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Chase, full of angst and suppressed pain and anger, struck first. He didn’t hold back, knowing Eric was perfectly capable of handling with ease anything Chase could throw at him. Chase lashed out with a right cross, which Eric blocked easily, then lifted his knee, leaping into Eric to provide impetus to the blow. Eric quick-stepped backward, grabbed Chase by the bicep, threw himself to the floor, and planted his heel in Chase’s chest, kicking up and back to flip Chase over his head.  
    Landing with an ooomph , Chase was winded but scrambled to his feet, throwing up crossed arms to block the flurry of quick jabs Eric threw at him, designed more to distract and disorient than actually do damage. The real blow came suddenly as Eric danced backward then darted forward, left heel flashing out to catch Chase in the chest, winding him further and propelling him backward. It was enough to spur Chase into a fury. He launched himself forward, using Eric’s own tactic of a flurry of jabs to distract, then plunging in with a knee, then a snap-kick to Eric’s ribcage.  
    From there, the fight turned savage, in a friendly type of way. Eric seemed to sense Chase’s underlying tension and began pushing Chase harder and harder, putting real force behind his blows and letting fewer and fewer of Chase’s strikes through his defenses. After almost ten full minutes of all-out sparring, both men had bloody noses and bruised ribs. The core reason for Chase’s distress hadn’t changed, but at least he no longer felt like he was so on edge, so about to implode or explode, or just simply combust into a million pieces of sexual frustration and broken-hearted despair.
    They sat on a bench side by side and swigged from water bottles.  
    “What’s eating you, bro?” Eric asked.  
    Chase shrugged. Eric was a good friend and great source of stress relief, but he used the word “bro” in every sentence. It grated on Chase’s nerves after a while, which was why he usually kept their conversations to a minimum. “Just life,” he ended up saying.
    “Life? I’d think life would be great. You’re a fuckin’ legit rock star, bro. Things should be off the chain.”
    Chase suppressed a sigh; Eric also spoke in an endless series of slang phrases and terms. “Yeah, well. Even rock stars have problems, man. I just need to blow off some steam. Thanks for letting me stop by.”
    “Hey, I getcha. No worries, bro. I’ve got a date in a couple hours so I’m gonna bust outta here, but you go ahead and do what you need. You know your way around.” Eric bumped fists with Chase and then swaggered off to take a shower.  
    Chase finished his water, then refilled it and moved to the heavy bags suspended from the ceiling a few feet away from the ring. Chase rolled his shoulders, then slipped a soft right jab at the bag, an exploratory touch. A second, then a third, and then a pair of snap-kicks, followed by a roundhouse heel kick. With that, Chase was off in a frenetic rhythm of punching and kicking, letting out all of his anger and hurt, pummeling it all into the bag. He heard noises around him, people talking, the grunts and shuffles of a pair sparring in the ring, clinking and clanking of weight machines, but none of it penetrated through his awareness.
    When he finally stopped to rest, his hands on his knees, dragging in quick, deep panting breaths, he realized someone was watching him from the heavy bag nearest him. She was tiny but full-figured, barely five feet tall but blessed with curvy hips and breasts even a sports bra couldn’t hide. Her thick black hair was twisted into a braid dangling over one shoulder, and her eyes were a vivid green. Too green. Too reminiscent of—Chase cut that line of thinking off with brutal finality.
    She had a quirky grin on her lips. “That poor bag must’ve really pissed you off, huh?” She had her fists taped, and sweat was beading on her face, neck and chest. She was breathing almost as hard as he