Knockout (Gaslight spin-off)

46| One big family

One week later

_______________________

The summer sun streams through the large windows of the gym, casting a warm glow over the memorial set up in Coach's honor. I scan the room, watching my mother rush around in a frenzy, ensuring everything is in place. As a self-professed party planner, I'd caved to her pleading and enlisted her help, which, I'll admit, worked in my favor.

The gym looks beautiful, filled with bouquets and framed photographs of Coach, all of which capture him smiling. In the corner is the buffet table, covered with an array of delicious foods, from fresh fruit to sandwiches to Coach's favorite dessert - Tiramisu.

Holding the memorial was my idea. As happy as I'd been upon winning my match – especially because it resulted in new members – it hadn't filled the hole in my chest. I needed something more, a way to say goodbye or remember him somehow, and this was the perfect way.

My gaze roams over the hundreds of people, chatting and reminiscing in groups. Some are dressed in summer dresses, a nod to the warm weather outside, while others are more formal, but all of us are here for the same reason.

To remember Coach.

Still, as pleased as I am with the turnout, it feels strange that the gym is both solemn and festive. The walls are decorated with streamers and balloons in Coach's favorite colors, and a slideshow of his life is playing on a screen in the corner. We take turns adding our own memories to a large scrapbook, flipping through old photos, and reminiscing about the times we spent with him.

It's strange how much has changed in such a short time. Not just with Coach or the gym but in my life. Mom's trying, so is Dad, and with college around the corner, I'm working on my anger, not just because it's what Coach would have wanted, but because it's what I want too. Nico was right when he said I'm comfortable with anger. I used it as a defense mechanism, afraid I'd only wind up hurt if I didn't, but I'm not afraid anymore. The truth is, if you can't open up to the people you love, what's the point?

When everything appears in order, I walk across the gym to where the members – several of them new, thanks to my social media efforts – are huddled, working on the mural of Coach. It sits beside Ali, a professionally stenciled sketch that looks exactly like Coach – or it will, once it's painted.

We all brought paint and brushes, and we started to paint it together. Some of us are drawing his smiling face, while others are painting symbols of his favorite sayings or boxing techniques. It's a collective effort, and everyone is contributing in their own unique way, contributing to the community.

As we work, there's a sense of quiet solemnity punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter or conversation. It's clear that Coach was more than just a trainer to us; he was a mentor and a father figure, the voice of reason when we needed it most, and the authoritative figure when we needed that too. And although his loss is still raw, we're coming together to celebrate his memory in the way he would have wanted us to.

There's nothing more I could ask for.

"Okay," Daisy says, putting down her paintbrush. "I'm officially the least artistic person working on this mural. I give up."

I look at the way she's struggled to keep within the stencil and have to agree. "Maybe you could just watch us," I suggest. She laughs and shoves my shoulder with her hand, nearly making me slip. "Hey!" I say. "You nearly made me give Coach a makeover."

We both break into laughter. Daisy reaches over again, pretending to grab the paintbrush from my hands, and it's as I bat her away that I see him, looking as casual and handsome as ever.