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There was a certain serendipity to the courtship of Doc Louis and Gabby Jay. The latter had walked into Doc's gym on a lark after his last trainer had hung up his gloves, thinking the man a liability for becoming a boxer in his late 50s. His coach would watch from the corner, but he wouldn't beat on the old man anymore. What was intended to be a simple few rounds of sparring practice now and then became something more intimate that neither Doc nor Gabby had expected.
Things were business as usual until Gabby began acting a bit…odd. That’s saying a lot, considering the Frenchman wore tasseled jackets outside of the ring and sometimes twirled his cowlick and mustache like a campy cartoon villain when you'd talk to him. He'd lean in ever so slightly when Doc would give him a reassuring pat on the back or a hand on the shoulder. His cheeks would flush pink when Doc gave him light ribbing that might make any other guy simply chuckle or roll his eyes at its hackneyed nature.
He had even baked him chocolate-chip brioche bread, much to Doc’s delight. Gabby spiked Doc’s gaydar so highly that his catchphrase might be better off "gay" than "yay," but this alone all but confirmed Doc's suspicions. Misreading the man could lead to a most humiliating experience for either of them.
Doc tested him further, little touches here and there to fix his posture or guide the man’s arm into a certain punching motion. It wasn’t at all necessary, but he had the gift of authority over a man eager to learn, and it was welcomed. Gabby had never gotten terribly injured when they sparred, save for some aches and pains that might be better attributed to a poor fighting stance.
On a particularly bad day, Doc took a risk and massaged the man’s neck, applying alternating ice and heat to the ache. He had thought Gabby would flinch and yank the hot/cold pack from him, insisting on independence, but he was instead rewarded with a groan of relief, eyelids gently fluttering as he leaned over to give Doc more space to rub his aching muscles.
Gabby snapped out of his trance, awash with self-consciousness. “Sorry…I should really be doing this myself.”
A gentle smile formed on Doc’s face. “Nah man, you’re good. Can’t reach your pressure points back here anyhow," he spoke in a low tone, continuing to knead his thumbs from his trap muscles to the nape of his neck. That was a bunch of bullshit, but he could tell that Gabby enjoyed it; or was he truly uncomfortable and wouldn’t say so? He abruptly ceased the circling of his fingers on his skin. “Unless you’d rather I stop, of course–"
“No!” Gabby didn’t hesitate a bit, for which he hastily corrected himself. “No, no…you’re fine. It helps.” The air was filled with silence save for the humming of the fans above them and Doc's relaxed breathing, making Gabby's head and neck tingle with the sound of every exhale. Pain melted away with every firm press of the man's large thumbs; Gabby would have fallen asleep if it hadn't been for the shock of Doc's warm fingers being replaced by the chilling ice pack.
With Gabby’s back turned, Doc was free to let his lips curl into a mischievous grin at having exposed his sparring partner’s true weak spot. Whereas most men are debilitated by a blow to the liver, Gabby had left a different vital organ vulnerable: the heart. He could try to defend himself from the former heavyweight champion, but his moves were telegraphed; Doc was always one step ahead.
⁎ ⁎ ⁎
“Gabby,” Doc started with a sober expression in the corner of a quaint café, “I think it might be best that we go our separate ways. I mean, professionally.”
The man sitting across from him, mouth ajar, gawked with concern. “What? Why?” He spoke in a hushed but devastated tone, leaning in closer to Doc.
“It’s just…I don’t think I’m the best fit for you in terms of trainers. You’ve got different needs than other fighters, and I-”
“Oh, it’s because I’m old, isn’t it,” said Gabby with a roll of his eyes, sarcasm dripping from every word. He was only five years Doc's senior, but far past the expiration date of the average boxer's career.
"No–"
"I know, Jerome. I’m a lost cause, and you don’t want to be responsible for my recklessness," Gabby said as if he'd recited others' words verbatim, then looked down at the table. "Just…be honest and rip the bandage off all at once, rather than inch by inch, wouldn’t you?”
“No, no, slow your roll, fella.” Doc held his palms in front of him in defense. “Don’t be puttin’ words in my mouth. I don’t give up on nobody. Oughta get you a trampoline, since you like jumpin' to conclusions so much.”
Gabby looked up at Doc, humbled. “I know...you can’t blame me for thinking it though, can you? I’m no spring chicken.”
“Listen, you’re a helluva lot more spry than most 56-year-olds,” Doc chuckled. “I ain’t too worried about that. You’re a crazy old bastard, yeah, but I like that about ya.”
Gabby clenched his fists on the table, tilting his head in puzzlement. “Then what is wrong with our arrangement, Jerome? My needs? What do I need that the former world champion can’t teach me? Wha–"’
“You’re not yourself when you’re in the ring with me," Doc interrupted.
Gabby sat in silence for a moment, taken aback by this unexpected criticism. His age, his poor posture and defense, his frequent aches and pains–all reasons why a trainer may tire of him, but he's not being himself? "I don't understand."
"Sorry, guess that's a little vague," said Doc, taking a sip from his mocha, the few moments he took to take a drink and swallow feeling excruciating in length to Gabby. "It's just… you hold back. I know Gabby Jay, and he don't hold back with anybody."
