I’m ready before then.)
As I step into the locker room, I’m pleased to find Baz. His back his to me, and he's standing next to one of locker room benches. He must’ve just finished his shower, for his raven-black hair is slightly damp, and his clothes cling to him, highlighting his physique. (His very nice physique, I think to myself, but I quickly dispel that thought. He's my trainer, after all.)
I clear my throat in an attempt to catch his attention. Baz tenses, and when he turns around, he seems to be surprised to see me. (Weird.) “Snow?” He questions, his angular face contorted in confusion. “What are you doing here?”
I shrug. “Why do you think?”
“You’re not here to train, are you?”
I give him a black stare. “Of course I am. Why else would I be here?"
He blinks at me, eyebrows furrowed. “Did you not get my text message, Snow?” Before I can ask what message he's talking about, he elaborates. “The one that I told you I couldn’t train you anymore?”
I open my mouth, but my throat runs dry. Finally, I find my words. “What do you mean?”
He adjusts his shirt before running a hand through his hair. “Exactly what you think it means, Snow.”
I look at him incredulously, waiting for him to end this whole charade. It has to be a charade, right? Baz isn't much of a joking person, but I know he has a sense of humor. (He's actually quite funny when he wants to be.)
However, it's becoming clear that this isn't a joke. "What the fuck?" I shout. "Seriously?”
He shifts uncomfortably. Good, I want him to be uncomfortable; I want him off-balance, just like the way he’s taught me to get my opponents out of their element.
It seems to work, too. For once in his life, Baz speaks meekly. “I texted you that I can’t be your trainer. This morning, actually.”
“Why?”
He scoffs, replying, “I don’t need a reason, do I?”
“Of course you fucking do.”
He purses his lips. “I don’t see why I do, Snow.”
“Bullshit,” I press, walking ever-so-slowly towards him. “Why can’t you train me?”
He scoffs, but remains a hair uncomposed. “I don’t need a reason,” he tries again.
Walking closer to him, I get a little bit more aggressive. “Yes, you do—and I fucking know you have a reason.”
Baz backs up, slightly angling his body towards the lockers. “And how do you know?”
“You always do.”
“But what if I don’t?”
I point at him. “Cut the shit, Baz. Tell me.”
He clears his throat in a vain attempt to gather his confidence. (I see right through it, though; his shoulders have a faint slump.) “No,” he says weakly.
Now I’m getting mad. Not angry enough to fight him, of course—if I did, I could just be adding to his massive bank account in court—but I’m still getting pissed. I crowd him against the lockers, boxing him in. "Tell. Me. Why."
He stares at me, eyes slightly frantic. “No.”
That’s it, I think to myself. I grab his shoulders, pushing him against the lockers. He lets out an uncharacteristic yelp, leaving me with a small pang of regret—while he is my instructor, he is also my friend—but I push it down.
“I don’t like the idea of people abandoning me,” I start. “You know that, Baz. All I want to know is why. Why would you want to abandon me now?"
He stammers, but keeps his mouth shut. I press him against the lockers once more, digging my fingers into his collarbones before I start to reiterate why question. "Why would—"
Suddenly, I get my response.
Instead of talking, however, he uses his mouth for a different reason. He surges forward, almost startling me, and it takes me a few long seconds to realize that he’s kissing me.
Well, it’s not much a kiss. It’s rushed, and slightly frantic, as if it’s like a last resort.
After a few seconds of pressing his lips against mine, he breaks the connection, and tries to shove me away. But I’m not a pushover; I’m roughly 230 pounds of muscle, so he’s not going to get away easily.
I grab his arm, stopping his feeble attempt to run. He stumbles before I pull him back to me, and silence his desperate cry.
When my lips make contact with his own smooth, cold ones again, I hear a faint whimper from him. (Okay, that was fucking adorable; it's odd, but wonderful that it's coming from Baz.) It takes a minute, but I eventually feel his body relieve its stress as Baz melts in the kiss. In turn, I release my grip on his shoulders, using my right hand to cradle his face. Slowly, I begin to carefully pull him with me, using my spare hand to feel for a bench as I move the pair of us backwards.
From memory, I’m able to locate one of the benches, taking the back of my legs hitting the hard, cold wood as confirmation. I sit down, breaking away from Baz for just a second to let him settle into my lap (!) before connecting our lips once again.
--- --- ---
I did not expect to end my day like this—making out with my trainer (or ex-trainer?) on a bench—but I'm fine with it. For the past quarter of an hour or so, Baz and I have fallen into a rhythm. A nice, pleasant rhythm of sucking face, that is. I find myself getting lost in him, and it's utterly fantastic.
Overall, it's a bit awkward, for more reasons than one, of course. But I don't really care. (I'm more occupied with, ahem, important things to actually care.) I don't want to stop.
Eventually, however, I do feel the need to. Not because I want to stop, though; if anything, it's more out of necessity. I need to talk to him. More importantly, I need to ask him a question.
