Fighting for Everything: A Warrior Fight Club Novel

by Laura Kaye

  At the back of the packet, Noah found the training and conditioning regimen Mack had mentioned and an equipment checklist. He had a cup and mouth guard with him, but he’d have to pick up the right clothing, hand wraps, gloves, head gear, knee pads, and shin guards before the next class.

  He supposed that not having all the gear he needed was another good reason not to actually spar tonight, which led him to the physical form he’d have to get his doc to sign off on. Noah wasn’t thrilled about that because he loathed going to the doctor. It forced him to confront shit he’d rather not. But it would be worth it to have a chance at something that might actually help.

  “All set?” Mack asked, walking up to him a few minutes later.

  “Yeah.” Noah rose and toed off his shoes.

  “Then head out for the warm-up and I’ll look this over.” Mack took the clipboard from him.

  Out on the mats, Noah found a space at the back of the group and joined right in on the standing quad stretches. They moved on to standing hamstrings, hip flexor, and calf stretches next. Hawk and Colby were at the front of the group demonstrating each of the moves, and then they both went down to their knees.

  “We’ve got two prospective members here tonight,” Hawk said. “Tara Hunter.” A woman wearing her long brown hair up in a ponytail gave a wave. “And Noah Cortez.”

  Noah gave a single nod as some of the others turned to look at him. He was glad he wasn’t the only newbie here, although Tara made him look at the group anew to see that she wasn’t the only female student. A dark-skinned woman with shoulder-length curls sat toward the front of the group and another woman with jet black hair in an intricate-looking braid knelt at the far side.

  “For the sake of our prospective students, I’m going to move a little slower through the yoga positions tonight,” Hawk said. “Colby will come around to check you.”

  Yoga? That was about the last thing Noah expected at MMA training.

  Hawk’s gaze scanned the group. “The first position is called child’s pose. Lower your head as you sit on your heels. Breathe out as you stretch your arms forward on the floor, trying to stretch as far forward as you can while keeping your butt on your heels.”

  Noah did as the man said, feeling kinda self-conscious even though the position offered a stretch all down his lats and back that felt good.

  “We do yoga because your mind is your most important piece of equipment, and the peacefulness, mindfulness, and discipline of yoga can help you regain control of nervous systems that have been stressed and are on edge,” Hawk continued, his voice even, calm. “Concentrate on your breathing, on taking long breaths in and out.”

  Colby came around and offered some guidance as Hawk worked them through a few other poses. With the lack of appetite and sleep, Noah hadn’t been particularly kind to his body these past months, and he was definitely feeling that as they finished the warm-up.

  “Okay,” Colby said. “If you don’t have gloves, you can grab a pair from the bin. Otherwise, our technical skills session today is going to focus on striking patterns.”

  Noah and Tara were the only two who needed to borrow gloves, and they met up over at the benches.

  “Hey,” she said, wearing a friendly smile. She was way shorter than him and had a prominent scar that circled part of her neck. Noah couldn’t help but wonder what’d caused it. “I’m glad I’m not the only new person here.”

  “Me, too,” Noah said, trying on a pair of thick fingerless gloves. “I was in the Corps. You?”

  “Navy,” she said, pulling off one pair and trying on another. She punched her hands together. “These work. Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too,” Noah said as they rejoined the group.

  “Okay,” Colby said, standing at the front of the class. “A couple of things to remember about striking. You want to pop in and out quick, which reduces the opportunity for your opponent to strike. And you don’t want to be predictable, so mix up your striking pattern and the pacing of your strikes.” The man demonstrated a quick attack with a punching combo and sprung straight back out, and then he showed some variations where he came back at angles. “Give it a try.”

  Noah got in the correct stance and brought up his hands, muscle memory kicking in from his years of boxing. Even though he wasn’t in peak shape, there was almost a freedom to the feeling of moving—his body fast on the attack, his arms delivering jabs, hooks, and combinations of punches to an invisible foe, his weight shifting between his feet as he moved. The sound of huffing breaths and feet squeaking against the mats filled the otherwise quiet room.

