The Trainer Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, sponsors, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, dead or living, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Shey Stahl

  Published in the United States of America

  ISBN-13: 978-1502499240

  ISBN-10: 150249924X

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of Shey Stahl.

  Boxing terms are copyright of: http://www.ringsidebygus.com/boxing-terms.html

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  A fight card or card is a program of boxing consisting of all the boxing matches that take place during a boxing event. Fight cards consist of a main event and an undercard of the rest of the matches.

  No one uses their home phone anymore. We use cell phones. So when one rings, what do we do?

  We stare at it like it’s a bomb.

  “Phone’s for you.”

  “For me?” I looked at the device like I wasn’t sure how to even handle it.

  Jared tipped the phone toward me, his other hand bringing his beer to his lips. “Anyone else around? Yes, you.”

  No one called me anymore unless it was Jared. He can’t text for shit so he calls. And he was sitting next to me, so it wasn’t him.

  I took the phone from him, more than curious as to who was calling me. “Hello?”

  There was a distant hum on the other line before a raspy voice asked, “Tallan?”

  “Yes… ”

  Another long pause before, “It’s Silas.”

  “Silas who?”

  He chuckled, damn near offended. “Cade… I’m sure you remember, yes?”

  Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  Immediately I stood and tried to get myself into a more private part of the small apartment. Wasn’t really possible so I huddled in the corner between the cabinets and the fridge.

  If it wouldn’t have been so inappropriate, I would have squealed knowing who was on the other line. And then I would have called the person a liar. Which I’m about to. Just wait.

  “No way, is this some sort of April Fool’s shit someone’s playing on me?”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  See?

  “Yes. Because the Silas Cade I know is all over the radio these days and wouldn’t be calling his high school fuckbuddy he hasn’t spoken to in over five years.”

  You see, I know one Silas Cade and he’s the boy who at sixteen, owned my fucking heart. He also ripped it out when he left two years later to follow his dreams of having a music career.

  “Oh come on. You were more than a fuckbuddy, honey.”

  I didn’t say anything to that. I wasn’t sure what to say at that point. I was just dumbfounded he was even calling me.

  “I know it’s been a while but I’m gonna be on tour in Seattle in six weeks. You still live there?”

  “Yeah… ”

  “Would you want to meet up after the concert? I can get you a backstage pass.”

  Seriously? Like… seriously?

  Without thinking, I answered. “Sure.”

  “Really?”

  “I could change my mind.”

  He laughed, the light sound ringing through the line. A smile tugged at my lips. He always had such a beautiful laugh. “Okay, so I’ll be in touch then.” He sighed slightly, as if he forgot to say something important. “The concert is May eighteenth at the Key Arena.”

  “Okay.” It’s so hard to believe that he was playing at venues like that. And even harder to believe that I owned every song he released.

  “Bye, Tallan.” His raspy voice rang through, so perfect and clear when he said my name. The way the sound rolled off his tongue made me want to beg him to say it again.

  Don’t say bye. Just stay here on the phone with me forever.

  “Bye.”

  What the hell just happened?

  When I set the phone down I wasn’t sure what to think about what just happened.

  As shitty as it was, Silas still owned my heart and I’d do anything to be with him again. Anything. I knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. I have gotten wiser at twenty-two years old but it was, after all, Silas Cade and if I had just one night to show him a good time, that could potentially bring him back, right?

  “Who was it?”

  I gave Jared a look, one he knew well. “You remember Silas, right?”

  “You mean the virgin stealer who broke your heart and is now a famous rock star?” He pointed to the radio. “The guy singing that song? That guy?”

  I nodded, listening to the sexy rhythm strumming through the radio. “Yes. That guy.”

  “Nope.” He looked back at the television trying to find that show Naked and Alone. “Can’t recall who that is, actually.”

  “Well,” I sat down next to him on the couch, “the one and only Silas Cade, love of my life is coming back into town and wants to meet up with me… ME!” An inner grin, hell, a fucking outer grin, lighting up my entire face as I told Jared my news.

  “Yeah, that sounds about right. Because there’s not any other groupies available in Seattle that night?” A look passing over his face that reeked of disapproval. He knew what this was and wasn’t sugarcoating it. “A one night booty call at his old stomping grounds… yeah, this has life-long commitment written all over it.”

  “Shut up, Jared. Don’t rain on my Silas Cade parade.”

  Rolling my eyes, I set the phone on the table in front of us, trying to calm my breathing a little. It’d been so long since I heard from him I wasn’t sure how to react. Well, my mind didn’t know how to react but my body, just hearing that melt your panties right off your body voice of his, had its own mind and was doing all sorts of funny things at the moment.

