Page 13 of Forever We Fall

Endorphins trickle through my brain when I work out. Right now, they’re a rushing river. I’m so ready.

Nate, the older guy from my math class, enters the room already dressed and looking set to make the podium. “Let’s go, gentlemen! What’s taking you so long?”

Twelve of us filter up the stairs and onto the wooden gym floor. Two mats that weren’t in here earlier during our physical education class are spread out now. Nate runs everyone through a warm-up, and it’s foreplay. I’m amped. He knows what he’s doing, which helps a lot.

“Who wants to go first?” Nate wipes the sweat from his brow and bellows.

I for sure want to, but I don’t volunteer. There’s a hierarchy in the room, and I respect it. The first two guys move to the start lines.

“We don’t have ear guards or singlets. I don’t want to see any cauliflower ears or pasty white asses. Keep it classy,” Nate orders.

The guys tap knuckles, and then they’re off. It’s tap checks and leg grabs. There are mounts and tosses and back doors. I’m high as a fucking kite. It ends with one winner and one loser. That’s match.

Everyone cheers. I cheer because if I don’t, I might explode.

Winner stays in and so it goes. Round after round, someone is knocked out. No wrestler has won more than one match. We’re four in, and I can’t take it anymore. I jump to the start line.

When you’ve wrestled for as long as I have, it’s no longer training. It’s nature.

I loosen my limbs, tap some knuckles, and win. I win. I win. I win again.

Winning isn’t the goal. It barely registers. What I focus on is my opponent, my speed, and my technique. This is just practice.

My muscles burn, and my insides sing.

This is my place. The only one where I feel like myself. Where I feel seen and respected.

“You’re slick, new kid,” one of the guys I beat a couple of matches ago admits.

I nod my thanks and wait for my next opponent.

“Sure you don’t want to sit out a round or two? Catch your breath?” Nate asks with his head cocked. “You’ve soaked through your shirt.”

“I’m sure.”

Nate steps into the circle. “Okay, but when I beat you, you can’t use exhaustion as an excuse.”

“He can use the fact that you’re in a different weight class,” someone hollers. The group laughs.

“What will your excuse be when I win?” I knock knuckles with Nate and get into my neutral position.

“Won’t need one.” He comes in hard and fast, grabbing for my legs. With all the other guys, I’ve won with throws and flips. I love tossing guys. But Nate is big. I don’t even think about moving his weight. I let it come to me. I grab his arm and pull him close at the same time I launch myself up and on top of him. In a flash, I ride the momentum, latch onto his tricep, and yank with my whole body while driving my hips into his.

I flip him, and then flatten, holding for all I’m worth. Every muscle coiled and strained.

“Win by fall,” someone yells.

Less than fifteen seconds into the match, I win. The guys around us erupt. They jump and yell and hang onto each other, screaming into their hands. I flop onto the mat, completelytoasted. All the matches and the time since training catch up to me.

“Fuck!” Nate scrambles to his feet. “Great move.” His fingers are doing the around-the-world motion. “Again.”

“Sure.” I roll onto my hands and knees and get neutral once more. “Last one. Better make it good.”

This time Nate is slower but much more calculated in his offense. Even though my body quakes with exhaustion, we end up in a stalemate time and time again with him at my back and me at his. There’s little riding time to speak of. I get his ankle once, but he gets out of the attack quickly, earning him a point. That’s how he wins. One fucking point. I can’t be mad at it.

“Good match.” I slap his shoulder.

He slings his arm around my neck. “You’re good, Hota.”

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