Twelve Rounds
Cee’s first session with Thom lasted forty-five minutes. Cee was the trainer. He spent most of his time shaking his head while Thom huffed through the drills. Thom sweat like a goddamn pig. He broke the middle of every round wheezing. Thom heard some of the other fighters snickering over the fat old man who had shown up for an ass-kicking. It didn’t matter though, because in that lesson Thom was getting what he wanted. Those first forty five minutes were the first forty five minutes of his new life. Thom’s life as a boxer. A life that was completely separate from his other muddled incarnations.
As Thom heaved the two handles, he noticed, in his reflection, a small swell over his left eye. Must have come from sparring with Owen. It looked small in the mirror. But as Thom’s calves pulsed in cadence with the swing of the rope, it felt like blood was starting to balloon into his face. One of the ways Thom envisioned himself dying while jumping rope was a colossal blood clot to the brain, shaken loose by consistent bounce of the exercise. This made for good material, so he concentrated on the fear for a while, wondering if he’d see it shake loose before he felt a stabbing pain in his skull. Or maybe he’d go the other way, just a plain old heart attack. His fucking heart sounded like it was going punch out of his goddamn chest by the ten minute mark. Heart attack at thirty-five. Jesus Christ.
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