Shadowboxer Read online

  “Hey, Madi.”

  “Every other fucking day you show up early, but not today.” Madi shoved her hands into her back pockets, her eyes bright and fierce.

  Jordan assessed the young woman, checking her pupils and reading her body language out of habit. Madi was stressed but not high. Anger masked her nerves, but she seemed in control. Jordan relaxed. It had been a long time since she’d seen Madi high.

  “I’m here,” Jordan said. Staying calm helped the kids stay calm. Usually. “What’s up?”

  “This meeting. It’s weird. I mean, it’s fine. These guys are bringing in a boatload of money for the gym and the program. So it has to be worth it, right?”

  Jordan felt two steps behind already. She hated that feeling.

  Cay jumped in. “Let’s hear what they have to say before we answer that question. You get to draw the line, Madi. It’s your life.”

  Madi rolled her eyes, but she relaxed her shoulders a little. Power and choice were commodities on the streets. Jordan and Cay tried to give them for free wherever they could.

  “Sierra’s with the suits,” Madi said. “I should get back. As her manager, I should be there.”

  Madi was a graduate of the youth boxing gym program. She still worked out at the gym, but she was also unofficially mentoring with Jordan to be a general manager. At twenty, Madi had the charisma and brains and heart to be whatever she wanted to be. But the world held few opportunities for a young woman with only a high school degree and a complex host of mental health needs. And now that she was an adult, at least in the eyes of the system, Madi could no longer access services through Jordan and Cay. It had been a rough year of transition. Jordan’s counterpart in adult services, Helena Cavio, had taken Madi under her wing. Jordan and Madi were still working out their shift to friendship.

  Jordan looked over by the ring where a small group gathered. A man and a woman in casual business wear stood talking with Sierra.

  “You’ve met them already?” Jordan indicated the group by the ring. It wouldn’t do Madi any good to let her discomfort show.

  Madi shrugged. “Yeah. They seem copacetic.”

  Cay laughed and Jordan grinned. Madi finally smiled.

  “Lead on, Ms. Battiste,” Cay said. “You can be in charge of the introductions.”

  Kids called out to the trio as they made their way back to the boxing ring. The warm-up was almost complete, and soon the kids would start their circuits, taking turns as coach and boxer at each station. It was a way to address the power struggles, but it was only partially successful.

  An older man with neatly styled white hair and a plain suit turned and smiled as they approached. Jordan suspected this was Tom Lawrence, president of the Centera Corporation, the company looking to buy some good PR by offering to fund the youth boxing program for a year. At least, that was Jordan’s cynical take on it. Jordan shifted her attention to Sierra, who looked relieved at their arrival. She was sixteen and strong and already had a left hook that made Jordan wary. Right now she looked like a scared kid.

  Madi started the introductions, her voice rising above the din of the gym and showing none of her previous nerves. But the words and the sounds were suddenly drowned out for Jordan, a mere buzz in the background as she took in the other person standing silently in the group.

  She was tall, close to Jordan’s height, and dressed simply in dark grey pants and a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She had dark blonde hair that barely reached her shoulders. Then the woman turned fully around and Jordan took in the blue-grey eyes she had looked into a hundred times before. Jordan tried to swallow as her heart bottomed out, then pounded painfully against her ribcage. Ali Clarke, the first girl Jordan had ever loved, was standing in her gym.

  Ali’s smile was full of confidence and knowing, the expression of a woman who knew exactly where she was in the world. The pictures in Jordan’s mind of Ali just as confident and sure at seventeen were rapidly replaced by this living, breathing, beautiful woman.

  “It’s traditional in our culture to shake hands, Jordan.”

  Madi’s sarcasm cut through Jordan’s thoughts, and she realized Ali was holding out her hand. Jordan mumbled an apology and shook Ali’s hand, the contact far too brief to bring Jordan any joy or clarity.

  “I’ve taken Ms. McAddie off guard, I think.” Ali’s voice was smoother than Jordan remembered, as if she’d modulated out the elation of childhood.

