Birds Without Wings(bxb)

2. Dacryphilia

"W-what?" I stutter.

Popcorn burns and cups spill over because I overthink so much. All day, I'm in my head planning all of my social situations meticulously, preparing for the best and worst-case scenarios. I can put a positive spin on getting punched in the stomach but this leaves me speechless.

Others have begun to enter the building. They come in packs, leaning on each other and talking too loudly for 8 am. We have a dormitory exclusive for our athletes. It's right next to the gym so the easy access usually has people waiting until the last minute to show up. They stroll in wearing sleepy eyes and our black team jacket. Both the jacket and the dormitory are things I won't have access to until I start winning fights. Sponsorships would be next and hopefully, respect is somewhere in there too.

"It's simple," Jameel says, bringing my attention back to his intense brown and blue eyes. "Give me ownership over your body. That way I can train you how I want and you'll just have to take it."

I look down to see if my hands are as visibly sweaty as they feel. I can't focus on him anymore. There's no way he's implying what I think he is.

Jameel grips my jaw and makes me look at him. His touch spreads heat down to my collarbones. Soft fingers compared to the callousness of his palm.

"If you want we can start with an hour. I'll train you in the ring for an hour and in exchange, I get to train you in my bed for the same amount of time." Jameel is still smiling at me, unaffected.

It looks more like a smirk when he does it. He takes part of his thick bottom lip between his teeth. Like a thief who just got away with a bank robbery.

I always have an ulterior motive. I shouldn't be shocked by his. Still, I pull away from him hard enough to fling myself a few steps backward. I'm in a blind spot behind the ring. There are mounds of cords back here kept hidden for aesthetic purposes. There's a gum wrapper peeking out from under my shoe that the cleaning team missed or swept back here themselves.

Jameel closes in and keeps me still. He places his hand over my throat this time, his grip having that much more pressure. He's insane for doing this in public but what's even more absurd is no one else has traveled far enough into the gym to notice us yet.

My size came in handy during all of my other fights. I'd drink until I couldn't walk straight, accidentally bump into some guy's girlfriend. He'd of course try to defend her honor or whatever. With wobbly legs, I'd avoid every punch. I'd put all of my strength into a counter attack: an uppercut or a head kick.

I worked for the mob after folding one of their henchmen. With no family and nothing else to live for, I was the perfect candidate. A metal baseball bat, a bloody hammer, all used to ruin people's lives just like I did my own.

This isn't like street fighting though. This is close combat with nowhere to run. All of my opponents are trained fighters with years of professional experience.

"Get the fuck off of me." I'm struggling to breathe let alone speak.

Jameel looks at me like I'm the last piece of colorful candy in a monochromatic trail mix. "Say please."

"Please."

"Cute," Jameel hums, but doesn't let go. His other hand is delicately moving my hair out of my eyes.

I hate him.

"I don't know," he drags on with his voice deep in the pits of hell. "It's something about the way you glare at me that really turns me on."

I can't remember the conversations we'd have back then. I know we talked a lot about our beyblades. Our bouts to see whose had the best mods or whose could spin the longest. Was he always this weird though?