I play with the radio until Coach shoots me a death glare, forcing my hand to retreat. The car is so old that there's still a cassette player, and an old pinecone air freshener dangles from the rearview, its scent ingrained into the old, worn seats.

"Ever thought about getting a new car, Chief?"

His eyes flit over, brief but cutting. "Why replace something if it's not broken?"

I don't bother to tell him this is such a dad thing to say; I roll my eyes. "Maybe because you're missing out on amazing technological advancements by living in the past?"

He mutters something incoherent and reverses from his space. For the first five minutes, I sit quietly with my hands in my lap, wondering how to fill the silence or if I should fill it at all. Coach strikes me as the type who likes to carpool in silence, but the awkwardness kills me.

"So, what's the stuff you're donating?" I ask. "I doubt we're gonna fit a heavy bag in here."

He gives me this look as if to say, ya think? I shrug as if maybe he's so old that it hadn't occurred to him that there's no room in this tiny vehicle for a heavy bag.

"Not stuff like that," he says. "It's more memorabilia. Old boxing gloves, keepsakes – that kind of thing. Are you going to yap the whole way?"

I turn to the window again, watching trees pass by. I figured a last-minute field trip would help take my mind off Nico, but with nothing to do except listen to Coach's old music, it's all I can think about. Sighing, I swiftly change the radio station before Coach can bat me away, determined to play something less ancient.

"Hey," he says gruffly. "I liked that song."

"Can't we listen to something from this decade? It sounded like something from the fifties."

"The seventies."

"Same thing," I say, which earns me another narrowed look.

"I can see why your grades are average."

I recline in my seat – or try to – but the car is so old that it gets stuck halfway, leaving me in an uncomfortable, half-upright, half-relaxed state. "Have you checked out GymCon's accounts lately?" I ask. "We've been getting way more engagement. Once I have my fight with Katarina, everyone will want to join."

He nods, but he doesn't believe me. It stings, but I don't take it personally; if anything, it makes me want to try harder. "How's school going, anyway?" he asks. "You haven't had detention in a while, so that's something."

"Hey, you noticed."

Even though he tries to suppress it, he grins. It's one of those fatherly grins, wide and wrinkled but full of affection, the kind my dad gives me.

I smile. "Hey, Coach, if you could retire, where would you go?"

His mouth ticks upward. "I wouldn't retire. Someone has to make sure you kids stay out of trouble."

"Oh, come on," I say, still trying to fix my seat, "think about it. What would you do if you didn't have the gym and had no money restraints? Where would you go?"

He shrugs and pulls to a traffic stop before glancing out the window. His eyes take on this far-off look that tugs at my heart. "I'd take a trip to Barbados."

My eyebrow arches. Of all the places I'd expected him to say, Barbados hadn't crossed my mind. Still, I can imagine him sitting on a beach, wearing his USA coaching hat and sipping a cocktail with an umbrella. He'd be wearing the grumpiest expression as if someone had forced him there against his will, but deep down, he'd love every moment.

"Well, if the gym starts turning a profit, maybe you'll get to go," I say.

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Maybe, kid. Shouldn't you be thinking of your own dreams, anyway? You got a whole future in front of you. What are you gonna do with it?"

I shrug. The truth is, I don't like thinking too far ahead, and my mind changes so often that making any concrete plans seems silly. Who knows what I'll want in another two years? Three? I sure as hell don't, and trying to figure it out now scares me to death.

"Maybe I'll become a coach like you," I tease.

I half expect him to tell me I'd make an awful coach, but he doesn't. Instead, briefly, he smiles. "Sounds like a good plan to me."

We pull into a quiet, residential street, and my chair flies forward and locks into place. I throw my hands out, cushioning the force by leaning on the dashboard. "Jesus," I say, glaring at Coach. "This thing is a death trap."

He smirks and pulls into the drive of a house, which is small but cozy. I tug on the door handle, jerking it a few times before it finally lets me out.

Coach climbs out, too, coughing a little as he leans on the door, stretching out his back. "The door's open," he says, voice hoarse. "You go on ahead."

I walk toward the house, my footsteps crunching on the gravel path leading up to the front door. As I push the creaky door open, the musty smell of old books and furniture hits me.

