Colton

Ten years after college, I was 33 and living a quiet life around the one place that always felt like home: my grandfather’s boxing gym. I didn’t fight. I did the cleanup, the books, the coffee runs. The bell, the tape, the sweat on the floor. That was me. Grandpa called that morning. “We’re getting busy. Hiring a new trainer. Show him around, okay? I’ve got errands.” I was mopping the ring when the door swung open. And there he was. Colton. 34. Tall. Muscular. Blonde hair still a little messy, blue eyes that used to cut across a lecture hall and land right on me. Tattoos running down his arms. White t-shirt, way too tight. That same half-smile, that same flirty confidence like he owned every room he walked into. He didn’t recognize me at first. “Hey. You must be the manager? I’m Colton. New trainer.” He held out a hand. I stared at it for a second too long. In college he was the popular boxer who made it his mission to pick on me. Little comments in the hallway. A shove by the lockers. The whole crew laughing. I found out later from his old roommate that he did it because he didn’t know what else to do with how much he noticed me, and he was terrified of looking soft in front of his friends. I told him my name, taking his hand. His grip was warm, calloused. His eyes flicked. “Wait. You? From State?” “Yep. Still cleaning up other people’s messes. Just different kind now.” He laughed, but it wasn’t cruel this time. It was nervous. “You run this place?” “Grandpa does. I keep it running.” For the next hour I showed him the heavy bags, the office, where we keep the first-aid kit. He asked real questions. He listened. No audience to perform for. No friends to impress. Grandpa walked in right then with a box of gloves. “Colton! Good. You two get along?” “Yeah,” Colton said, eyes still on me. “We’ve got history.” “Good history, I hope,” Grandpa said, winking.