  “A little, yes.” That seemed inadequate, but Jordan was suddenly very conscious of the group surrounding them. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “You know each other already?” Cay said.

  The beat of silence was so brief, but Jordan felt the weight of years.

  “We were in our final year of high school together,” Ali said. Her tone was easy and conversational. Her eyes held a different message, but Jordan was unsure she could decipher it.

  “Another Saint Sebastian graduate? Excellent!” Tom, the CEO, looked genuinely pleased. “Alison has told me a great deal about that school.”

  “Just my final year of high school,” Jordan explained. The all girls private school trained elite athletes, and Jordan had attended only part of one year. Her world had just fallen apart and one of the trainers from the boxing gym, a cop and his wife, had taken her in, convincing Saint Sebastian to give her a scholarship and a chance. She’d shown up late in September, battered and angry, focused on her goal of doing whatever she needed to get the hell out of Halifax and away from her family.

  “Madi, why don’t you take Mr. Lawrence and Ms. Clarke on a tour of the gym, and then we can all meet up in the office,” Cay said.

  Jordan was thankful Cay had stepped in to lead this meeting. She was thrown by Ali’s sudden presence, a whip backwards to a time of intense happiness and bruised anger.

  After a quick and curious look to Jordan, Ali followed Madi and her boss. Jordan and Cay fell in behind as Madi explained the set-up of the boxing program, focusing on the mentoring and co-op systems Jordan had implemented to try and provide structure and opportunity for the kids who came through her gym.

  “Anything I should know?” Cay said.

  I just shook hands with my biggest regret.

  “No.”

  “A no which means yes,” Cay sighed. “My favourite kind.”

  Madi continued to lead the group around the gym, drawing the details into a story as only Madi could. Jordan caught a glimpse of Ali’s face in profile as she listened to Madi’s speech, steeling her stomach against an unexpected sensation of sudden nausea.

  Jordan had always thought Ali Clarke was golden. She was athletic and fearless, stubborn and intelligent. She set goals and climbed toward them with precision and pride. At seventeen, Ali’s privileged upbringing had afforded her a status that never once diminished a rigid moral compass of right and wrong. Ali never seemed to falter. To eighteen-year-old Jordan, a tough exterior hiding the softness of her internal bruises, Ali shone like a summer sun in a Maritime winter.

  Jordan had walked away from that sun fourteen years ago and wondered if she’d ever been warm since.

  “You’re scowling.”

  Jordan blinked into the present. “I’m not.”

  Cay arched an eyebrow. “She’s beautiful. I can’t help wondering why that makes you grumpy?”

  Jordan had to laugh. “It’s a long story.”

  “The best kind. Let’s have coffee this week, and you can start at the beginning. Right now, however, I think Madi’s gym tour is done and you’re up next.”

  Jordan checked on the group ahead. Madi was answering questions but kept giving Jordan quick glances. She obviously needed a rescue.

  “Got this,” Jordan muttered to herself.

  “It’s only the future of these kids riding on your shoulders,” Cay stage whispered. “Don’t screw it up.”

  Jordan grinned at Cay, then squared her shoulders and shook out the tension in her arms. All eyes turned to her as she approached, a
nd Jordan took the three short steps to remind herself why she was here. Soon she would be a social worker, fighting for her kids and the resources that could give them a chance. This was about their future. Past was past.

  “I was thinking now that you’ve had a chance to see the gym, we could head upstairs to the office to talk about what you’re proposing. We might actually get to hear ourselves think up there.”

  “It smells better, too,” Madi added.

  The group laughed and Jordan smiled at Madi, whose eyes were bright with her recent success. Jordan anchored to that look. Madi and the others needed Jordan to be strong and certain, not tangled up and tripping over history and regret.

  Jordan led the group up the metal staircase to the second-floor office and general meeting room. Her own apartment was on the other side of the whitewashed cinderblock wall. The room was pretty banged up and dingy but serviceable. Jordan gestured for everyone to take a seat, but Tom was distracted by the pictures, medals, and awards along the back wall. There was an eight-by-ten black-and-white photo of Jordan during a match. Her face was half-hidden behind her glove and one tattooed, muscled shoulder. The look in Jordan’s eyes was calculating and focused.