  Working through the moves made it clear just how much he’d changed, though, because he now had a massive blind-spot on his left side that he hadn’t had when he’d last boxed. His peripheral vision was non-existent on his left, which meant in an actual competition, he’d have to turn his head to compensate, losing some of his peripheral on the right as he did.

  Goddamnit. Why did everything have to illustrate just how much he’d lost?

  “Nice, Noah,” Mack said, pulling Noah from the defeatist thoughts. “Tuck that back elbow in against your ribs more. You don’t want any daylight showing through there or you open yourself up to a liver kick.” Noah made the adjustment. Mack stood watching a moment longer and nodded. “Good. Now vary it up further by ducking and turning out.”

  Noah changed it up again. Instead of popping out of the attack standing straight up, he crouched down on his retreat, as if avoiding a hook. On his next attack, he pivoted and turned out, which set him up for—

  All of a sudden, the room spun, the quickness of his movement throwing his equilibrium off.

  “Whoa, big guy,” Mack said, catching him by the shoulder. “How long has it been since you’ve done any kind of regular workouts?”

  Frustrated, Noah sighed. “A while. I’ve managed to keep up with strength training and some occasional runs, but I haven’t figured out how to get the equilibrium issues under control.” He was glad he’d included it on his injury profile and hadn’t tried to hide it.

  Mack gave his shoulder a squeeze, then released him as Noah got his legs back under him again. “It’s not always about controlling our weaknesses. It’s about finding ways to mitigate them. It may be that certain moves always exacerbate the issue, but you can find strength in knowing which ones do and then strategizing alternate and equally effective moves.”

  Noah nodded, liking that idea a lot. He often worried about what would happen if he could never fix his weaknesses, when maybe he’d been asking the wrong question. Maybe he should’ve been asking how he could work around them instead.

  “There are many right ways to arrive at the same destination, Noah,” Mack said, giving him a pointed look.

  Bolstered, Noah threw himself back into the striking pattern exercises.

  Quick attack in. Right jab, left jab, right hook. Straight back out.

  Quick attack in. Fast right jab, left fake, right hook. Duck out and to the right.

  Quick attack in. Left, right, left combo. Skip out and to the left.

  And damn if using his muscles, exerting himself, and feeling the promise of his strength didn’t make him feel a little different, more focused yet less trapped inside his head.

  They worked on those moves for a few more minutes, and then they paired off to practice choke hold and joint lock positions for grappling on the ground.

  “Billy Parrish,” his partner said by way of introduction. With short dark blond hair, dark eyes, and a stubble-covered jaw, the guy probably had five or more years on Noah, but the hard cut of his arm and shoulder muscles and the speed with which he’d moved during the striking pattern exercises made it clear that age wouldn’t be an immediate advantage.

  They tapped gloves. “Noah Cortez.”

  “The purpose of choke holds and joint locks is to achieve submission, or the inability to escape a hold and make your opponent tap out,” Mack said. “The fighter on top is the mount, and the mount’s goal
is to ground and pound his opponent until he can put him in a hold and finish the fight. The fighter on bottom is the guard, who’s looking to escape the holds and pass the guard, or reverse his position with his opponent. We’ll show you the positions, and then each of you will try.”

  Colby and Hawk got on the ground and first took turns demonstrating a series of different joint locks, many of which came from Jiu Jitsu—new territory for Noah.

  Part-way through their demonstration, a guy rushed through the gym door and made quick working of joining the group. “Sorry Coach,” he called, running a hand through his dark hair. “Got caught at work.” He took a place on the mats toward the far side.

  “Run through your warm-up, Riddick,” Mack said.

  The guy gave a tight nod and started in on the stretches they’d done earlier. “Miss me, Dani?” he asked a woman sitting near him in almost a taunting voice.

