Nine

Kian

My feet rooted to the spot as he began to circle us, pacing the ring with observational eyes, scanning for any sign of weakness. "Your fists and shoulders should be up, with your chin and elbows down, eyes up," he barked out the instructions.

I swallowed away the dryness as my eyes locked onto his, distrusting and cautious.

"Good," he voiced confidently. "Always keep your eyes on your opponent. Because if you don't . . ." He twisted his body in a sharp turn, taking a swipe at Jaxton. Jax must have watched him in his peripheral vision and managed to nimbly dodge out of his way.

"Smart move," Ricochet praised. "Now, I want you all to form pairs and face one another." He walked around us, correcting our posture. "Place your feet diagonal, a little more than shoulder-width apart and bend your knees. Your strength is here, in your core," he coached while tapping my midriff. "Better balance equals greater mobility." He began to demonstrate using actions. "Dominant hand forward. Take sharp inhales with each shot while guarding with your free hand."

We learned how to block and dodge at school, but those teachings were nothing like Ricochet's. He taught us how to block and dodge, but he also taught us how to pick our opponent's weak spot while defending our own. I knew the basic rules of self-defense, but this lesson went beyond what I already knew. Ricochet had us continuously changing partners at fifteen-minute intervals, watching closely with critical eyes, analyzing our moves and footwork.

Dad's raucous praise from the sidelines inflated my confidence. It was the sort of testosterone-fueled encouragement typical of this kind of sport.

"Atta' boy, Kian! Keep your guard up!" Dad yelled proudly.

An ocean of saliva had collected in my gum shield and was spilling over my lips in gooey strands. After what felt like forever, my muscles in my limbs burned, making my movements sloppy and lumbered.

"That's enough for today," Ricochet bellowed from the side of the ring. "Jones, Archer, Blake, and Hawkins," he called out mine and Jax's names, along with a couple of other boys. "I'll see you boys next week. As for the rest of you . . . better luck next year," he commiserated unapologetically.

It felt as if the air expelled from my lungs all at once, and my knees gave way beneath me. I managed to correct myself, swaying on my feet, and staggered over to where my dad was waiting, his face beaming with pride. I collapsed against the rusty mesh, panting for air.

"That's my boy!" Dad boomed, rattling the metal with his palms. "It's in your blood," he remarked vehemently. "You're going to make it big, son. You'll see. Someday, you're going to be somebody! They'll chant your name from the crowd."

"Jeez, I hope not," I chuckled a shaky breath while trembling with fatigue.

Dad's proud grin stretched wide across his face, sparkling his eyes. "Let's go home and give your momma the good news."

Jaxton's poppa hauled him over his shoulder in a victory spin. I watched my best buddy turn a sickly shade of pale before he was dropped to the floor, staggering his way to the club's exit. Once outside, I said goodbye and I waved as he hopped onto the back of his pa's motorcycle. The bikers who were guarding it all revved their engines, disappearing down the road in a cloud of smoke. Throttle may have been the President of some shady biker club, but those guys regarded him as their alpha. He didn't want nor did he need the residents of Forest Hills to respect him because nothing else mattered outside the club. They were a family who had each other's backs. They lived by their own code, which worked well for them. Either way, I was glad to have them on side as friends rather than enemies. To them, a favor owed was a debt that had to be repaid. You honored your word if you valued your life.

Dad was pumped. I hadn't seen him like this in . . . actually, I don't think I had ever seen him so happy, ever. The second we hopped back inside Dad's Jeep, he switched straight into coach-mode.

"First things first, you need to gain a few pounds," Dad explained, making suggestions about changing my diet. He muttered something about changes within our household, promising that things would be different from now on. I had no reason to doubt that he would come good on his word. Dad was determined that I followed in his footsteps but was clear to point out that he wasn't going to let me make the same mistakes he made. "You're better than that, son," he praised, pointing out my purity. "Just look at what booze has done to your old man." He let out a heavy exhale. "Alcohol just numbs the senses. It's an easy way out of having to deal with shit. It ain't your friend. It doesn't solve anything. The shit is still there waiting for you the minute you sober up." He shot me a side glance. "I'll promise you this, Kian. I'll quit drinking, starting from now."

It was more than my dream come true to hear those words leave his lips. I almost had to pinch myself to check that I hadn't suffered a knockout in the Cage.

"And I promise that I'll give it my best shot," I told him, mighty glad that he was proud of me.

"I know you have your heart set on the construction industry," he mentioned while concentrating on the road. "But there's nothing to say that you can't have both. You'll be earning the big bucks, more green than you've ever laid your eyes on. Who's to say that you can't own your own construction industry someday? Money talks, son. Whitehaven is no exception to that rule. If you have wealth, you have respect. It's the way of the world."