Craving The Player (Amateurs In Love Book 1)(50)
“I think he’s dead serious,” I spit. He wouldn’t have brought it up if he wasn’t seriously considering it. There was no way that he expected his impromptu decision to sit well with me.
“I don’t see how he could expect us to follow him out there. I would rather chew off my own tongue than play for Toronto’s hockey team,” Tyler grunts while wiping a towel aggressively down his face, leaving the skin red.
“I’m sure Lana would be your number one fan.” I nearly choke on her name.
“I don’t understand. Vancouver is our home. Gracie would feed me my own cock if I even considered uprooting us.”
That has my scowl cracking. Talk about a sight that I would pay a hefty penny to see. Gracie Hutton may be small, but damn she’s vicious. “I don’t care how hot the girl is. Nobody could make me leave Vancouver.” It’s the only place any of us know.
Tyler remains silent for a long moment, and I have a feeling that he’s going to tell me that that could change someday, but he doesn’t. I don’t doubt for a second that he would follow Gracie to fucking Mars if she asked him to. But Tyler and Gracie are different. They’re the closest thing to soulmates that I’ve ever seen. There’s nothing odd or abrupt about their love and adoration for one another. It’s pure and raw.
“I don’t think he’ll do it. What about the gym?” Tyler takes a drink from his water bottle and moves his eyes around the empty gym. It’s closed to the public right now so it’s just us. Technically, we should be open, but I couldn’t risk anybody hearing about Dad ditching out on us. It would have opened a can of worms that I don’t have the strength to pry back shut right now.
This gym is home to the majority of my childhood memories. The good, the bad, and the fucking ugly.
I spent more time here than I did anywhere else. Hell, during my rebellious teenage years I practically slept here. These chipped brick walls and cushioned floor mats kept me sane during a time where I feared I would never be able to get a grip on my “angry at the world” attitude. I was pissed off at my parents for splitting and not being able to keep it civil between them, even at the best of times, not even for me. It took years for me to get my head out of my ass. And even then, I was still an asshole most of the time.
I knew that Dad knew about the fights held behind his back, but he still let me get my ass beat time and time again without so much as a shrug in my direction. He never mentioned them when I came home from the gym to shower and sneak food from the fridge with bloodied knuckles and bruised eyes or when he would drop me off on the curb outside of my grandma’s house. He didn’t say anything when I wandered into his office requesting the first aid kit after getting absolutely rocked by a guy three times my size. And he definitely didn’t offer me any sympathy when I broke my nose for the third time in a year because I refused to wear headgear out of pure stubbornness.
At the time, his lack of attention to my dangerous hobby served as a catalyst, encouraging me to keep going and going until he finally acknowledged the fight I had inside of me. With every win came a sense of hope that I wouldn’t be as invisible to him as I thought that I was. I wanted him to be proud of me. I craved it with every fibre of my being.
With his time spent between a divorce lawyer, financial meetings regarding the gym, and training a full list of aspiring boxers, the only time I saw him was right before I left for school. He would be leaning against the countertop with a steaming cup of black coffee in his hands when I came to grab my lunch. I would get a brisk wave and a tired grunt. Then we would go our separate ways until I saw him at the gym after school.
Now that I think back on it, I realize that he was just trying to teach me a lesson. I was never invisible to him. He was going through a hard time too. I could never excuse the shit that happened between my parents during their divorce and the years that followed, but I can give them some leeway.
Every loss I took taught me the benefits of not giving up when shit got hard. My body hated me for it, but I’m not sure that I would change much from back then if it came down to it.
My stomach pitches as I turn back to my bag and swing at it. My arm locks due to my lack of concentration and I hiss from the burning pain that explodes through my shoulder when I make contact with the punching bag. “Fuck!” I shake out my arm and rip my glove off, tossing it a few feet away.
“Told you to stretch,” Tyler sings, earning himself an eyeful of both my middle fingers.
“And I told you to stop being such a loser, but here we are,” I shoot back, trying not to cringe from my lame insult. I massage my shoulder and grit my teeth when it begins to throb.
“Wow, good one. What are you, ten?” Throwing off his own gloves, he grabs his water bottle and squirts a stream of water over his torso.
“Are you leaving now? I’m nowhere close to done and you’re just pissing me off.”
He rolls his eyes. “You need to go home before you hurt more than just your shoulder.” He’s right. I have a match in three days. Getting injured is not in the plans.
“It’s Wednesday. I can’t handle Clayton right now.”
Acknowledgment flashes across his face. Tyler is the only one other than myself and Clay’s family that knows about how bad his behaviour can get. “Okay, so go somewhere else. Just not here. I can’t stay here all night and babysit your raging ass.”