Page 22 of My Undead Heart

“Good job today, Erin. Debbie, I better see you back here on Wednesday.” I pat two of my hardest working clients on the shoulder before heading back to the front desk. I need to check messages before I start training my boys.

“Only if I can lift my arms,” Erin jokes.

“You will,” I tease back.

“Bye, Matt.” Erin waves, bag in hand.

Debbie pulls on her sweatshirt. “Thanks, Matt.”

These ladies are regulars in my afternoon kickboxing style cardio class and today is no exception. They’ve both been persistent with exercise and diet, making huge strides in their health goals over the past few months. Though I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, they’re two of my favorite clients.

As my cardio class heads out, the next UFC hopefuls pack into South Side while I check emails and phone messages. My uncle comes through with the painting job and asks me to start next Monday. I go through the schedule and shoot a message to one of my most reliable trainers to help cover the time I can’t be here.

Before I know it, it’s already six o’clock and time to run these contenders through the usual warm ups. It’s all a regular Monday for me and I wouldn’t have it any other way. For these few hours I can push aside my looming financial worries. In here it’s all about strength, hard work, and the will to never stop fighting. Principles that were instilled in me as a teen and those I work hard to give back. This group is a mix of my advanced fighters with my up and comers. They train together an hour of conditioning before breaking up into two groups. Mentally, I go through attendance when it hits me that two of my best guys are missing. “Hey, Salvador, you know where Ricky and Xavier are tonight?”

“No, Coach, I don’t.”

It troubles me to have them both absent. Ricky usually rides up with Xavier. Both young men live in an area of town known for gangs, drug running, and violence. These two are straight edge though, and hustle harder than anyone else in this gym. They both train on scholarships, and have been since they wandered in on a class almost fifteen months ago. I hope they’re okay.

Pairing up the rest of my guys, we run sparring drills for a good thirty minutes and then the entrance bell chimes with a late arrival. I glance over to see Ricky tug his hoodie from his body and grab gloves from his bag. His ebony skin shines with perspiration.

“Ricky, you’re late.” Stepping closer, I notice his chest heaves with quick breaths as he races to prepare for training. I glance beyond his shoulder and search the lot for Xavier’s car.

“Sorry, Coach.” Ricky finishes wrapping his hands in record time and stands from the chair, shoving his equipment bag underneath it.

“Practice is a commitment. Thirty minutes late is unacceptable.”

“Won’t happen again.” He meets my stare with nothing but his usual respect.

“Where’s Xavier?”

He shrugs and only then does his gaze drop. “Don’t know, Coach.”

“Doesn’t he give you a ride?”

He chews at his bottom lip. “His ride got repo’ed yesterday. Least that’s what I heard. Haven’t seen him ’round, though.”

“You take the bus?”

“Yes, Coach. That’s why I’m late. Broke down ’bout halfway. Ran the rest.”

“Then you’re already warmed up. Grab your gloves and pair up with Mason.”

“Yes, Coach.”

A foreboding apprehension grips my gut as we work through practice. That Xavier isn’t here doesn’t sit well with me. I have a lot riding on his success. Hell, if he doesn’t perform the way I know he can at his next fight, I might as well kiss my gym good-bye. But it’s not only that. He’s the kind of person who does whatever it takes. He’s no stranger to challenges or setbacks, but he’s got so much damn drive. It’s what propels him further than most of these guys, some who’ve been training more than half their lives.

“Again!” I shout and run the boys through the same drill we’ve run for the last twenty minutes. They’ve got the mechanics down, but going repetition after repetition, they’re starting to lag and fall back, the weak separating themselves from the strong. Half of pulling out a win in a fight is endurance, so I’ll run them hard through the same damn exercises over and over again until they all drop out, their muscles and minds refusing to battle onward.

“Harder, Mase. Don’t you dare let Ricky beat you. Again!” These are my boys and I’ll ride them the way my coaches pushed me, because no matter where they come from, whether it’s up by Lake View or down near Fuller Park, they deserve the best from me. They need someone to believe in them enough to see their potential and bring it forth.

The bell chimes from behind and I swear if Xavier drags his ass in now after missing half of tonight’s practice, I’m going to lose my shit. My lips press together in a firm line and I look over my shoulder.

Only it’s not Xavier. Surprise, along with a good dose of lust, packs a punch straight to my gut as the woman from the bar—the beautiful, feisty, zombiefied vixen—scoots along the back wall, her eyes wide and taking everything in. She’s dressed in a black tee and jeans, hair pulled into a messy bun, and this time no fake flesh wounds paint her skin, but I’d recognize her anyway.

Her eyes catch mine and if I could stare all night, I would. Even though I knew she was beautiful before, nothing compares to her face when it’s not adorned with fake blood and guts. “Sorry,” she mouths and turns to leave, but before she gets far I shout out to my boys.

“That’s enough. One mile sprint. Go!”

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