Ballerina and the Boxer

A boxer; Intelligent, smooth, coordinated, strong. Boxing; an expression of fear and determination, love and loss, intensity and strength. Harry Styles, a boxer-the best of the best. His heart and soul pours into the ring against his shaken opponent. His ego-too high for his own good. He captures the eyes of all victims and viewers, every single one of them.

Harry pulled his hair back into a tight bun, slipped his gloves over his calloused palms, and tightened his laces. He stepped into the ring, jumping up and down, one foot to the other. Flynn, his coach held up his punching mitts and Harry began. Left, right, left, left, right, under, up, right, right, left. He was far from out of breath and ready to move on but he knew Flynn wanted more.

"Come on Harry, faster, harder."

"You know I can do this. It's unnecessary, redundant, pointless." he growled under his breath, Flynn didn't let down.

Flynn was Harry's trainer for the past twelve years. He was an amateur fighter, in the ring with others just as good. When he injured his left arm in the championship round of his 19th fight, it was over for Flynn. He was devastated, pushing Harry even harder.

"I don't care how unnecessary, redundant, or pointless it is Mr. big vocabulary, but we'll continue to do it until I say so. Now, keep working."

Harry rolled his eyes and fisted his hands to continue. He had a competition in just two days, the semi-finals for his weight group. He had to keep under 200 pounds and he was pushing 199.
"If I..." three punches up, "go overweight," two more down, "I'm blaming you." He stopped once more, taking off his gloves, "You know I won't win a 201 pound competition."

"I know the weights. Now let's run."

One mile and 23 sprints later Harry was finished for the day. He'd be weighed at nine am, deciding whether or not the match was on. He headed for the gym's scale and took off his sneakers and shorts, weighing at 201.

"Shit," he grumbled under his breath. It was hot, he would steam for a few hours.

++

Once out of the city, Harry pulled into a deserted area close to some woods and put on a long sleeved shirt, a zip up, and hoodie. He pulled on his sweat pants and sat in the driver's seat with the windows rolled up. His alarm was set for three hours and Heavy Metal was blasted. It wasn't his forte in music but he needed to stay awake-he couldn't fall asleep or pass out.

With just one hour left his phone began to ring. Flynn, making sure he wasn't doing anything stupid. Something such as wearing multiple layers of clothing and baking in an un-air conditioned car for three hours. It wasn't only unhealthy but strictly prohibited.

"Flynn," Harry spoke with as much emphasis as he could. His eyes were closed and his body was hunched over. His hair was stuck to his face and the only thing holding his body up was the steering wheel where his head rested.

"Where are you?"

"Home, ready to sleep."

"Bullshit, where are you? I swear to fucking God if you're in those damn woods-"

"I'm fine Flynn!" he tried to bark but he was weak. He needed to roll down the windows or get out, or both. But he wanted to win.

"Harry, get out of that car now, strip down, and grab some water."

"Don't have water," his hallucinations were beginning to form. The least he could do was bring a friend with him. Someone to drive him home, he thought, annoyed.

"Just tell me where you are, it's three am, you need food and sleep."

So Flynn found Harry, drowned him in water, and drove him home. He may have been in the right weight, but he sure as hell wasn't ready to fight.

Notes