by T A. McKay
“Zeke, my man. How’s it hanging?”
I turn towards the voice and smile at Jason, watching him as he enters the ring I'm sitting next to. I feel a pinch of jealousy as I watch him tape up his hands, ready to spar with his trainer, Angus. I haven’t been in the ring since I was injured, and I miss it so fucking badly. He hits the pads Angus’s holding up a few times before walking towards me and leaning on the ropes next to me.
“I'm good.” I look down to my hand that’s still clutching onto the strength-training ball and laugh. “Okay, maybe not good but I suppose it could be worse.”
He gives me a sympathetic look before pushing himself off the ropes and standing up straight. “Yeah, I suppose. It’s not like you lost the biggest fight of your life and broke your hand or anything.” Jason smirks, walking over to Angus and starts punching the pads again.
I drop the ball to the bench I'm sitting on and stand, stretching out my back. “Hey, Jason. You know what I can still do?” I wait until he stops sparring and looks at me. When he does I raise the middle finger of my damaged hand before turning around and walking away. His laughter follows me as I enter Coach’s office.
I take a seat opposite Coach and put my feet up on his desk.
“Have you been doing the exercises you were given?” Coach doesn’t even look up from the paperwork on his desk as he knocks my feet to the floor. Every. Single. Time. Not once has he let me keep my feet up there but it doesn’t stop me from trying.
“Of course I did, it’s all I'm allowed to do. When can I get back to fighting? I'm so over this stupid shit.”
Coach glares at me over the paper in his hand. I’ve been riding him about fighting for the last few weeks. I need to get back in the ring and pound on someone.
“You can fight again when your coach clears you and not a second before.” He looks back to the paper in his hand and I look at him in confusion. Sometimes I think he's losing his mind, maybe he’s been hit one too many times.
“Then fucking clear me already. I can’t believe this shit, you could have cleared me weeks ago.” I can feel a touch of anger towards Coach. He’s never mentioned before that he has power over my recovery. I sit forward in my seat and lean on my knees. I want to pretend that I'm relaxed, that I don’t want to go and punch something but I'm pretty sure it’s not looking that way.
“I said your coach can clear you, I'm not your coach. I already told you that I’d be getting a replacement for Ethan.” Not this shit again, I can’t believe he’s going to try and convince me to take on another trainee. The last one he sent to me made a huge mistake, and I still don’t know if I will ever be able to fight again.
“And I already told you, I don’t want another coach. It’s you or nothing, there is no other option.” I sound like a spoilt little brat having a tantrum but I don’t care. I refuse to put my future in anyone’s hands but his. There’s no one out there who’s as good as him and no one else I would trust.
He finally gives me his full attention as he puts the piece of paper he’s holding on the desk and crosses his arms. “Look, Zeke. We’ve been through this before. I don’t have the time to give you the attention you need. I have too many fighters to look after, and with your skill you need one on one training. You are gonna need someone who can focus solely on you to get you ready for the championship. You have a rematch coming up and you need to be on form in order to win.”
I hate when he makes sense. I know that running the gym takes a lot of his time, that there are too many fighters now for him to deal with them all personally. There are a total of four trainers who share their time between fourteen fighters, and I will be only the second fighter in the gym’s history to have their own trainer.
“Seriously? How can I tell you no when you make sense?”
He laughs before leaning back in his chair, looking more relaxed than he did a minute ago. “I'm glad you agree, he’ll be here tomorrow to meet you.”
It’s my turn to lean back in my chair but I’m far from relaxed. A groan leaves me as I massage my temples. A part of me was hoping that after hearing about things with me and Ethan no one would be interested in the job. I go to speak but Coach holds up his hand silencing me.
“Before you start, let me just say that he's a perfect match for you. He's an ex fighter himself and knows his stuff. Maybe you won’t be able to push this one around, he might be the person to kick your ass for a change.”
