Tooth and Nail Read Online Free PDF Page B

Gatorade and sweating off his sparring round. He hopped down and sidled over to me while I tugged on my gloves, and took over my seat after I slid to the floor for sixty knuckle pushups. “Yo, Brickhouse.”
    Once I brought Avery in to meet the crew and see the place, and when we left, he said, “Brickhouse? You’re not—insulted by that?”
    “Of course I am,” I said. “That’s what makes it stick.” I never told him that after that day, my gang referred to Avery as The Suit. That’s how I knew they approved of him.
    Under the eye of Not-Rocky, I finished my pushups and rolled onto my back. He crouched in front of me and grasped my ankles for my sit-ups. “You want to go when you’re ready?” he asked.
    I considered, but on my next sit-up, I noticed a bit of fresh blood clotting on his chin. Between that and the perspiration still rolling down his jaw, I guessed he was done for the day. I wouldn’t have suggested to him, though, or to any of the guys for that matter, that they ever take it easy. This gym was filled with competitors, and they’d knock themselves unconscious to prove their worth. I had competed a little myself, a few years ago, but eventually decided that putting my facial bones at risk every day wouldn’t jibe with my career ambition. I boxed now because it was in me, and I didn’t think it would ever not be. And, I suspected of myself, I boxed to keep my memories of my father from permanent escape.
    But Not-Rocky and the others, they still did it for dreams.
    “I’ll take a pass today,” I said with tact, feeling my stomach muscles tighten and contract with each lift of my torso.
    “Get the fuck away from me!”
    Not-Rocky abruptly turned and I looked over his shoulder, following his gaze to the other side of the gym.
    Within these walls, punching and yelling was expected—but there came rare moments when the athletic crossed into emotional, when aggressive became violent. Maybe it was strange that it didn’t happen more, what with the testosterone levels and competing bravados, but when it did happen, we all went on high alert, ready to defend, to fight for real.
    But no one would have wanted to be the one to hurt a kid. And that was who was causing this commotion.
    “I said, back the fuck off!” he screamed again at a boxer easily twice his age and many, many pounds heavier. I raised my brows, marveling at his reckless stupidity.
    The kid was Trey Sawyer, a skinny, freckled boy barely into his teens with a myopic squint and uncooperative brown curls. A boy I wouldn’t have been surprised to see amassing Boy Scout badges or mathletes trophies. A boy from whose mouth I was damn surprised to hear the word “fuck” emerge. Smiley had taken him in a couple of weeks ago, and he came in after school. Trey couldn’t punch a fixed target three feet in front of him, but no one gave him a hard time. He’d been quickly identified as one of Smiley’s charity cases: someone he was asked to keep busy or straighten out.
    Back when I was his charity case, Smiley did both. I’d mouthed off and I’d acted out, but I’d learned my place, and I’d learned it was a place I wanted to be.
    Looked like it was Trey’s turn.
    His shouts were louder in the new silence around him. “I don’t need this!” He put his gloved fists on the bigger fighter’s chest, and shoved with all his violent might.
    Jackrabbit, the recipient of the shove, put one foot back, the only indication he’d been touched at all. He didn’t move from his spot—a calm stone wall. He caught Smiley’s eye while Trey stood there breathing heavily, his twiggy arms weighed down with his gloves.
    “Dumb kid,” Not-Rocky murmured.
    I didn’t disagree. But something didn’t feel right.
    No one moved. Trey, maybe sensing he’d gone just far enough, quieted, but his eyes were wildfire.
    Smiley moved slowly but deliberately between Trey and Jackrabbit, and his back was to Not-Rocky and me. An innocent, non-boxing bystander