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” the woman said. Noah’s gaze cut from the demonstration up front to where Riddick grinned and the black-haired woman glared back at him.

  “Don’t mind them,” Billy said. “Driving each other batshit is their favorite pastime. Okay, we’re up. Why don’t you go first.”

  They started with an ankle lock, both of them sitting on the floor facing each other. Noah pinned Billy’s ankle under his arm pit, clasped his hands together around the lower shin, and bent his elbows back toward his ribs to trap the man’s foot there.

  “That’s pretty good,” Billy said. “Try trapping the joint with the middle of your forearm instead of the wrist though. Because you’ve got a gap there.” He pointed to the crook of Noah’s elbow. “That I can yank out of, especially when we’re sweaty.”

  Noah tried again. “That feels better,” he said. “Tighter.”

  Billy nodded. “Gives you more control and power.”

  “Have you been doing this long?” Noah asked, adjusting his hold again.

  “Been a member for a little over eighteen months. Medically discharged from the Rangers about three years ago.” He lifted his shirt up his ribs, revealing a large swath of twisted and mottled scarring. Billy dropped the shirt again and gestured for Noah’s ankle so he could try the hold. “Total snafu. Ended up with second and third-degree burns over forty per cent of my body.” He wrapped his arms around Noah’s ankle. “Tap when it starts to hurt,” he said.

  His opponent turned on the power and started to lean back. Noah tapped his hand against the mat. “Shit.”

  “Right?” Billy winked. “See the difference?”

  “Yeah,” Noah said. “Do that again.” Billy pinned him in the lock quick and tight, and then Noah tried it again, feeling like he had even more power and control this time.

  “So what’s your damage?” Billy asked.

  The casual way Billy had showed his scars and shared his story encouraged Noah to do the same. “IED caused a severe TBI which took my hearing and most of my sight on this side,” he said, pointing to his head.

  “Shit. Life’s a goddamned full-contact sport, ain’t it?”

  “Roger that,” Noah said, feeling more and more comfortable here despite the talking and sharing he’d done.

  The rest of the choke hold and joint lock session went that way, with Billy giving him pointers and the two of them chatting. The guy had apparently parlayed his military career into private investigating, which had Noah wondering how to translate his skills into something in the civilian world. One thing at a time, though. Right?

  “Okay,” Coach Mack said a while later. “One team at a time will go into the rings for sparring matches refereed by Hawk and Colby. The rest of you will divide into two teams for a grappling match drill. Hunter and Cortez, you’ll need to watch these from the sidelines until you get your memberships finalized.”

  “Good working with you,” Billy said as he rose. They tapped gloves again.

  “You, too,” Noah said, frustrated at being benched even though he understood why.

  And that frustration only grew as, for the next forty-five minutes, he was forced to cool his heels while others competed in the grappling match or sparred in the rings. He thought about leaving, but he didn’t want to come off as throwing some kind of temper tantrum. Besides, he knew enough from years of wrestling to know you could learn a lot by studying other fighters.

  Still, sitting there made him restless and anxious, and soon he felt that pressure growing inside his chest again. It didn’t help that the earlier exercises already had his adrenaline pumping.

  By the time class was over, he was itching to get out of there. Because he liked everyone he’d met so far, and no way did he want to make anything but a good impression. He wasn’t pulling another public meltdown. Not in front of these guys, fuck you very much.

  As Noah was jamming his feet back into his sneakers, Mack came up to him. “So, what did you think of your first time?”

  “Liked it,” Noah said. “Made me feel…more focused than I have in a while.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Mack said, smiling. They clasped hands. “I’ll see you on Tuesday then?”

  Noah nodded, antsy to get out of there even though he liked Mack a lot. “Yeah. With my paperwork ready to go.”

  “Good man.” Mack made his way through the group to Tara.

  “Hey,” someone said tapping his arm. Noah turned to find Mo towering over him—not something he was used to experiencing. “Want to come grab a drink? A group of us usually goes out after class.”