  Oh. My. God. My body! It wasn’t in the same shape as it was five years ago. Twenty pounds heavier and this God of Rock was expecting to see the old Tallan with the smoking body. He’d be expecting that girl he left. The one with the long lean legs and flat stomach. Definitely not this girl with the little tummy roll and the flabby legs. We won’t talk about the arms and ass just yet.

  Six weeks… six weeks to get back into the condition that Silas remembered. Panic was starting to set in right in front of Jared. There was no way in hell I was going to freak out in front of him. I didn’t need his sidelong glances of judgment raining down on me. Six weeks, I can do this. Challenge. Fucking. Accepted.

  So while I had the idea that I was going to look the same I decided to sneak into my bedroom when Jared turned the TV to the History Channel. Apparently he couldn’t find Naked and Alone. Guess he was going to content watching Ice Road Truckers instead.

  I had met Silas when I was only thirteen. We were the same age, even shared a birthday. Over summer break when we were going from the seventh to the eighth grade, we formed a friendship over Pearl Jam. It became our one thing we always went back to. Silas played the guitar and sang but n
ever gave it much thought until I pushed him a little. He had an unbelievable talent and it was evident early on it he wanted a career in music, he would have it.

  Eventually him and his friends formed a band. They played all around Seattle in any bar that would let them in. They say it only takes one hit to get you noticed and that was true for Silas. After he left for New York, four months later, his first single, the one he said he wrote for me, “Never Knew” was on the Billboard 100.

  Was I depressed when he left?

  Fuck yeah I was depressed. I was there for him through everything. The band drama, his occasional mix up with drugs, his parents splitting up, his sister dying, all of it.

  And what did he offer me?

  A fucking phone call.

  I thought I would never move on. And given the chance, I was going to get my answer.

  Going to that concert could potentially give me that opportunity.

  Digging through my closet and the box that hadn’t been opened since I moved into this apartment, I found my old jeans from high school.

  Pushing aside magazines and year books, I held them up and knew damn well those babies weren’t getting over these thighs. But I tried anyway.

  Even laying down on the bed wasn’t getting them on. Butter and oil probably wouldn’t have done me much good either.

  I’m not exactly sure how, maybe because I stopped breathing for a whole minute, I got the jeans on. Only then I had to get up.

  Another story all together.

  I’m telling you right now, this was the shit funniest home videos were made of, I just knew it.

  What was worse?

  Me attempting to stand up with the tightest jeans on that I’d somehow managed to get myself into. All I needed was Jared to walk in on me at any moment during this state of extreme duress I was under. I wouldn’t have been able to tell him not to come in if he knocked because breathing was optional. If I breathed I was sure the button would have flown off and broke the window.

  When I did shimmy my way to a standing position, then I had to actually walk by bending my knees. I should have taken them off but I needed confirmation on this look though so I decided to face my fears. With a good amount of effort, I did the zombie walk out to the living room to get Jared’s opinion.

  Worst. Mistake. Ever.

  Jared eyed the jeans, his smile nearly making his eyes squint closed as he held in what I knew was going to be the biggest fucking belly laugh known to man. “What are those, spandex or jeans?”

  “My old jeans from high school.” It hurt to speak because speaking required breathing and I only got to pick one.

  “Why do you still have jeans from your senior year in high school?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you have old porn from college in your closet?”

  He leveled me a serious look. “You can’t just throw porn out. It never ages or deteriorates… or gets too big to fit… in jeans.”

  “Fuck you, Jared.” I tried to relax my posture but the button was trying to poke a hole in my belly button. “Seriously, how do these look?”

  I must have looked uncomfortable. Hell, I was uncomfortable. It was like someone was squeezing my gut like an anaconda squeezes the last breath out of its prey.

  “Tallan, I hate to be honest but as your friend, and a guy, and someone who feels as much pain seeing you wear those jeans as you are obviously in … those are way too tight. Can you even breathe?”

  “No,” I gasped as I unzipped them feeling a little lightheaded due to lack of oxygen yet mostly relieved. “I can’t breathe.”

  When I unzipped them I felt a little relief. But it wasn’t enough. I had to get them off all the way. The problem was, they weren’t coming off without assistance at that point. I got them on, just barely but getting them off was damn near impossible.

  Jared must have sensed the panic because he looked over at me and set his beer on the end table. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t get them off.”

  “You got them on… ”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I shook my head, nearing tears. How fucking embarrassing. “You should call 911. They’re not coming off.”

  I’m claustrophobic. And these jeans were making me feel like I was enclosed in a tomb of denim. The shit was getting real and I wasn’t discounting hyperventilating at this point. So when they wouldn’t come off after five minutes of my frantic tugging, Jared began to laugh. I’d lost all sense of stability and reached for the scissors in the drawer.

  That’s when Jared panicked. “Whoa!” He held up his hands in a calming manner, his palms raised as if he was going to try negotiating with me. “Put the scissors down.”

  “I can’t take it any longer!” I held them up in the air. “I’m doing it!”