I snort at his statement. I doubt some fighter wannabe will be able to teach me anything I don’t already know. I sigh as I picture another Ethan turning up tomorrow. Ethan. I never liked that fucker. There was always something about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He seemed to be more interested in the glory of being my trainer then actually training me. The bastard even had the nerve to use my name to get freebies and perks with local businesses and the more I won the more he got. When I told Coach about it he said that Ethan was still young and training, that he would settle down, but he never did. I could overlook a lot of his shit if he had been on point with his training, but I swear that he didn’t know the difference between a round house and a hook. His usual method of helping was pointing to the punch bag and telling me to do what felt natural. Forgetting my wraps and then poorly taping my hands was the last straw. No matter the outcome of the fight, Ethan was gone. I need someone who will focus on me and not my name. Forgetting my wraps at my fight was the last straw. Even if I had won he was gone.
“Yeah, I'm sure that’s just what’s gonna happen. I give him a week before he runs away with his tail between his legs.” I get up from my chair and walk to the door. I'm just about to close the door behind me when I hear Coach shouting.
“I mean it, Zeke. I refuse to find another fucking trainer for you. If you chase this one off then you’re on your own!”
I laugh as I close the door. It’s not a case of if but when.
I'm standing under the scalding hot water in my shower at home, letting the heat soak through my tense body. I hear my cell phone ring and for about three seconds I consider answering it, but the feeling of the water on my stiff shoulders is too pleasant for me to move. Since I haven’t been able to do any weights or spar I’ve been putting a lot of effort into cardio, and using muscles that I don’t usually need. I thought lifting weights gave me the most punishing workout, especially trying to bulk up for a fight, but running apparently can be just as painful.
I move my head under the spray, and watch the water drain away. My mind is distracted by thoughts of meeting my new trainer tomorrow, finding out who Coach thinks is the perfect match for me. I hate the fact that I haven’t even met him yet and he’s the one with all the power. Some random guy gets to decide when I start fighting again. I think that part is what angers me more than anything. Someone who doesn’t know me gets to make the most important decision in my life. I look up and let the water pour over my face before shutting the shower off.
I grab a towel from the rack next to the sink and wrap it around my waist. Walking to the sink unit, I use a hand towel to clear the steam from the fogged up mirror. I throw the towel into the dirty linen basket and look at my reflection. Thankfully all the bruising from the fight is gone. I didn’t think the one around my left eye was ever going to disappear. It was like a daily reminder of how badly I’d fucked up that day. I just keep thinking I was lucky there’s nothing permanent done, well nothing that’s completely life changing other than my hurt pride and my damaged wrist. Hopefully I’ll be able to convince this new guy that I'm ready to get going. I need to make sure I’m one hundred and ten percent ready for my rematch and that means training properly as soon as possible. I refuse to go down at the hands of Dwayne again. He will only get the best of me once.
I rub my hand over my jaw and contemplate shaving but I like the stubble. I’ve no plans for the next few days that require a clean look so fuck it. If this new guy doesn’t approve then he can go fuck himself. I laugh to myself. I’ve already painted a picture of this
guy, building him up to be a bastard before I’ve even met him. Maybe I should give him a shot, see how good he actually is before judging him. I shake my head and walk into my bedroom, grabbing a pair of boxer shorts on the way past my dresser. Dropping the towel on the floor I throw the boxers on the bed before collapsing butt naked on the mattress, too tired to even attempt to put them on. I grab my cell from the nightstand and see a missed call from Asha. I told her to call me about getting together, but I'm really not in the mood for company tonight, especially hers. Don’t get me wrong, Asha is a really nice girl. She is sweet and sexy, but I just don’t have the energy tonight. I want to have an early night so I can hit the gym before it opens tomorrow and get in a workout before introductions are made.