  The tightness in Noah’s chest had him worried about chancing it. “Not sure I’m up for it tonight,” Noah said. “Next time, though, count me in.”

  “You got it,” Mo said. They clasped hands and the big guy pulled him in for a quick, one-shouldered embrace. “You opened yourself up a lot today, Noah. Don’t be surprised if that throws you off center a little bit.” Mo handed him a card. “You need anything—even to talk—before Tuesday’s class, don’t hesitate to call.”

  Frowning, Noah nodded. Throw him off, as in even more? For fuck’s sake. “Thanks, Mo.”

  The car ride was quiet and solitary. He’d been around people way more than usual today, and that made him feel even more alone than he normally did. A heaviness settled over him as he approached his apartment complex, and all he could think about was grabbing a quick shower and falling into bed. It was as if the whole day—the classes, the panic attack, sharing parts of himself he normally didn’t—had overloaded his mind and the only fix was to reboot by going to sleep.

  As a soft rain started to fall, Noah parked and got out of the Explorer, and then found himself doing a double take. Because he was parked right next to Kristina’s car. Hope surged through him. She hadn’t gone on the date, after all. So glad he hadn’t gone out with the club, he glanced up toward his apartment. The lights were all dark…

  Confused, he frowned. And then dread snaked down Noah’s spine.

  No.

  Noah ran up to his apartment and burst through the door. “Kristina?” He slammed through the space, turning on lights and searching behind doors.

  But it didn’t take long to know for certain she wasn’t there.

  Which left only one possibility. Kristina had come home with Ethan.

  And Noah saw fucking red.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kristina sat on Ethan’s couch laughing and joking with him as Hot Tub Time Machine played on the TV. Just before their desserts had arrived, a waitress had spilled a whole pitcher of beer down Ethan’s back, so they’d shelved their plans for checking out a band at a local club in favor of watching movies back at Ethan’s so he could shower and change.

  Ethan laughed as on screen the characters spilled the time machine’s fuel over its controls, opening a massive temporal vortex. “God, I think I still smell like beer,” he said.

  Kristina chuckled. “No, you don’t. I still say you were way better of a sport about that than I would’ve been.” They sat close enough for it to be more than casual, but not so c
lose they were touching. And despite how cute Ethan was, Kristina couldn’t decide if she wanted them to touch. She smoothed her hands over the snug teal skirt of her dress.

  He shrugged and scrubbed his hands through his hair, bringing her attention to the ink that covered his arms. “I think the waitress was more traumatized than me. I couldn’t stand to see her cry.”

  “Well, it was sweet how nice you were about it,” she said. And it was true. All night, Ethan had been sweet and charming and funny. He had a million humorous stories from bartending and they’d laughed a lot together. Not only that, but he was hot and thoughtful, having brought her a pink rose.

  He was a genuinely good guy.

  So why aren’t you more interested?

  “Since we never got any dessert, would you like something now?” Ethan asked, pausing the movie. “I have a couple different kinds of ice cream.”

  Kristina ignored the question she’d asked herself as her stomach squeezed. Did it have to be ice cream? “Uh, sure. That sounds great.”

  “Awesome,” he said with a cute smile. “Come tell me which you want and I’ll get to scooping.” She followed him into the kitchen, noting again how the layout was the mirror image of Noah’s place.

  Which had her thinking of him—and their strange text message exchange—for probably the tenth time tonight. Why had he asked her not to go? Kristina’s gut told her Noah didn’t want her seeing anyone else because he wanted her all to himself. But her heart told her that was probably just wishful thinking and she was reading into Noah’s admittedly erratic behavior what she wanted to see.

  Especially since, on top of everything else—on top of his constant backing off from what was happening between them, on top of him disappearing from her bed in the middle of the night without saying a word, and on top of him telling her he was maybe pushing her away—he hadn’t responded to the last text message she’d sent tonight.