Chapter 1

Revenge. Justified retribution. Karma. Books have been written that celebrate the concept. Movies made. Songs written. Our mistreated hero finally snaps and pays back the world for the injustice he’s suffered. Everything is made right in the world again.

Of course, real life doesn’t work like that. In actuality, the scales are weighted, justice is conditional, and karma is blind. Even so. There is one aspect to all those brilliant stories, that they got right.

That moment of much-delayed payback? It feels so fucking good! Moreso in this case, because I didn’t even plan for it. Absolute coincidence, tossed my way by means of divine providence.

It started the same way as always. I was at work, stretching in between scheduled appointments. The usual was going through my mind. A whole lot of nothing while I waited for my next round of abuse.

The background of the setting was par for the course. Rock-bottom standard. Mike’s Gym was the type of gym you’d see in underdog movies. The gritty kind, with worn-down interior, sandbags that should’ve been replaced ages ago, weights polished bright by ages of effort. A stale scent of sweat and rubber underneath it all.

In movies, of course, the all-male clientele would eventually be revealed to be mostly underdogs with hearts of gold hidden below their gritty exterior. In real life…

A voice called out, from the far end of the gym. “Yo Sandbag. I’m bored!”

I knew exactly what that meant the moment I recognized the voice. Even so, I played my part. “Name’s Liam. Not Sandbag.”

“Don’t be like that, mate. We’re just having a laugh. I’m bored. I could do with a bit of stress relief. You up for it? Or are you still shook up from last time?”

Leo looks just like his jovial voice implies. Bald. Tall. Broad-shouldered and strong. The gleam in his eyes was the only hint to the mile-wide mean streak running just below the surface of his handsome exterior.

His posse followed him around like eager puppies, of course. Laughing on cue at his last shot, loudly sucking up to him with senseless nothings. “Good one, Leo. You sure showed him, Leo. May I give you a heartfelt reach-around, Leo?”

Fuckers.

I looked at my phone and considered the time. Then I held up a finger and ordered my Uber before turning to the tall man. It was six minutes out. That should do the trick. Outwardly, I hesitated. “You know the drill, Leo. Schedule’s booked in advance so I get my breaks and everything’s by the book. Mike’s rules.”

One of his toadies rolled his eyes. “Like you’ve got anything better to do, Sandbag.”

Leo smirked. “I know the rules, Liam. I also know nice crisp bills speak louder than rules. And, like I said, I’m bored. I want a bit of adrenaline. Come on, man. Give me ten rounds. Good, clean rounds. I’ll pay you double.”

Being a professional sparring partner is supposed to be a teaching role. It’s supposed to be a partnership, a back and forth between the person being trained and the sparring partner. The partnership can range between educating a complete newbie and letting a professional unleash against somebody well-trained, locate those moves that need polishing. The core of the role, of course, remains that of ‘learning by doing.’

In real life? Theories like these quickly get exposed as bullshit. When your role is taking punches without ever shooting any back? Somehow, you’re worth less than the other person, even if you’re bigger, faster or tougher. Especially if that’s the case.

“I’ve got an hour before my next appointment. That’s enough time for ten rounds. But that would mean that I’m missing out on lunch.” I said grudgingly.

“Ah come on. Like you couldn’t stand to lose a few pounds, Chubs.”

I glared at another toadie enjoying himself. This one was called… Alfie, maybe? He definitely looked like an Alfie. Carbon copy of the bigger, better Leo. Crooked teeth, set a bit too close. Reddish-blond hair. And, obviously, muscles that outsized his brain by several sizes.

“Shush, Alfie. We’re speaking the same language here. Aren’t we, Liam? We’ll say triple, I’ll Whatsapp you, and neither Mike nor the tax man will ever need to know.”

I didn’t need the money. That thought felt extremely strange to me. Impossible, really. But after tomorrow, I wouldn’t ever have to worry about money again. This was all playing for the gallery. Even so, it might pay in something more tangible than money. Still, I went through the paces, rolled my shoulders, looked contemplative and eventually nodded. “You’ve got it.”

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Two minutes later, we were in the ring, gloves laced, and Leo was rolling his shoulders with a gleam in his eyes. “How about this, Chubs? We start off nice and easy. First round’s just precision work. Nothing too heavy. Just me working on getting my jabs in nice and good. Making sure the old shoulder’s not acting up before we get serious?”

Boxers were different in the ring. Wildly so. Some were overly cautious and almost had to be coaxed into throwing a punch, and then further egged on to move past their mental limits. Others were playful, taking it all like a learning experience. Others were serious, treating every exchange, even the sparring matches, like they were real matches, giving it their all, even as they stuck to the rules.