Love T.K.O. - Pamela Yaye

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laugh and the quickness of her smile. They would get along great. All he had to do was show her he posed no harm. If she could see that he was a good guy, with no ulterior motives, she would say yes when he asked her out.

      “I’d like that. But don’t change,” he said, his gaze sliding down the slant of her hips. “I like your shorts.”

      A tiny, frizzy-haired black woman in a crumpled apron interrupted their conversation. “There you are, Yasmin. I’ve been looking all over for you!”

      “What is it, Ms. McClure?” A gentle and caring woman, Melba McClure planned and prepared all of the meals at the community center and donated more time than any other volunteer. A retired postal worker, she was the grandmother of six, dated regularly and was a stern but loving presence. “I thought you’d be in the kitchen getting things ready for dinner.”

      “I was until Mr. Santos came down with a fever. I begged him to stay until the end of the six o’clock session but he could hardly stand. His wife came to pick him up a few minutes ago.”

      Yasmin’s face crumpled. “B-b-but he’s facilitating the M.O.I. session tonight! Who’s going to lead the group now that he’s gone?”

      “I’ve called and left messages for Walter, Tarik and Emilio, but I haven’t heard back from any of them.”

      Yasmin knew Melba was trying to help, but she secretly hoped her calls weren’t returned. Walter was a pleasant middle-aged man who spoke in a dull monotone and was known to put the kids to sleep, Tarik was a recovering drug addict, fresh out of rehab, and Emilio flirted relentlessly with the female staff. No, she would just have to chair the meeting herself. “Thanks for giving me the heads-up, Melba. Let the boys in the Men of Initiative program know that—”

      “Men of Initiative? What’s that?” Rashawn asked.

      “It’s a new program designed to get teenage boys off the street,” she explained. “The purpose is to help kids between the ages of thirteen and eighteen develop a positive sense of self and to set high education goals. Tonight’s was supposed to be an open forum, basically a question-and-answer period where the boys could speak freely about the struggles they’re having at school, at home and on the streets.”

      “I don’t mind helping out,” he said, directing his comment to Yasmin.

      Melba eyed him warily. “Normally we do an extensive background check before we let anyone around the kids, but since we’re understaffed and Yasmin will be supervising, I guess it would be okay. What’s your name, son?”

      “Rashawn.”

      “You’re not a drug dealer are you?”

      “No, ma’am.”

      “Don’t smoke pot, do you?”

      “No.”

      “Do you abuse or exploit women?”

      “No. Never.”

      Melba stared into his eyes to judge his sincerity. Confident he was telling the truth, she said, “Don’t mind me, Rashawn. I’m just mighty careful about who I let around these boys. As you can see we’re short-staffed and we could really use your help.” Clapping her hands together, her eyes expanded to the size of cue balls. “This is going to be swell! I can feel it in my bones. Why don’t you follow me to the kitchen? We’ll get some food into you before the session starts. Do you like red beans and rice?”

      Yasmin glanced at her watch, amazed that a five-minute discussion about respect could last three-quarters of an hour. At the back of the room, away from the group, she wrote a brief outline of the goals, objectives and purpose of the Men of Initiative program. The more teens who joined the program, the more government funding the center would receive.

      Counting the number of teenagers seated in the semicircle, she noticed the intense expression on each young face. Rashawn easily held the attention of his young audience. Not only did the man have a way with women, he appealed to children and teenagers, as well. Affable and laid-back, he had the type of personality people took to immediately. In the cafeteria, kids had crammed onto his bench and more than half of the adults had made their way over to chitchat. Yasmin had sat across from the charismatic boxer, in the hopes of discussing the charity fund-raiser, but every time she opened her mouth, they were interrupted by an adoring fan. Eating dinner with Rashawn had been an eye-opener. Strangers clamored for his attention and made utter fools of themselves just to have ten seconds of his time.

      Yasmin watched him now, sitting in the middle of the circle. His arms dangled between his legs and he had a relaxed, carefree expression on his face. His body language suggested he was open, bare, willing to share himself with the world. And he was.

      Yasmin had learned some shocking truths about Rashawn Bishop, facts that further underlined just how different they were. His father had abandoned the family when he was five, his mother had raised him and his three brothers single-handedly and had struggled to provide food and shelter. But it was the story of his life on the streets that had left her slack-jawed. He’d stolen cars, went joyriding with his crew and had a lengthy rap sheet by the time he was thirteen.

      Tate, one of her favorite kids at the center, lifted his hand and waited for the discussion to die down before he spoke. “Did you ever sling rock?”

      Rashawn locked eyes with Yasmin. He couldn’t read the expression on her face. Trepidation fell upon him. Was she regretting her decision to let him lead the session? Or disappointed about what she had learned about him? This was not how she was supposed to find out about his past, but he couldn’t let this opportunity to share with these teenagers pass him by. If Yasmin couldn’t appreciate the fact that he’d changed his life and made something of himself, then she wasn’t the right woman for him anyway. “I didn’t sell dope, but I used to run errands for the local drug dealer. I’m not proud of it, but I did what I had to do to survive. I was the oldest and had to help my mom take care of my brothers. Everyone else was doing it and I wanted to fit in with my crew. They were my family.”

      Nods and murmurs of assent filled the room.

      “In tenth grade I discovered boxing and that changed my life for the better. Boxing was my ticket out of the ’hood and I took advantage of all the opportunities afforded to me.”

      “But what if you ain’t got no talent?” asked an unsmiling kid with buck teeth. “What if all you know how to do is jack cars and beat down punks for what they got?”

      “I don’t believe that, Chaz. Everyone’s good at something.”

      The boy shook his head. “Not me. I hate school, I suck at sports and I don’t get along with my step-dad.”

      “Ever tried boxing, martial arts or wrestling?”

      “Naw, that’s not my thing.”

      “How do you know unless you try? You look strong, you could probably be one hell of a wrestler. “

      He shrugged a shoulder. “I ain’t got money for shit like that.”

      “Chaz, you can come by the Boxing Institute of Champions and work out with me whenever you want.” Standing, Rashawn said, “Anyone else want to get in shape, look good and impress the honeys?”

      Chuckles broke out.

      “If you’re interested in a serious workout, meet me at the gym tomorrow at three. If you’re late, I’m starting without you.”

      One by one, participants stood and approached Rashawn. Some of the younger kids even hugged him. Conversation was put on hold while tables were returned to their rightful place and chairs were stacked against the wall.

      As the teens trickled out into the hall, Yasmin gathered her things. She wanted to talk to Rashawn privately but he was speaking to Tate and Brandon. Remembering that she had wanted to leave a note for the health nurse regarding the new date for the next health and nutrition clinic, she exited the room.

      “You’re not leaving without

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