A single lamp dimly lights what looks to be the living room, casting long shadows on the walls. The wallpaper is peeling, revealing the faded floral pattern underneath, and a worn-out armchair sits in the corner, its upholstery frayed and stained.

Coach stands behind me, still coughing, and I slowly turn around. "Don't take this the wrong way, Coach, but your house desperately needs a makeover."

"Add it to my long list of things to do," he says. "Now, less yapping and more helping."

I follow him into the hallway, where hundreds of old photographs cover the walls, creating a patchwork of moments frozen in time. Some are framed in ornate gold frames, while others are tacked to the wall with thumbtacks or tape.

I approach the wall, taking in pictures of Coach and his boxers at various sporting events. They've yellowed with age, and some curl at the edges as if exposed to too much moisture. In one of them, Coach stands by a man who looks like Hayden, his arm thrown casually over his shoulder as they smile for the photo.

"What was he like?" I glance at Coach, who stands silently beside me, taking in the wall with a clouded expression. "The guy who used to own the gym, I mean."

Coach's eyes soften. He doesn't say anything for a moment, but the way his stubbled jaw clenches tells me he's fighting back emotion. "The best man I've ever known," he says. "Came from nothing and opened the gym to save kids like himself." His eyes turn watery as he swiftly looks away. "Said if you don't believe in the kids of today, there's no future for us." He looks back now, tilting his head. "He was right."

I take a final look at the photographs. They remind me of the magazines I collect, little snapshots in time that show he was here, he made a difference; I want to make a difference too.

"My brother wants to visit tomorrow," I say. "My mom thinks it's a bad idea. She has this idea that boxing will turn him into a troublemaker."

The corner of Coach's mouth lifts, the tiniest gleam in his eyes. "I like to think it's the opposite. Come on, we've got some moving to do."

I follow him up the narrow staircase, my hand on the wooden railing for support. The attic is dark, the only light coming from a small window that lets in a shaft of sunlight. As I reach the top step, I catch Coach standing amid a sea of cardboard boxes. The boxes are stacked haphazardly, some open and spilling their contents onto the floor. The air is thick with dust, and I can feel it tickling my nose. This cannot be good for my allergies.

Together, we sort through which boxes to donate. Coach is surprisingly spry for his age, and he moves quickly, his eyes bright with nostalgia as we pack away each item.

When we're finished, we spend the next thirty minutes loading his car. In the last box, which has yet to be taped, I find a small keyring shaped into boxing gloves, the words, Be Brave engraved into it. It's a little cheesy, but I find myself turning it over in my hand.

"It was a keepsake from my first fight," Coach says when he catches me playing with it. "Keep it, if you want."

I look at him, surprised. "Are you sure?"

He nods and tapes up the box before hurrying down to the car. I tuck the keyring in my pocket, reminding myself to attach it to my keyring later, and slip into the passenger seat.

After dropping the boxes at his friend's garage, Coach drives us back to the gym. It's pushing closing, and the second we pull up, I think of an excuse to get rid of Coach before Nico arrives.

Coach kills the engine but doesn't get out. Instead, he turns to me, frowning. "I've been thinking," he says, his voice as gruff as ever, "and if you think you've learned your lesson, you can train again."

My smile practically cracks at the seams. "Really?"

He holds up a finger as if about to list a condition. "As long as you stay out of trouble."

"Deal. You won't regret it, Coach."

"Hmff." He gets out of the car and walks over to GymCon. I lean against the wall as he fumbles with his keys, thinking about how Nico will be leaving Box Inc any moment, and lo and behold, he does.

I shake my hands behind Coach's back, telling Nico to wait. He pauses on the sidewalk, tilting his head in amusement, and god, he looks good.

Coach looks over and scowls. "What's that square head doing here?"

Before I can answer, a pretty girl follows Nico out. She taps his shoulder, waiting for him to half-turn around before she smiles and hugs him. He hugs her back, and the pair continue chatting on the sidewalk, the best of pals. My stomach clenches as I follow Coach upstairs, not with anger exactly, but something just as bad.

Jealousy.

A/N

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