The Fake Zone: A Fake Dating Sports Romance (Oleander Springs Series Book 3)
The Fake Zone: Chapter 28

I park and stare at the red brick building. It’s bigger than I expected, located at the end of a strip mall. It’s not at all what I was expecting for a boxing gym.

I slowly get out and try to ignore how my heartbeats turn erratic from the combination of lack of sleep and nerves. One of the highlights of working out with Grey has been sleep. I’ve struggled to fall asleep and remain asleep most of my life, but since working out with Grey, the exhaustion or the idea of becoming physically stronger has lulled me to sleep and allowed me to remain asleep.

Last night, paranoia made every sound feel like a bad omen. I spent hours online, psychoanalyzing and attempting to diagnose Julian Holloway, despite Briggs warning me not to. I couldn’t help myself, after all, I’m a big fan of the adage that knowledge is power.

Researching the brief encounters was akin to scouring WebMD and other medical websites for symptoms. Everything got scarier and increasingly convincing that I was going to die.

I wasn’t sure if he was stalking me or delusional. Possibly both.

It took me hours to fall asleep, and I woke up a dozen times before giving up on the idea of sleep, dressing, and braving the house. The exhaustion isn’t just from sleep, though. It’s mental and emotional.

I lift my chin a little higher as I grab the door and pull it open.

A string of bells hanging on the inside jangle loudly, announcing me as the scents of bleach, leather, and the faint traces of cologne settle in my nose. Three sets of eyes turn to me from where they’re working out on nearby equipment, curiosity visible in their varying expressions.

“Are you lost?”

I recognize the voice immediately and turn to replace Abe, his hands and wrists taped.

I swallow, recalling my plan. “Is Mackey here?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“He’s on his way over,” Cole says, stepping up beside his brother with similar tape patterns around his hands and wrists. His brow is still yellowed from the bruise he received in the fight Hadley, Hannah, and I watched. “Mila, right?”

I nod.

“Did you change your mind?”

I stare into his curious and playful brown eyes. Unlike his brother, I can’t tell what he thinks of me being here. “I don’t want to learn to fight. Not professionally,” I correct myself. “But I want to know where and how to hit someone.”

“Isn’t that what Grey’s teaching you?” he asks.

“He’s busy.” And he’s going to be busier. In a few weeks, spring season starts, so his practices will be more frequent and longer.

Abe laughs. The cruel sound tries to rattle my determination, but it holds nothing against Julian’s evil laugh.

I flick my eyes to Cole, already knowing Abe won’t accept me. I inherently know because we’re too much alike. His eyes scrutinize me for several beats, and then he nods.

“You’re not fighting anyone,” he says, glancing at the ring in the back corner.

I nod, accepting the condition easily.

Cole blows out a breath and points to the back wall, where a rainbow of colored jump ropes hang on a giant peg in the back. “Get in fifteen minutes of jumping rope, and then Dustin will work the bags with you.”

Fifteen minutes sounds short, but I’ll be winded regardless of all the cardio I’ve been doing these past few weeks. It turns out jumping rope is highly underrated for its intensity.

“Who do I pay?” I ask.

Abe scoffs, making a joke under his breath.

“Mackey will sort that out … if you stick around,” Cole tells me.

I nod, and my determination to prove myself grows by the second. I spent years studying harder than my classmates, continuing my therapy sessions, and reversing some of the most basic tendencies that kept me safe during my early childhood to prove to people who thought I’d end up as another statistic wrong. I’m so damn tired of feeling inferior and physically weak. Abe doesn’t stand a chance of intimidating me or insulting me to change my mind.

I select a red and white beaded jump rope and begin jumping before I even replace the clock to track my time.

When fifteen minutes pass, I hang my rope up. A sheen of sweat covers my pink face reflected in the mirror across from me. Dustin and Mackey are with Abe and Cole, huddled near one of the wide cylindrical poles that run from floor to ceiling. I cross to them, feigning bravado.

Abe claps a hand on Dustin’s shoulder, noticing me before the others.

Dustin looks at Cole and then Mackey, shaking his head as he swears. Mackey laughs, and Cole grins before he peels away from his friends and approaches me, running his palms over his thighs.

I follow him to a punching bag, where he lays a white strip of tape on the ground. “Are you right-handed or left?” he asks, skipping introductions or small talk.

“Right.”

He nods. “Before we start, you need to work on your stance. Have you and Grey been working on any balancing exercises?”

“A few.”

He grimaces. “You need to work on it a lot. One of the fastest ways guys get hurt in the ring is by having shitty balance. If you can’t recover when you hit someone or take a hit, you’re going to go down, and the last place you want to be is on the floor.”

He moves closer to the tape line he made, dragging his foot over the edge where it doesn’t lay flat. “You’re going to have your left foot forward, pointed at one o’clock, and your back foot at two.”

He demonstrates for me, his knees slightly bent and hips loose as his feet straddle the line. “If your knees are straight, you’ll be fucked. But you don’t want to bend too far, or you’ll be fucked. Then you want to twist your upper body sideways, protecting yourself and making less of a target for your opponent.”

Again, defense seems more crucial than offense, as Dustin orders me into a fighting stance. I feel silly, certain my lack of participation in organized sports is shining bright as the August sun as Dustin walks around me, tapping my feet apart with his, moving my elbows and fists until he’s content. Then he directs me to move while maintaining the stance, correcting me at every turn.

He’s a hardass.

My thighs and calves ache. Sweat makes my shirt stick to my back and mats my hair when he finally tells me to take a break and get some water.

I wish I’d thought to bring water, but the nerve to come required all of my attention.

“Over there,” Dustin says, pointing at a water cooler.

“Thanks.” I grab one of the tiny paper cups, sparking a forgotten memory of one of the foster care families I lived with. They only had these cups, and everything they cooked was burned. The strange acrid scent of the cup hits my nose as I take a sip, and I swear I taste char in the back of my throat.

I drink the rest in one gulp and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

The bells on the door hit like rocks rather than jingles as the door pushes open. I turn to replace a pair of sapphire eyes pinned on me, with a scowling Grey behind them.