I got a text from Coach earlier telling me to be at the gym for ten o’clock, and that I better be on time. I have my meeting with Bryce at ten thirty. That’s my new coach’s name, Bryce Tanner. I know that he's an ex fighter, but his name has me picturing some preppy guy who has never stepped foot into the cage. Bryce Tanner, yeah, that’s not the name of a guy who knows how to handle himself. I know I'm judging him and already trying to find a reason to hate him but I can’t help myself. I’ve always found it hard to open up to people. You can’t give people the power of having your secrets, to believe they won’t use them against you.
I'm pulled from my thoughts when my phone rings again. I see Asha’s name on the screen and I press the side button to mute the ringing. I throw the phone on the other side of the bed and get up, putting my underwear on before going through to the kitchen. I need to get something to eat before it gets too late. I hate eating late but I missed dinner earlier. I open the fridge and take a look to see what’s inside. Nothing really grabs my attention and I make a mental note to drop by the grocery store tomorrow. I'm running low on eggs and milk, the two main staples in my diet. I suddenly remember that I have some chicken and rice in the freezer and I mentally pat myself on the back for cooking too much. I hunt for the Tupperware containing the food and put it in the microwave to defrost. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and walk to the door leading outside to sit out on the back step. It’s a nice night, warm and dry with a clear sky. I like this time of year; fall is one of my favorite seasons. It’s not too hot and the humidity has settled, not like the height of the summer when it feels like you're breathing through syrup. Training in that weather feels like you could die, especially if you’re doing it outside. I try to stick to the gym during the height of Summer, using the weights and treadmill to keep fit. Honestly the fighting itself is enough to tone my muscles and keep my stamina up but I push myself further to make myself faster, stronger. The need to win is my driving force, second place really means first loser, and that’s not acceptable. The sting of losing to Dwayne is still fresh and I think it’s harder to get over than my actual injury.
I sit and listen to the noises from my street, letting the sounds of the kids having fun relax me. I love living here, the buzz of the neighborhood reminds me of home. I grew up in a small town, in the type of place where everyone knew everyone else and their business. When I was a kid it was great, I used to play outside with my friends until the streetlights came on and never got into trouble, well nothing too serious. I loved high school, we spent the weekends at the drive in and partying at each other’s houses, it was like the stereotypical high school movie where everyone was happy. I know it probably wasn’t that experience for everyone I knew, but I was in the popular crowd so life seemed perfect. When I turned fourteen I suddenly realized that something didn’t feel right, that I wasn’t interested in things the other kids were. That’s when the small town feeling got too much and hiding my secret became too difficult. That’s when my dad decided that fighting was what I needed. According to him, I had to learn to be a man and punching another man was the perfect way to do it.
I left town soon after my eighteenth birthday, when the feeling of being constantly watched by everyone got too much. I couldn’t do anything without someone being there to make sure I was moving in the direction my dad wanted me to go. So I packed a bag and jumped on a train. I ended up in the city, hungry and alone until Coach found me sleeping in the local park. He took me to the gym and gave me a sleeping bag and a space on the floor. I helped out around the gym until he saw me having a go on the punching bag after hours, and the rest as they say, is history. Once I started winning fights, the money started coming in. Now I make my living doing the one thing I love and do best. The house I own isn’t big. It has one bedroom and a patch of grass out the back that’s my yard, but size doesn’t matter to me. It’s mine and no one can take it from me. I paid for it in cash when I won my first big tournament. I was determined to not waste the money on anything stupid, but something I could make my own.
I hear the microwave beep but even my hunger can’t get me to move from my spot. I close my eyes and lean back against the doorframe, looking up towards the sky to let the sun warm my face. This is the most relaxed I’ve felt in a while and it’s with the knowledge that tomorrow I might be able to return to the cage. The thought of being able to train again makes my heart beat a little faster and my muscles twitch with anticipation. The fighting, the cage, the burn of my muscles, I’ve missed every second of it. Now that I'm so close to getting it all back, I'm scared that I want it too much and karma’s going to get her claws out and make me pay for all my past digressions. Maybe I need to take a different approach with this new trainer. Maybe if I act like his best friend, be accommodating and welcoming, he will clear me fit to fight. I laugh at myself, there is no way in this life that I can be that kind of guy. It’s not in my nature to be Mr. Accommodating. I know that when I meet this Bryce tomorrow there is a very good chance that he will be leaving the gym without a job. Coach seems to think that we’re a perfect match but I don’t see how, I don’t think I'm a perfect match for anyone.
