Choosing a Club

Aalia waved.

“Why is she waving?” I wondered, then turned to see Jeffrey walking toward us.

They must’ve been texting.

“Hey,” he said to me.

“What’s up, gee?” I replied.

“Looks like you two have been hanging out for a while,” Jeffrey said.

“Not that long. We’ve just been waiting for you—class is about to start,” Aalia said, then grabbed Jeffrey’s hand.

I felt a pang of jealousy in my chest.

I thought she liked me. Now she’s holding Jeffrey’s hand? We only just met—how could I have been so naive?

I walked behind them, feeling like the third wheel.

Class soon started, and it was so boring half the people around me fell asleep. Meanwhile, Jeffrey and Aalia were laughing and talking through the whole lecture like I didn’t even exist.

“Collins? Collinsss!” Aalia suddenly called my name.

I’d zoned out.

“Everyone’s heading for the club tryouts. Have you picked one yet?” she asked.

I told her yesterday I picked boxing… she doesn’t even remember. Maybe she never liked me. I was just fooling myself.

“Yeah, I’m going for boxing,” I said.

“Well, I picked fashion. I think its venue is right next to Jeffrey’s, so we’ll be going together!” she added excitedly.

“Oh. What club did you pick, Jeff?” I asked, trying my best not to sound awkward—or angry—or disappointed. I didn’t even know what I felt anymore. No one had ever made me feel like this before.

“Music,” he said.

“What instrument do you play?”

“None,” he replied.

I raised a brow. “So… why music? Are you sure you’ll get in?”

“I can sing. And yes, I’m sure I’ll get in,” he answered sharply.

Guess I’d touched a nerve.

“He has an angelic voice,” Aalia added, trying to defend him—not knowing she just made things worse. My insides twisted with jealousy.

I had to get out of there.

“I think I’m late. Boxing screening started an hour earlier—I have to go,” I said quickly and left before either of them could respond.

And honestly, I wasn’t lying. The screening had started earlier because the process was slow—too many amateurs wasting time. They had us spar to test skills, but most of the applicants clearly had no clue what they were doing.

I arrived at the gym. Only two more sets of boxers were left. The first pair got into the ring and made a mess of it.

Have they even seen a real boxing match before?

After 10 minutes of chaos, the coach rang the bell. Both fighters stumbled out, panting like they’d run a marathon. The coach shook his head in disappointment.

This year’s group is worse than I thought, he probably thought to himself.

The final pair entered. Slightly better—one had some potential—but still nowhere near impressive.

“Next,” the coach called.

I stepped into the ring.

“Where’s your sparring partner?” he asked.

“I don’t have one,” I replied.

He sighed and slapped his forehead with his notebook, clearly fed up.

“Put on your gloves and hit the punching bag. Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said, turning to talk with a few of the seniors—guys who looked like they’d been boxing for years.

“Where’s the bag, sir?” I asked.

He’s already gloved up? Without help? Maybe this one's different, the coach seemed to think.

He realized he had the bag moved to make space for the crowd and told one of the seniors to bring it back out. They hooked it up, and I went to work.

As I punched, the coach’s face lit up.

Look at that power. This one’s got real potential, he thought.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Collins, sir.”

“Come over. Let’s hit the mitts,” he said.

We ran a basic drill—it was light work.

“You boxed before?” he asked.

“Yes sir. I train at Yokohama’s gym.”

His brows lifted. “That wicked old man. He doesn’t let any talent slip through his fingers.”

He paused. “Let’s see how good you really are.”

He looked over at one of the seniors. “Bernie, get in the ring.”

To me, he said, “Change into the boxing gear in the storeroom—shorts and headgear.”

I changed and returned. I was still mad about Aalia—mad at myself. We started sparring. I wasn’t even focused—just throwing lazy punches and dodging out of habit.

Bernie, on the other hand, was going hard—trying to impress. Before I could reset, he landed a heavy body shot, then a jab to the face, and followed up with an uppercut. I staggered and dropped.

“Bernie! I told you to go easy on him!” the coach shouted.

He turned to me. “You’ve got potential, Collins. Best I’ve seen all day.”

The others in the room smirked, clearly happy I got knocked down.

They think I was showing off. They don’t even know what I’m capable of.

I stood up and looked Bernie dead in the eye.

“Let’s go again,” I said, stepping forward as he began to exit the ring.

“That’s enough for today,” the coach called.

“No, sir. I want another round.”

The coach raised a hand. “I said that’s enough—”

“What’s wrong, Bernie?” I cut in, eyes locked on him. “You scared I’ll knock your ass out this time?”

Gasps and chuckles rippled through the room.

Then I turned to the coach. “This your top pick?” I asked, nodding at Bernie. “Let me prove I’m better.”

The others started chanting, “Let them fight! Let them fight!”

“Alright, alright. Quiet down!” the coach barked. “Three rounds. Four minutes each.”

He briefed us quickly and signaled the bell.

“Touch gloves. Fight.”

I went to my corner and started bouncing lightly, circling the ring. My usual intimidation tactic.

Bernie looked confident. He’d never seen me fight. I’m only 5’10, so he probably underestimated me.

He came in swinging wide.

I ducked.

Came up from the side—two clean body shots, a sharp uppercut, then another uppercut followed by a shot to the head.

He hit the mat. Cold.

Silence.

The coach’s jaw dropped. Bernie wasn’t moving.

Then his friend—another guy in gear—jumped into the ring.

“Cole, don’t!” the coach shouted.

Too late.

He swung. I dodged. Tried again—missed.

I baited him again. He took it.

Duck.

Then I hit him with a move I call the bat—a punch swung like a baseball bat, aimed for the chin.

His body hit the floor right beside Bernie.

Suddenly, I felt someone grab my shoulder. I turned fast and instinctively threw a bat.

The person ducked.

I reacted again—uppercut—grazed their chin.

Only then did I realize it was the coach.

He was on the ground, looking up at me.

“I’m sorry, sir—I didn’t know it was you,” I said, offering my hand.

He grabbed it, still stunned.

This kid’s fast—too fast. That punch had weight. Even I might’ve been knocked out, he thought.

“Old man Yokohama, what kind of monster have you raised?” he whispered.

I helped him up, expecting to be kicked out for hitting him.

Instead, he lifted my arm and announced:

“We have the winner of this match—and the newest member of the boxing club!”