  “Ms. Battiste was telling us you made a career out of boxing for a period of time,” Tom said.

  Jordan stole a quick glance at Ali, who was already seated across the table. She looked politely interested. The strangeness of casually discussing what had driven them apart was nearly overwhelming.

  “Yes, I toured the professional circuit for a few years when I was younger.”

  “You fought as the Dock Rat, is that right?”

  “I did. It was a nod to my working-class upbringing.” The answer she always gave. No need to explain she’d felt no better than a dock rat for so long. Working class meant living below the poverty line during cold times, and part of her always feared she would never be any better.

  “And would you consider it a successful career?” Tom said.

  Jordan had no idea how to measure success. She’d won bouts, even a few championships. She’d learned what to do with her fear, even if she’d never completely conquered it. She’d fought and learned and made her way out of Halifax. And she’d gained enough insight to know when it was time to come home.

  “Yes, I think so. Boxing gave my life structure, it gave me a goal, and in the end, it gave me the financial means and the confidence to finish university and buy this gym. So yes, it was a success.”

  “Thank you for answering that. I recognize it was a personal question, but I’m insatiably curious about how people define success.”

  Jordan didn’t know how to respond. She wasn’t sure what to make of this man. Where she’d been expecting bluster and self-aggrandizement, she found thoughtfulness and a good listener.

  “What weight class did you compete in?”

  “Welterweight.”

  Tom raised his eyebrows. “Really.”

  Jordan laughed. “I had more muscle mass back then. And my coach wanted me to fight just outside my weight class.”

  “He wanted to push you.”

  “Bento wanted me to focus. He thought matching me with opponents heavier than me would force me to keep my head in the game.” Jordan hesitated. The answer was incomplete. She saw Madi looking at her expectantly from the corner. “He wanted me so scared of getting pounded that I’d have to fight my way out of the ring every single time.”

  Jordan was acutely aware of Ali sitting across from her. They’d spent hours talking about courage and fear and skill and focus. Ali had always believed Jordan could fight. Maybe even right up until the moment Jordan had run away.

  “Did it work?” Madi said. She knew a lot of this story, most of the kids did. “Pitting you against ogres. Did it work?”

  “That’s a good question,” Jordan said with a quick grin. “I learned a lot about controlling fear from Bento and from boxing. But I really needed to learn what came after I succeeded at survival. Those lessons took a lot longer.”

  Madi rolled her eyes and Jordan laughed. Jordan knew Madi hated being preached to. She also knew Madi would give a sharp retort or insult whenever a moment cut just a little too close. Jordan respected those boundaries.

  “Would you say you incorporate a lot of your coach’s methods into the boxing program?”

  Jordan wondered where the CEO was going with this line of inquiry. She needed this meeting to go well to secure the funding for the next year, but she wasn’t prepared to defend her practices to a third party who likely knew very little about social services.

  “He’s not evaluating you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Ali said from across the table. “Tom is fascinated by organizational leadership and the psychology of workplace hierarchy. I keep telling him he should have been a psychologist, not a CEO.”

  “Your opinion has been noted, Ms. Clarke,” Tom said wryly. “I believe you even sent me a memo to that effect on legal stationery when you finished your law degree a few years back.”

  “And yet you still haven’t given me control of the company. Interesting.”

  Tom laughed as Ali grinned. Even though Ali’s smile wasn’t aimed at her, it did absolutely nothing to control the spinning of Jordan’s stomach.

  “You get to talk to your boss like that?” Madi said.

  “‘Get to’ might be stretching it a little. I’ve worked with Tom since I graduated from college. I’ve learned where the line is and not to cross it.”

  “That sounded like a lesson. Hang on.” Madi pulled out her phone and fiddled with it. Then she looked up at Ali with a false eagerness that made Jordan squirm. “Okay, I’ve got my notes app open. Lay some more wisdom on me, O mentor.”

