Legend (Real Book 6)

Maverick

The next day we’re training, Oz and I. We’re training in a storage unit he got us for the day. The door’s wide open, and he hung the bags from the iron beams in the ceiling. I’m using my left, over and over. Hitting. Listening to the sounds. Smack, thud, thud, smack, poof.

“Whoa, stop, stop. Where’s your right?” Oz demands when he shakes himself out of a nap. The guy brought a fold-out chair and has just sat there for hours after we gobbled down two pizzas, one each. I might have had a few extra slices of his.

“I’m trying to strengthen my left,” I lie.

He scowls at me. “You got a great left. Your left is almost as good as your right.”

“Keyword ‘almost,’ ” I point out. I aim for the bag.

“You hurt your right?” He comes over and grabs my right and I pull it free before he can pull off my glove.

“I fucked up, all right,” I growl. “It’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“You fucked your right. During the season. When?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“When?”

“Last night. I broke something.”

“You broke YOUR KNUCKLES, THAT’S WHAT! You fuck your right on a temper tantrum? What the fuck? Am I gonna have another Scorpion on my hands? Huh?” He pushes me, and I let him, just stand there and let him have his tantrum. He gives up and stalks back to his chair.

“You might as well not go to the fight without your right,” he growls.

“I’m not missing a fight.”

“You should’ve thoughta that before busting your knuckles. This because of Tate? A girl?”

I hit the bag, then lower my arms and stare at the ground, inhaling deeply.

“Her name’s Reese,” I say, under my breath, frowning up at the heavy bag. “Reese Dumas.”

He swears under his breath. Then he pulls out the flask. “Stay away, Maverick.”

“How about you stay away from that flask, Oz?”

“I can’t.”

“So we understand each other.” I get into position and start hitting. “I’m not quitting her.” Then I test my right and jab the bag, and pain shoots up my arm. I yank my glove off.

I stare morosely at my hand, testing my fingers and curling them in.

“Members of the Tate team,” Oz says, leaning forward in his seat, “even if they’re not blood related, they’re closer than if they were. She’s not going to want to even look at you, Maverick.”

I toss my right glove aside and keep hitting with my left. I don’t think we should do what we did again . . . the Tates are my family . . . Miles is coming . . .

“I don’t want to see you make a fool of yourself for a damn Wendy!”

I stop. Then slide my gaze to Oz and narrow my eyes. “She’s no Wendy.”

The frustration’s building. I go back to hitting and I’m hitting the bag hard.

“Heard you trained with him,” Oz says.

“Yeah. Would’ve told you if you’d been half-awake.” I don’t stop hitting.

“This means you won’t need me now, huh.”

“No. Just means I get more chances to find out how to beat him.”

“He’s getting the same chance to be sure how to beat you,” he growls.

He swigs and stares mournfully out the storage unit door and I stare at the heavy bag and keep on hitting until my muscles burn out, and then I keep going.