Page 4 of Punchline
“Nobody wins every fight. I got my ass handed to me like six games ago.”
“There’s losing a fight, and there’slosinga fight.” I groaned. “Oh my God. I was pretty good at fighting in juniors, but this is my first fight since I got to this level, and… fuck my life.”
“Vincent is thirty-three, so he’s—what, ten years older than you?”
“Twelve, actually.”
“Right. And he’s also a big guy. Who’s been fighting at this level and in the NAPH since you were still in U12.” Marek shrugged. “I don’t think anyone expected you to beat him. You came to Cantwell’s defense. That’s what’s important.”
I made a face. I knew all that on some level, but still. It sucked.
Marek glanced into the locker room, probably checking how much time we had left. Then he faced me again. “Listen, if you really want to get better at fighting, I might be able to help.”
I straightened. “Yeah?”
He nodded. “My boyfriend runs an MMA gym. He might be able to teach you a thing or two.”
“Oh, really?” I narrowed my eyes. “Is that how you’ve gotten so much better at fighting?”
Marek smirked and shrugged, but from the wicked glint in his eye—yeah. He’d been learning from his boyfriend.
And hell, what did I have to lose? More dignity? At least his boyfriend would beexpectingme to be bad.
“Okay, sure.” I smiled. “That would be great.”
“Awesome.” Marek smacked my arm. “Now go get hydrated. We still have twenty minutes of hockey left to play.”
CHAPTER 2
JAKE
“All right, time for some high-heartrate rounds!” I called out at the ten-minute mark before the end of class. I got a few groans from the tough guys in the crowd, but screw them—they’d play by my rules and like it. “Three minutes three times, so partner up. I want to seelooks,” I emphasized to them, staring around the room and making sure I made eye contact with each person for a moment. I was serious about this part. “Not submissions. High-heartrate rounds are all about movement, about transitions, about looking for the next place to be. We’re not doing this to tap each other out. The second you start clinching, you’ve lost the point of the game.”
One of the younger guys held up his hand.
“What?”
“I honestly don’t get how this helps us, Coach,” he said. “Flow rounds, whatever, that’s good for new people, but we’re the advanced class. We all know what we’re doing. I’m here to figure out how to make people give up, not give them a chance to escape.”
I heard someone snicker by the wall.Carson.Of coursehe was watching right now. I was still in my proving period, so either he or Beth were always watching part of my classes to make sure I was steering the students right. And so he could fucking heckle me, the punk.
I smiled at the guy. “You’re right, youareadvanced. I would never give flow rounds to a beginner, they’d just hurt themselves or their opponent. But these aren’t flow rounds. There’s a big difference, and I’m going to give you first-hand experience of that difference tonight. But let me ask you all this.” I opened the question up to everyone in the room. “When is it easiest to submit someone?”
“When they make a mistake,” someone said.
“When they’re smaller than you,” a big guy said, but given that the little woman beside him poked him in the stomach immediately, I assumed it was an in joke.
“When they transition,” Carson called out.
“Stop giving away the answers.” But, of course, he was right. “It’s when they transition,” I agreed. “Look, I can sit in your guard and waste time all day, but if you want to tap me from there, you either have to move me—which can be hard to do.” I patted my chest knowingly, and a few people chuckled. Given that I was six-four and two hundred and fifty pounds, it took a hell of a lot of effort for a normal-sized person to shift me at will.
“Or you have to wait for me to make a move, ortemptme into making a move. Transitions lead to submissions, but that goes both ways, so when you roll tonight, I want you to focus on making your transitions as smooth as you possibly can. Never get comfortable, never grab something with the idea that you’re going to hold onto it for more than a few seconds. Move, and move, and move some more. If you make your partner tap, you’re doing it wrong.”
That’s not to say you can’t make them uncomfortable.
I turned to the clock, but Carson had already hit the timer for three minutes. “And go.” I waved the complainer over. He came with a bit of a swagger—good. And he was just a few inches shorter than me and at least two hundred pounds—even better.
We started down, and in a second I’d gone to headquarters, crushing his thigh against his chest, then out to the M1 where I pinned his leg to the floor. He tried to pull his knee forward and get me in a K-guard, but I floated back up to headquarters—because why not, he deserved to carry my ass for another few seconds—then cut across with a knee slice. I let him roll over onto his hands and knees, then wedged my leg in tight, stood on his calf, and hauled him backward into the truck. I let him escapejustfar enough to turn the wrong way, then moved into twister side control and held him there for another few seconds before spinning him with a berimbolo roll and taking his back.