My rumbling stomach finally gets me up and walking back into the kitchen. If I'm going back to training then I need to keep my strength and calories up, losing muscle mass is not part of the plan. I have eight weeks until the rematch with Dwayne. Eight weeks to train and get my strength back and then some. Eight weeks to become the fighter that I know I can be. He might have beaten me last time, but I can guarantee that will never happen again.
Dwayne Wyatt isn’t invincible, and I’m going to prove it to the world.
Chapter 3
When I arrived at the gym this morning I’d already made the decision that no matter what this new coach was going to say, I was not leaving today without getting in the ring. I would be sparring before the day was out, with or without permission. I need to be able to use my fists to fight again and release the tension that kicking a strike shield just can’t touch. There’s nothing better than feeling your fists connecting with someone’s body and then for their muscles to give way under your knuckles. You need to know how to move and place your body and how to control your own muscles, to tense them to protect yourself from impact, to create enough force to hurt. Anyone can throw a punch, but it takes great skill to control it. In a fight you want to win, but there’s also great respect between fighters, so you don’t want to lose control and cause serious damage. Well unless you’re Dwayne. I hate that motherfucker with every bone in my body. He fights dirty and gives the sport a bad reputation. He has put more men in the hospital than any other fighter I know. That in itself would make me hate him, but he has a way of intimidating his opponents by taunting them and making them feel like they have to watch their backs outside the cage. This is a hooligan’s sport fought by gentlemen, and he's dragging all our reputations into the gutter with him.
Angus is busy wrapping my wrists when I see Coach walking to the front door. I look at the clock on the gym wall and I’m surprised to see that it’s nearly ten already. I’d let myself in just after eight after a shit night’s sleep. I’d tossed and turned the whole night, unable to switch my brain off.
“There you go, all done. You’
re sure that it’s okay for you to be going back in the cage? You’ve had the all clear, right?”
I smile at him before getting up from the bench and moving over to the punch bag. I don’t want to lie to him, so ignoring the question is the best option.
“Zeke, that wasn’t an actual answer,” I hear him shout from behind me and I wave over my shoulder, again not answering him. I'm about to throw my first punch in months when movement from across the room catches my eye. I stop myself and hold onto the punch bag as I watch Coach talking to a guy just inside the main door. This stranger’s back is to me but I can see that he has large and built shoulders which tell me that he has trained at some point in this life, unlike Ethan. Ethan was far too skinny to tell me what to do. How can someone train something they have no knowledge or experience in? I knocked him on his ass with one hit more than once. I continue to watch as Coach and who I assume is my new coach stand there, and I can’t seem to get my eyes to leave the guy. I want him to turn around, I need to see him from the front. I can’t explain the need to see what he looks like, all I know is that the urge nearly has me walking over and turning him around myself. I don’t know how long I stare, but Coach finally points in my direction and my breath catches in my throat as the stranger turns around.
My body stills completely, my blood feels like it’s frozen in my veins as I take in Bryce Tanner. He’s taller than Coach and probably rivals my six foot four frame. He looks toned and muscular if the tight shirt he’s wearing is anything to go by. The shirt is tucked into his pants, which highlights his thin waist and wide shoulders. On closer inspection it looks like he trains, a lot. My eyes travel up his body until they reach his face, which I realize is just as impressive as his body. His dark hair is cut into a messy style and it looks like he's spent the morning running his fingers through it. I can’t see his eyes from across the gym but I can feel their piercing stare. I feel like I’m being scrutinized by eyes that see everything. He smiles at something Coach says and my heart stutters at how sexy he looks.
