nick little wasn't little at all, with his 6'3 feet

and neither was the pile of shit that nick's life had gone to

in 8th grade he was cooked already, but instead of stopping it, he'd embraced it, and now he was in deep

a busted eyebrow and bruised lip one of his boxing mates - opponent, in this case - had given him, he threw his heavy duffel bag onto a bench and leaned his back against the wall, letting his eyes roam the room

he was tired, tired as fuck

the only job that paid enough for hin to be able to take care of him and his sisters had been a nightshift at the hilton seattle foyer, a four-star hotel 15 minutes away from the studio

anybody would be tired after coming home from school at 2, making lunch for his sister's and helping them with their homework before doing his own, then taking a four hour nap and cook his sisters dinner before leaving for his night shift, ending at 5

maybe he shouldn't have come here before school; maybe he should've just taken a nap instead of trying to clear his mind a little

he'd quit drugs three months ago, but his brother hadn't, and his parents had been drunks all his life

raising his two little sisters had become his job when he was twelve, and he'd done an excellent job at it, even though it wasn't his responsibility at all

the two were the only thing keeping him in the shitty little apartment on the 23rd floor of a scrappy apartment building in seattle

he'd been a regular in this particular boxing studio ever since his voice started to get deeper and his features more masculine, and he'd never seen you before

"you new?"

he asked out of the blue as he threw one of his gloves into his bag and looked at you as if he didn't even care

his knuckles were slightly bruised and looked like he'd skinned them on a brick wall or something of that sort