Page 3 of Falling for the Forbidden Fighter
This is so like him. Anytime a fresh, young fighter with promise shows up in the gym, Ricky has to bluster and make sure everyone knows how tough he is.
Still, did this guy actually get discharged for attacking someone?
“That’s him over on the heavy bag,” Ricky says, pointing to a quiet corner of the gym. “Good luck, Catty...”
My eyes follow his gesture. On the mat, someone is giving our heaviest bag aworking. The hiss of his exhales propels punches that make the bag dance on its chain. The bag conceals him, so I follow my dad around until he comes intoview, silhouetted by the morning sun beating against our foggy windows…
Growing up around fighters taught me a lot.
How to take a hit.
How to give it right back.
How to fight until you’re out of breath, your vision swims, and sweat drips from every pore.
I didn’t grow up to be a fighter, but the lifestyle prepared me for my own fights, my own battles in life. My family made me tough, and they made me vow to never fall for men like them—men who get their heads rocked for a living.
None of it prepared me for this.
The man behind the bag drops his taped hands, chest heaving with his breath. His lean, muscular body is slick with sweat. Every inch of him speaks of unwieldy power waiting to be released, all resonating in wild eyes hiding in a stoic, bearded face. Those eyes… there’s a darkness in them, something deeper than the muddy brown of his irises. There’s a defensiveness about him, a guard that’s up even though no one’s throwing a punch his way.
Guys who box tend to be peacocks. It is what it is. They fight for glory and money and women… fame. It’s the economics of the fighting world—the culture that lifts up legends and ignites fires in young men hoping to become legends themselves.
This guy doesn’t look like any of those things. He’s unkempt, hair just starting to bristle out from those Navy days of buzz cuts, beard already full. His clothes are faded, like he’s worn them for years.
My dad nods, holds his fist out. “You must be Louis Mason. Don Winters. Welcome to my gym.”
Louis taps my dad’s knuckles as if he’s afraid he’ll hurt him, eyes darting to me, then back.
“Thanks for coaching me,” he says, still catching his breath. His voice is steely and smooth with a slight accent. “I won’t let you—“
“Hold on there, spunky,” Dad laughs. “I ain’t agreed to coach you just yet. I told Brewer I’d consider you.Consider. You know, evaluate. If I think you’ve got potential, then we can talk about training.” He gives the bag a soft jab. “And from what I just saw, I’m leaning toward potential.”
Louis doesn’t smile or boast; he nods a few times, eyes darting to me again.
I blush under the weight of his gaze, even if it’s only on me for split seconds before retreating. It’s like he’s already in the ring, darting in and out of noticing me, testing me…
Dad looks between us. “This is my daughter,” he says heavily. “Catherine. Everyone around here calls her Cat. She’s our resident physical therapist, cutman, medic… anything else?”
“Espresso hawker,” I say.
“Right. Catty’s gonna test your mobility, see if your body can take training with us.”
Louis narrows his eyes. “Take it? I can fight, sir.”
“I bet…” Dad eyes the bag, noticing what I’m noticing: the impressions left by Louis’s big fists, still indented. “You can throw a punch, kid. From what Brewer told me, you can take a punch just as well. But I want powerandspeed.”
Don ‘The Blizzard’Winters throws a combination against the heavy bag. Even at his age, he can still muster explosions of speed that are hard to track with the naked eye. Those same indents look a little deeper than before.
“Powerandspeed,” my dad says, chest heaving from the effort. Endurance goes with age. “If you train with us, we’re gonna change you, Louis. We’re gonna beat you down. All your rough edges will be sharpened into fine, lethal points. Mentally, maybe you can handle it. Maybe not. That’s for you to decide.For me, I just need to know that your body ain’t hiding some injury or restriction that’s gonna fuck me down the line.”
I roll my eyes, smiling as Louis catches me.
I know my dad. He’s being dramatic. The second he saw Louis working those combos into the bag, he knew he’d train him. He’d probably decided on Brewer’s word alone.
I’m still trying to figure out what I’m feeling…
“Catty, why don’t you get set up for your eval? I’m gonna have a quick man-to-man with our new guy.”
