The first puck blurred through the air, catching him square in the shoulder. The force spun him half-around, his skin instantly blooming into a deep, angry purple. He gasped, a jagged laugh escaping his throat. "One!" he shouted at the camera. "Is that all you got?"
The basement air in South Boston smelled like old copper and damp concrete, but to Aiden, it smelled like an opportunity. He adjusted the ring light—a cheap thing that flickered if he breathed too hard—and checked the frame on his DSLR. ItsGonnaHurt.com - Aiden From Boston.mp4
Aiden reached out and clicked the remote. The machine hummed to life, a high-pitched whine that vibrated in his teeth. He braced his feet, hands clamped onto his knees. Thwack. The first puck blurred through the air, catching
Aiden wasn’t a "stuntman" in the professional sense. He was twenty-two, worked a dead-end job at a pier, and possessed a terrifying lack of a self-preservation instinct. He leaned into the lens, his thick Boston accent cutting through the silence of the room. Aiden reached out and clicked the remote