  He stood from his place on the couch. “Here, let me do it then. You’ll cut your leg off with as spastic as you are right now.” And then he motioned for the couch. “Try it this way. You sit on the couch and I’ll pull.”

  “I can’t sit.”

  “Well, okay,” he reached for the waistband and smiled, his chest pressed against mine. “You know, this isn’t the first time I’ve taken your pants off.” He teased, trying to lighten the situation.

  “Jared?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m still holding the scissors.”

  “Got it.” He pulled once more, tugged and pushed. They weren’t budging. I was sure they were permanently a part of me. They had somehow merged with the epidermis of my skin to create this exoskeleton that would somehow protect me from future cellulite because, let’s face it, I couldn’t breathe wearing these jeans so eating was completely out of the question. I would forever be wearing Big Star jeans that were three sizes too small.

  Jared stood once more, sweating and pushing his hair from his sticky forehead. “Okay, maybe we should cut them off.”

  I sighed. “Finally some reasoning.”

  Jared was hesitant with the scissors. Rightfully so, I guess. He was cutting jeans off someone. I’m not sure how it happens so quick in the ER when they cut clothing away but I guarantee you it’s not slicing and dicing jeans as tight as these were. He could barely get the scissors between the fabric and my skin.

  It took Jared ten minutes before they were off because he acted as if he was a blind man threading a needle.

  Standing, he smiled when the fabric fell away and finally I could breathe. “And now your pants are off.”

  “Thank you.” I sighed, because finally I could inhale and exhale and then grabbed at my stomach. “Jesus. That hurt.”

  “Should I do your shirt too? It looks tight.” He squeezed the scissors in his hand.

  Rolling my eyes, I smacked him with my elbow as I walked back to my room.

  “Nice panties!” He yelled after me, laughing.

  Touching knuckles is how boxers greet each other whether they’re wearing gloves or not. Touching gloves before the opening bell is also part of boxing protocol.

  Everyone’s heard that story about the small town boy moving on to bigger things. They’ve heard it because it’s so common.

  What you don’t hear about it is what they left behind, and who was left oftentimes with a broken heart as the only remembrance that they were ever really there. Silas left me behind. And I never heard from him again. Until last night.

  I knew why he left. I get it. He wanted to follow his dreams and he had the talent to do so. What I couldn’t understand, and what I wanted to know was why couldn’t he have those dreams that included me too?

  Did I mean anything to him?

  Four years together and then one day out of the blue and just days after high school graduation, as we made summer plans, he just up and left me.

  He didn’t even tell me in person. He called when he was in New York three days after graduation.

  What did he say?

  “I’m staying in New York. Sam thinks he can get me a record deal so I have to see what it could turn into.”

  So
me four months later his music was being played on the radio. I never doubted for a minute that he could be a success. But was I so disposable that we couldn’t have chased his dreams together?

  I was the one left behind. And I do say left behind because life has literally left me behind since then.

  I graduated last spring from Western Washington University. Since then I’ve been working as a freelance writer for blogs, magazines, newspapers, just where ever the money was. It paid the bills at least and allowed me the freedom of not having to go to a nine-to-five job.

  The problem was I had to answer to those particular blogs, magazine, newspapers and no story was off limits. You want a story about ice fishing in the Antarctic; jock itch in Zimbabwe; or shearing sheep in Sweden and I got to write about it. Whoever wanted the story. Every time it was someone different too. Like right now. I’m working on an article for the Seattle Times on the Seattle Light Rail project. I can’t say it’s keeping my interest though and it doesn’t help either that the editor involved is a total asshole.

  Lauren Mitchel is a complete bitch and picks apart everything, and everyone. She’s also the type of woman who gives you a deadline and then proceeds to send you reminders for a week about your upcoming due date. When you don’t reply, she calls you.

  “I need your article by two.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Why would I joke about that?”

  “I didn’t know it was due today.” I’m joking with her but she has no sense of humor. At all.

  “Well, it is.” Her tone was clipped. “Didn’t you get my reminders I sent out?”

  “Oh, well maybe.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Cool down, Lauren.” Scrolling down in the document I checked the word count. “I’ll have it to you soon.”

  “By two?”

  “By one.”

  I managed to get the article to her by noon and wanted to tell her to un-bunch her panties because my shit was handled. I knew there’d be a ton of changes coming my way later but it always felt good to meet deadlines.

  Thinking of deadlines got me thinking about Silas and my goal. I’d skipped lunch but by the time five rolled around I was starving. I don’t know how people go without eating. I was certain that I would need assistance in losing the weight because the starvation diet wasn’t going to cut it. The dreaded exercise word was floating around in my brain, trying to get pushed aside by the hungry neurons that were jumping ahead of it telling me to eat whatever I wanted. I was going to need a professional.