Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) Read Online Free PDF

strewn on the floor and kicked out of the way. That old aroma of stale sweat hit me like a ton of bricks, as soon as I entered the gym and with that, a bucket-load of memories raced through my head. I had missed this odour, as crazy as that sounds.
      The gym hadn’t seen much maintenance over the years. The four bags hanging in a square shape from blue painted steel beams had tears, rips and duct-tape wrapped round them to hide the holes. The mirrors around the room were hanging squint on the worn-out, once white, painted walls. Mouldy torn mats on the floor and the lights hanging from the roof with galvanised jack-chains badly in need of replacing. A real classy place this had turned into.
      Focusing my eyes on the hung ropes located at the front of the room to my right, I walked over and grabbed a rubbery plastic one, six men skipping and peering at me. They took a good fix at the fresh meat. It was the usual intimidating stare you get walking into a new gym for the first time, sizing you up wondering ‘Who the fuck is this?’
    You couldn’t help get the feeling you were a stranger walking into a Western saloon with your spurs spinning round.
      I took my place and started skipping at the front with my back to them. A cracked mirror in front of me, so I took the opportunity to glance at the men skipping behind me.
        A couple of real, big-muscled heavies were right at the back, but the rest of the men appeared in good shape, even the couple who were nursing black eyes. Their eyes had that focused look in them, as they warmed up their bodies. I got the impression that they weren’t the chatty kind you’d share a cup of coffee with.
      The ring was still in the same place, an offset area of the gym to the left. Tim was talking to a couple of suspicious characters, deep in conversation. He paid particular attention to the older, pale, big-bellied one, who looked in his mid-forties maybe early fifties.
      Towering around the six three height, about a couple of inches taller than Tim, dressed in a longish leather coat and pair of scabby jeans with white trainers. Looking around a hundred and fifteen kilos, with his belly shaped like a bowling ball. He leaned arrogantly against the wall with his hands in his hip pockets. His patchy fair hair combed to the side to hide his receding hairline.
      The other character, the shorter of the two, was heavy-set, absorbing the conversation. Skin clay-coloured, almost Maori-like, gold hooped earring and heavily greased hair. As wide as he was tall. He stood barrel chested and arms out wide. Casually dressed in a badly matched tracksuit.
      While they spoke, everyone carried on skipping to a timer sounding every three minutes, with one-minute intervals.
      Tim finished talking, picked up a stopwatch from beside the stereo, switched off the automatic timer and hung the stopwatch round his long neck. “Right, another round, then we’ll get stuck into the circuit.”
      The circuit, I knew it well. Forty minutes of Hell. Move around the room, station-to-station in three minute rounds between thirty second breaks. Move between the four boxing bags, the speed ball, floor-to-ceiling ball, sit-up station, pull-up station and shadow boxing. This got the sweat up and wore you out. It was going to exhaust me being the first night back.
      No pain, no gain.
      “Right, have a break, five minutes before we get started. Wrap up!” Tim shouted from the front, standing beside the two suspicious characters as they both sat squashed on a weight bench, looking onto the room.
      I got my wraps and gloves out my bag, resting while wrapping my hands in front of one of the bags, still not breaking radio-silence with the rest of the boxers.
      Tim approached me. “How you coping, lad?”
      “Aye, am alright, like.”
      “Well, don’t go burning yourself out on the circuit, you’re no spring chicken now. You do remember what the circuit is?” Tim took a real professional