When I break apart from his lips, Baz lets out another breathless, almost inaudible whimper, similar to the one he released when he was trying to climb on my lap. He tries to follow my mouth, but I gently stop him, making sure to look him in his grey eyes before I start the interrogation. “Baz,” I pant, “why did you insist that you had to stop training me?”
“What?” He whispers.
I slightly cock my head to the side, trying my best to show passivity—to show that I that I’m just curious. “You know what I said.”
Baz takes a shaky breath, breaking eye contact for a brief second before looking back at me. “I….”
I rest my hand on his shoulder, trying to convey my intent when he trails off. “I just want to know, Baz.”
When he finds his words, he looks rather sheepish. “I was scared.”
I blink, confused by his uncharacteristic bluntness. “What?”
“I messaged you because I don’t like to see you hurt."
“You don't like seeing— Baz, fucking hell, you’re my trainer.”
“Indeed I am,” he retorts. As he continues, though, he hesitates. “But in the past, I’ve suppressed those feelings…. I’ve ignored them, pushed them down in favor of trying to help you in your next fight. I’ve taken them as lessons on what you need to learn.” He sighs, looking down at his (my) lap. “When you went down last week, it hurt too much. I hated that I couldn’t help you As you were left on the mat, bleeding and groaning.”
My eyes crinkle. “It’s kind of my job to fight, Baz—”
“No, no, let me finish,” Baz interrupts. “I figured it was for the best if I didn’t have to see your sorry ass beat up. I thought maybe if I stopped seeing you so often, it would be better. I wouldn’t have to see you in pain.”
I look at him incredulously “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
He scoffs. “If I had told you I wanted to stop watching you lose, you would've taken offense.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“Stop being stubborn," he says, lightly chuckling. "You know that you would have, Simon.”
I tuck my head into his shoulder in response to my name, letting the moment sink in. “Maybe,” I admit.
We spend a few minutes like that, huddled together into a stale, pungent locker room before we call it a night. I don’t think either of us have the motivation or willpower to start training, honestly; if anything, we would probably get distracted rather quickly.
--- --- ---
As we collect our stuff, I decide to ask Baz another question. “Why did you kiss me?”
Baz hums as if he wants me to repeat it, so I do so. “Why did you kiss me?”
He takes a second, picking up his bag before pursing his lips. “You were pressing me up against a row of lockers, Snow. If someone pressed you against a locker with eyes speaking bloody murder, what would you do?”
“I'd never be in that situation.”
“That’s not the point,” he huffs.
“Okay. I probably would’ve punched them."
Baz opens the door for me, muttering that we should go to his car. “Of course you would. That’s what you do.”
“That’s what you do, too.”
Baz stops, standing on the sidewalk. “I train you, Snow. I don’t fight.”
“Same difference.”
He chuckles. “No, it’s not, Snow,” he says, eyes rolling. “Training and fighting are two completely different worlds.”
"Yeah, yeah, whatever."
As I walk to my car, Baz waves me over to his, telling me that we’ll pick up my car next time. When I settle into the front seat, I realize that Baz never really answered my question—not well, anyway. Once he shuts his door, I forward this thought to him. “Baz, why did you really kiss me?”
He starts the Ford, taking the engine’s growling as an excuse to wait to respond. “I panicked," he starts, “and I didn’t want to fight you. Partly because you would probably win”—I can’t help but smirk at that—“and because I didn’t want to fight you. I couldn’t hurt you.”
“So you decided that the next best option was kissing me?”
“I figured it would surprise you,” he admits. "Knock you off your game. I thought it would buy me a second of confusion if I needed it.”
“If you needed to what, flee?” I quirk an eyebrow. I see him faintly nod, so I move to continue. “You’ve known me for almost four years, right? If you’ve known me for that long, surely you know that I wasn’t going to throw a punch for a kiss .”
He looks confused, so I continue. “Have you ever seen me checking out those girls after a match?” I say, referencing the half-naked women that seem to become attached to me at the end of a victory.
Baz seems to think for a second before replying, “Yes, actually.”
I let out a small chuckle. “Okay, that’s not the point. Have you ever seen me hook up with them?”
“No,” he admits, putting the Mustang in reverse as he slowly backs out of his parking spot.
“Exactly,” I smile. “I prefer guys. If you had kissed me, I wouldn’t have done anything about it.”
“Well that’s obvious now, isn’t it?” Cheeky.
As Baz drives out of the parking lot, I can’t help but catch his eyes in the mirror with a smile.
--- --- ---
We spend the car bickering and making small talk, mindlessly mumbling (shouting, more like) to each other over the engine noise.
When Baz brings his car to a halt in my driveway, I linger. Before I leave, there’s one more question that I need cleared up. “Baz?"
He looks at me after applying the handbrake. “Mmm?”
“Where do we stand?”
I can see the gears turning in his head. “Well, I liked kissing you whether it was panic-induced or not.”
I smirk. “Boyfriends then?”
He smiles. Good. “That would be lovely.”
We both lean in this time.