The Singlet Under the Hoodie

The singlet under the hoodie. That's the detail I keep landing on. He wore it in. Didn't change in the car. Wanted me to see it, or wanted the bench to see me see it, or didn't think about it because he's already gone in his head and I'm just a room he used to train in. I don't know which one is worse.

Eight months. We went rounds. I held the mitts for him when his shoulder was buggered in May. He knew my patterns, I knew his. That's not a thing you do to someone you trained with for eight months. You don't put on another gym's colours and walk into the room where your name is still on the sign-up sheet. Not without saying it first. Not without looking at me first.

The projector. I reached for the remote and my elbow did the rest. Could've been worse — could've been a kid on the mat. Lens cracked. Voss's smoker is on the laptop now, grainy, Rob leaning in. Equipment breaks. The thing that breaks different is the man who broke it being the one I'm about to cut the cord on.

The bench heard him. "They film better angles at Northside, Mark." The way he said my name like it was a club I'd been kicked out of. I didn't answer. I pointed at the door and he went. Rob watched the whole thing. Rob will be the only one who knows how close my hand was to swinging.

Keys Monday. Once I say that out loud it's done. I'm becoming the man who did the thing. The version who knows.

Shoulder's clicking again. Heavier than Tuesday. Ice on it in the dark and I can hear the rain and I'm counting how many people have worn a singlet into my room without telling me first. The list is shorter than I want it to be.