Page 26 of Rematch
Max
The cacophony of thuds, smacks, and bangs echoing through the gym was music to my ears. For some reason, the boisterous sound was much more soothing to me than silence. Sounds strange, but it helped me focus. With all the other noises going on around me, I was forced to pinpoint on the one closest to me. Zero-ed in on the padded gloves of my trainer standing across from me, I fired my fists and feet like precise missiles, hitting every target I aimed them at - and ducking whatever ammo my opponent shot back.
My trainer, Tony’s, grin grew wider with every combo I nailed. Today, we were working on my speed. I had a match coming up, and Tony warned me that my opponent was quick on his feet.
“In order to catch him, you’ve gotta be faster,” he told me.
Unlike other knuckleheads who took their trainer’s advice with a grain of salt, I engraved every word of Tony’s words in the back of my head.
As a kid, I’ve always had a love for mixed martial arts. My father, once the muscle in the duo that climbed their way to the top of their cartel, introduced the sport to me. One of my first memories was him taking me to an MMA event to support a contender he was sponsoring. Since then, there hasn’tbeen a moment I wasn’t obsessed with the different styles and techniques and forms of fighting.
But, it wasn’t until I saw Tony fight for the first time that I had a role model within the sport.
Right after my parents split and my mom moved us back to her childhood town, she took me to one of the local matches. I guess she figured it’d fill some of the hole my father left in my heart.
When I saw Tony step into the ring, I saw something other than survival or determination in his eyes.
I saw heart.
For the sport. For his community. For his victory.
While the money and the fame was nice, it was clear he was in the ring because he loved it.
And I knew it was a value I wanted to hold too.
When I asked him to train me, despite being ten years old and no muscle on my bones, I was prepared to have my little heart broken. I wasn’t prepared for him to smile and tell me to go throw some gloves on.
From that point on, I didn’t have just a trainer - I had a mentor.
And despite my hard-ass head and quick-ass temper, he whipped me into shape real good - inside and outside of the ring.
“Alright, that’s it!” He yelled, his grin conquering his face. “I’m not even timing you, and I already know your strike timing is three times faster than it was. You speed up a few more seconds, and that boy isn’t gonna know what hit him!”
I nodded, a smile of my own tugging at my lips. “Cool, cool.”
“You alright?” He asked, his brows creasing. “You’ve seemed a little off lately.”
“Yeah, I’m cool.”
The corner of his lips curled up. “Mhm.”
For the millionth time today, my gaze drifted back to the door.
“Are you expecting somebody?” Tony asked.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I have a potential trainee coming in.”
Tony’s brows rose. But, instead of laughter like I expected, his grin grew wider. “Ah, I see. The mentee has become the master.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m far from that. The kid is in a bind. I’m just trying to help.”
“Paying it forward,” he mused. He patted my shoulder. “Always hoped you would.”
My smile became heavier to hold. Tony didn’t know about my association with my father. At least he pretended he didn’t. He always had an ear to the streets, listening to the gossip around the gym and at the barber shop. But, he never brought it up to me directly.
Coming in with bruises and cuts he couldn’t account for wasn’t out of the norm for me. All through high school, I’d come in with petty wounds from my fights with the other boys around the neighborhood. Sure, he gave me stern looks whenever he saw them, but he didn’t press me about them anymore.
The last time he tried, I truly didn’t want to hear a thing he was saying, so I told him I was an adult now and I could make my own decisions.
