CHAPTER ONE
Ryland
The video feed cuts out as I’m throwing a left hook.
I groan, looking at the camera and then the laptop.
I’m in my home gym, giving an online self-defense instructional for one of my buddy’s overseas charities. The low-income British kids were all sitting in a gym in London, watching me.
Now the video has stopped, and a buffering symbol has taken its place.
Groaning, I walk across the room, checking my laptop.
No connection.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
I’ve lived in this apartment for six years, and my internet has only failed twice. So, of course, this had to be one of those times.
Taking out my phone, I text Charley, the CEO of the charity.
Internet dropped.
He texts back a few moments later. Okay, mate. I’ll keep the kids busy. See if you can get it reconnected.
Will do, man.
As Charley, my old British boxing pal, occupies the kids overseas. I go through all the regular procedures. I reset my router, unplugging and plugging it back in. The more time passes, the more tension works its way into my body, making my jaw tight and my head pulse.
The whole point of these online meetings was to give the kids tips on how to defend themselves if attacked in their rough neighborhoods. And sure, they get a kick out of it, too, having a celebrity boxer show them the ropes.
Even if I’m forty-two years old and retired, my name still holds some weight.
I study the red flashing light on my router, pacing my open-plan living room. It’s evening here, morning in the UK. Below me, the city is mostly dark, the lights of cars and other apartments seeming dim from my penthouse apartment.
No luck, I text Charley. I’m sorry. I’m going to have to call my cable company.
Okay. It’s not your fault. Reschedule?
You know it, I reply. I’m not leaving you in the lurch.
Good luck with customer service. I know you hate that stuff.
I chuckle.
Charley’s not wrong. It’s not customer service specifically, but I hate waiting around, being inactive, as though constantly moving lets me outrun my thoughts and demons.
I’ve never been the sort to snap at customer service representatives on the phone the way some people do. It’s rarely their fault, and all the big bullshit companies pull, all the Ts and Cs which, like most people, I can never be bothered to read.
Dropping onto my couch, I call the cable company. It rings twice, and then a recorded message plays.
“Good evening. All our advisors are currently busy. We estimate that your call will be answered in….”
A robotic voice takes over.
“Two hundred and twenty-two minutes.”
The regular voice returns.
“If this time seems reasonable, please hold.”
I hang up right away, groaning.
What’s that, almost four hours?
I’m tempted to leave it for tonight, especially when Rusty comes padding into the room. My German Shepherd yawns and pads over to my feet, curling up and laying his head on his paws. It’d be easier to take him for a walk. Or hit the gym for a proper workout.
Reaching down, I scratch Rusty behind the ears.
The problem with waiting is it means the internet may be out tomorrow too. Ideally, I want to reschedule with Charley as quickly as I can. I promised him a series of instructional live streams.