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chest.
    “Yeah. I mean the after-school program. Sorry. I must have been confused. I can’t afford to join a gym.” I stepped away, ready to bolt.
    “You’re a student?”
    “Yeah,” I answered.
    His eyes narrowed. “It’s yes, sir.” Then he motioned for me to repeat it.
    “Yes, sir.”
    He nodded approvingly. “Christ you’re big for a kid. How old are you?”
    “Seventeen.”
    “Play football?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Senior?”
    “Junior,” I corrected.
    He gave me a quick head-to-foot scan and shook his head. “All right, then. Let me switch that out for you.” After pulling out a thick, manila envelope from the drawer, he slid it in my direction. “Why aren’t you in school right now, Till Page?”
    “I don’t have class last hour,” I lied.
    “So, can I expect you here at two every day, then? Ya know, since you don’t have class last hour?” He gave me a knowing smirk that read: busted.
    “Well—,” I started but he cut me off.
    “You miss school, you don’t come here. Got it?”
    “Yeah,” I answered quickly, but he glared at me. “I mean, yes, sir.”
    “Better. Look, this program is for kids with integrity. Lying to me will land your ass on the street. So let’s try this again. Why aren’t you in school right now, Till Page?”
    I uncomfortably looked down at my shoes. “I, uh, wanted to enroll in the program. I was worried it would fill up before I got a spot, so I skipped class.”
    “Okay. You owe me three miles.” He walked to a filing cabinet before returning with a neon-yellow piece of paper.
    “Three miles of what?”
    “Cardio! We have our own punitive system here at On The Ropes. Skipping class is three miles. Just be glad it was only one. Skipping a whole day earns you hand-washing jockstraps.” He laughed as I curled my lip in disgust. “It’s all outlined right there. As well as the membership fees.”
    I tilted my head in confusion, “I thought the afterschool program was free. I just told you I can’t afford gym fees!” My attitude slipped.
    His whole friendly demeanor disappeared. He was glowering at me, and even as tough as I pretended to be, it still scared the fuck out of me.
    I amended the end of my outburst. “Sorry.”
    “You don’t have to pay me with cash, so technically, it is free. Don’t worry. I had a lawyer look over that flier before passing out. No false advertising here.” He winked. “Manual labor is my currency of choice. The back of that”—he nodded down at the paper—“outlines the fees for your time spent here. Everything from sweeping the floors to cleaning the toilets, right down to folding towels, is on there. It also outlines the price of meals in manual labor as well. You need something to eat? I’ll feed you. But it’s not a handout. You’ll work for that too.”
    “Meals?” I asked, more than just a little interested.
    “Yep. You’ll probably think they are nasty as hell. Real healthy stuff. Good for your body. I’m training fighters, not slouches.”
    “Oh, okay,” I responded while scanning the “price chart.”
    Slate had figured out the “cost” for everything from just hanging out at the gym after school to private one-on-one boxing lessons with him. You could “buy” workout clothes or your own gloves with extra jobs as well.
    Jesus. He was running a sweatshop, but that was all right with me.
    “Max ten hours a week. You do those ten hours then everything opens up to you free of charge: meals, training, summer program, one set of workout clothes a month. And that even comes with my promise to keep my mouth shut when I find you crying about your sore muscles in the locker room.” He smiled.
    I rolled my eyes.
    “I’m not going to bullshit you. I expect hard work in and out of that ring. You go to school and then come here. That’s it.”
    “I work two jobs,” I informed him.
    “Fine. You go to school, work, then On The Ropes. Nothing else.”
    That sounded perfect. Well, nothing else