Page 173 of Gym Bros
“He’s a Division One wrestling champ. Undefeated. You’ve got plenty of time to train for it and study him, but you’ll see what I mean. He’s about to go pro.”
“So I’m just supposed to roll over and give him the W?”
“No—you’ll fight your best fight, but he’ll beat you, and that’s fine. I’ll remind you your amateur record won’t mean shit if you go pro, so take the L and learn some shit. That’s what your time here is about.”
“Is this what you do with all your fighters?”
“Build their character and refine their game? Yes, actually.”
Now really isn’t the time to tell me I’m going to loseanything, but admittedly, once I watch Jason Muñoz’s entire online history of fighting, I get why my coaches think I don’t stand a chance.
However, my ego won’t allow me to simply “do my best.” I’m still training to win. Maybe it’s a gift. Maybe it’s a curse, but one thing I know for sure—it’s keeping me busy and obsessed with something other than the fact that I’ve got no one to come home to, and I know something that could destroy my family.
So for that reason, this opportunity is a blessing.
The best wrestler at our gym is Gina Cartwright. She’s also undefeated, also on the verge of going pro. Yes, she’s a woman, and yes, she’s tiny compared to me, but Javier has me training on the mats with her for now, and she’s a menace.
Since I outweigh her by a lot, I’m not using my strength, just technique, and it becomes very clear, very quick that I have a lot to learn. Here I thought since I wrestled in high school, I’d just need to brush up on a few skills, but MMA is a different animal altogether.
The ability to strike your opponent once you’ve got your legs around him being the biggest difference. Gina’s handing me my ass daily, and if she were allowed to hit me, I have no doubt I’d be short a few teeth and have a broken nose.
As much as I hate doing it because it’s an exercise in mental and physical torture, I’m continuing with yoga at home. There’s a woman on YouTube whose daily videos I do religiously, but there are too many times I feel the ghosts of Calyx’s hands on me, pushing me deeper into a stretch, lifting my arm into a more perfect line, his voice reminding me to breathe into the burn.
He was my secret weapon, but now he’s a knife turning and twisting in my chest. I can’t see my way through the mess of this, and every single day I regret clicking on that text. I wish so badly that I didn’t know. It’s hard to even be mad at him for not telling me when I’m angrier with myself for finding out.
But I’m also extremely angry that he allowed me to pursue him in the first place. He always acted like he was so much older. That he knew better. He should have known better than to give me a chance. He should have stayed the fuck away.
In terms of my mom—I can’t bring myself to talk to her, which I know stresses her out, but I don’t know what to do. It’s an impossible situation where I hate my dad and want him to suffer, but the idea of telling her what he’s done is too awful to consider. I’m not going home for Thanksgiving, though. I just can’t. I can’t stand the idea of being in the same room, much less at the same table as both of them. I’ll fucking explode.
What I really want is for him to tell her. But I don’t want him to do it enough to talk to him and force his hand. Bottom line: I want him away from her. I want him to hurt, but I think the one who’ll actually wind up hurt is my mom. My dad will simply keep living and traveling and fucking whoever’s willing. He’ll be perfectly fine.
He might even manage to seduce Calyx again, and the thought of that?—
Let’s just say my closet walls are filled with holes put there by my fists.
The good news is, I’m coping. I’m not keeping everything bottled up. Evan met me for a run in the park a few days ago, and I told him everything just so I could get all of it out there and find a shred of validation. I was hoping for some advice, too, but he didn’t have much of that—saying he was the last person to comment on anyone’s love life, but he did tell me I was entitled to my feelings of betrayal and loss. Not in so many words, but at least I know now I’m not overreacting.
Rachel’s been calling, and I’ve been declining because I don’t know whose side she’s on, but the woman is persistent.
I figured since she didn’t know where I live, she’d eventuallygive up, but I’m talking three calls a day, every day. They started two days after Calyx left my condo for the last time.
I just need it to stop, so after ten days’ worth, I finally pick up the evening call.
“Hey Rachel,” I say, putting the necessary amount of exhaustion and annoyance into my tone.
“Well, hi there.”
“What’s this about?”
“You’re a smart guy. I’m pretty sure you can guess.”
“I don’t want to know anything about Calyx,” I say.
“Oh, well, no. It’s not a report. How he’s doing really isn’t your business since you dumped him and all, but I guess I just thought you might want someone to talk to about it.”
“I have someone for that, so thanks, but no thanks.”
“You sure about that? Sometimes it helps to bounce major things like this off a few people.”