  Madi’s declaration was met with silence. Cay looked concerned and Tom contemplative. Then Ali laughed, Madi grinned, and the tension broke.

  “I think we’re going to get along just fine,” Ali said.

  “If I may interrupt this meeting of the minds for a moment,” Tom said. “I think it’s important to note this mentorship initiative is not about Alison mentoring you, Ms. Battiste. The exact opposite. You have been chosen to mentor Ms. Clarke.”

  “I don’t get it,” Madi said. “You mean in boxing?”

  “In whatever wisdom and knowledge and life experience you have to share. That’s not up to me to decide. It’s not even Alison’s choice. You are the mentor, she’s here to learn from you.”

  Jordan could read Madi’s agitation in the slight shift of her posture, the way she flicked her fingers on the table, the tilt of her head.

  “Maybe you could fill me in on some of the details, Tom.” Jordan would normally not interfere, but she thought Madi could use a moment to listen before she was expected to react. “What obligations are you placing on Madi and the gym with this mentorship program? It would be helpful to understand the expectations.”

  Tom looked surprised. “No obligations at all. The funding is in place for a year regardless of what happens from here on out.”

  “Then why are you here?” Madi said. “You have to want something out of this, even if you’re telling me I don’t need to do anything.”

  Madi’s question was met with silence. Tom seemed at a loss, and Jordan didn’t exactly blame him. She doubted his business skills extended to dealing with mouthy young adults.

  “Centera fucked up,” Ali jumped in. Tom winced. “Big time. We’re a holding company, so we don’t produce anything. We just buy up the stocks of other companies and take on their risks. But our investors walked a grey legal line to try and make our last quarter look more profitable than it really was so our shareholders wouldn’t freak out. While they were busy trying to defend the legality of their action, we failed to recognize we had quite resoundingly crossed a moral line. We put our customers’ data at risk and narrowly avoided selling them out to a third party. It was a legal nightmare, and we barely emerged unscathed.”

  Tom picked up the story. “And then we walked right into a
n ethical dilemma. Do we tell our stakeholders and customers? The crisis was averted, but we sell them trust and security. A disclosure would be disastrous.”

  “But failing to disclose and being discovered would have meant the end of Centera Corporation,” Ali said. “Years of legal battles, our names raked through the mud, blacklisted from our place amongst the top international holding companies.”

  “Let me guess,” Madi said. “You did the right moral thing and told everyone you fucked up. And they were unhappy. Now you’re trying to win back their love and trust by throwing money bombs at street kids.”

  Tom’s shoulders seemed to droop and Jordan nearly felt sorry for him. But Madi was dead on as usual, and Jordan wanted to hear how the CEO of a massive multinational would react to being called out.

  “Yes,” Ali answered.

  Madi narrowed her eyes like she didn’t trust the direct answer.

  “Another guess, here. You were voluntold to be part of this little community outreach project.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you fuck up? Is that why?”

  Ali shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  Ali half smiled and gestured at Madi. “Get your notes app open. I think you’ll want to write this shit down.” Ali leaned forward. “It doesn’t matter which individuals screwed up. I work for Centera. I am Centera. One of us falls, we all fall.”

  Jordan expected another string of curses from Madi. She’d spent her entire life surviving and looking out for herself. Boxing had taught her to channel some of her anger. Coaching, mentoring, and managing had taught her it was okay to take a risk and care about others, to twine your futures together, even for a short time. Madi was incredibly protective of the teens in the gym, but she hadn’t yet learned those lessons and wasn’t comfortable with caring.

  “For me, this isn’t about buying back trust,” Tom said. “I want to change corporate culture, Ms. Battiste. I need to change corporate culture. We have become too concerned with pushing the legal boundaries of what we can do to make more money and have lost sight of who we are ultimately serving. So I am embedding a dozen of my top executives in communities across North America. I want them to listen and learn and return to the office with a perspective of people and society we are sorely lacking. There will be no cameras or media announcements. Each executive is expected to maintain a journal and will give a short presentation at our AGM in Chicago next year. You are welcome to attend. Your insight and judgement would be welcome.”