"I certainly do not!" Gabby tipped his nose at the man with an air of entirely undeserved pride. He would have a flawlessly defeated record had he not beat Glass Joe in a victory that could only be described as miraculous. At least Glass Joe had potential and was truly deserving of the title of journeyman–Gabby Jay was a punching bag from the very beginning. Yet, his perseverance rivaled–perhaps exceeded–the other's.
"Then why do you pull your punches with me?" Doc stared down the other with an authoritative glare, the same demanding look that had knocked Little Mac down a few pegs when the boy had an attitude. "We're buddies, but man, you won't get anywhere treatin' me with kid gloves. I know you do because I've seen your matches, watched footage front to back. I'm trying to help you, y'know. And I'd appreciate some honesty."
Gabby felt a surge of adrenaline jolt his body as he was thrusted into the hot seat, his face warmed with the metaphorical lightbulb of an interrogation room. Good Doc hadn't gotten the information, so now it was time for Bad Doc to come out. It wasn't the first time his patience had run thin with the man's obtuseness, reaching a fever pitch in this meeting.
Gabby simply shook his head, an incredulous smile cracking on one side of his face. "I'm not," he said with a laugh tinged with frustration, attempting to diffuse his own anger. "I don't know where this is coming from, but I don't appreciate these accusations. Goodness."
Doc's eyelids narrowed with the knowing gaze of a shrewd father having caught his child in a lie. Maybe he had been handling the other with kid gloves. What gets the 17-year-old Little Mac to behave won't intimidate a 56-year-old man. Time to break out the big guns.
"Do you have feelings for me?"
Gabby's defenses crumbled, revealing a gobsmacked expression. "What? What kind of question is that?"
"A perfectly fair one, I'd say," Doc said with confidence. "Listen. We're both adults here," he says, leaning in a bit and lowering his voice. "I'll be honest with you– I'm gay. I ain't accusin' ya, I could be wrong! I'm just tryin' to figure out what's goin' on."
"Jerome…" Gabby called his name weakly, again dodging his gaze and the proposition itself with a futile attack against the questioner.
Doc lays a sympathetic hand on the other's, which he doesn't withdraw in response. "Will you answer my question, Gabby?"
He looks back at the other with a melancholy smile, brow line resembling a single-peaked mountain with silent apologies forming the inclines on either side. "Jerome, you're…you’re such a, a generous, patient, funny man…
"I'm sorry, this wasn't my intention at all," he continued, voice tinged with guilt. "You're just wonderful…how could I help myself? A-and how could I tell you all of that? I wasn't trying to be difficult-"
"Hey," Doc said with a soft rasp and a squeeze of his hand to bring the man to his senses. "I know. That's why I asked. I completely get it, okay? Thank you for being honest with me."
Gabby tried to flash an artificial smile and a chuckle to bring levity to the situation. "Thank you for understanding," he said, uncertainty gripping him.
"I have to apologize," Doc admitted. "This is just as much of my responsibility. I really had no intention to overstep, but as a coach I should be able to separate my personal and professional life. I crossed a line. I'm sorry, Gabby."
"Overstep? You did not overstep at all. What, the massaging? Asking about my life? I did not mind. It helped, really,” said Gabby. He stirred his coffee with no real utility but to channel his nerves. "Would you… like something more than what we have now?"
"Well, yeah," Doc said frankly. "I'm not proud of the way I communicated it to ya, I understand if you're real ticked off that I flipped the script on ya like that, but yes. I would."
Gabby clasped the hand resting on top of his own with the other one left free. "You were the best trainer I could have asked for, Jerome. I don't regret a thing! It was fun, and as much as I don't want to see it end…maybe it's just a new beginning?" He gave a little chuckle. "So corny, I am sorry…"
"Do you know who you're talkin' to right now?" Doc points at himself. "Corn farmer. King of the corn," he says with that same hearty laugh that punctuated his awful jokes so many times before. It enveloped Gabby in warmth, a familiarity that acted as a security blanket against an unwritten future. It was infectious–he couldn't help but laugh himself. "Yeah, a new beginnin'. I like the sound of that…
“Thank you, Gabby. Now we didn't always see eye to eye, but what a gift it was to get to know you–the real you. An honor. You got the heart of a champion, man. I mean it."
"Jerome…c'mon," Gabby said, overwhelmed by the flattery, looking away from the man and smiling in embarrassment. "You can't…" his voice trailed off, pink-rimmed eyes becoming misty. "...you can't do this to me."
"I can, and I will," said Doc, moving his chair to a position adjacent to the man, both of them facing the window in the back corner of the café. An arm slung around the smaller man became a total embrace. "Man, you're making my eyes water," the last word cracked a bit as Doc fought back tears himself, a bittersweet laugh escaping his lips.
Gabby lifted his head from Doc’s shoulder. "Front to back?"
"Huh?"
"How much time did you spend watching footage of me, anyway?" He had remembered that offhand comment, a non sequitur that piqued his curiosity earlier, but he didn’t address it.
"A completely normal amount, and certainly not to see your handsome mug whenever I wanted, thank you very much," Doc stated matter-of-factly, to which Gabby responded with an almost coquettish giggle at the notion before squeezing the large man even tighter.
They were both in their 50s, but the love they shared beamed with revived idealism; two washed-up boxers forever in life’s prime as long as their hands were joined.