Page 4 of His Heart

2

Sebastian

February. Age eighteen.

The noiseof the crowd beat at me, even through the music playing in my headphones. I liked hearing the crowd as if it were far away—separate from me. Not thousands of people surrounding me in the huge arena.

I paced relentlessly back and forth off to the side of the center mat. There was only one mat now. At the start of the tournament, there had been four, with four matches going on simultaneously throughout the day. Weeding people out. Now it was down to the finals. The last rounds to determine who would be state champions.

In my weight class, it would be me.

Granted, my competition, Charlie Hall, was a fucking good wrestler. Defending state champ, in fact. Now, as a senior, he was determined to defend his title. Probably had a lot of scholarship money on the line.

We both did.

I hadn’t wrestled Charlie since last year. He’d beaten me then. Pinned me in the last round, knocking me out of the finals. I took third in state. Not bad for a junior. But nothing less than state champion would be acceptable today.

There are few things as demoralizing as being pinned on your back, immobilized by another guy, completely at his mercy. Wrestlers look muscular and strong, as if the key to winning is in our bodies. But it isn’t. It’s in our minds. Mental strength, toughness, fortitude—that’s what it takes to win. I’d beaten guys bigger and stronger than I was. Guys who were older and had more experience. All because I had it in me to go the distance. To last longer. Endure more.

To never, ever give up.

I could see Charlie, prepping for our match, but I ignored him. He had his rituals, I had mine. What he was doing over on the other side of the arena didn’t matter. I was prepared. Months of training, hours in the gym. Strict diet to cut weight and keep up my strength.

Like an animal in a cage, I stalked up and down, my muscles straining against my dark blue singlet. The heavy metal music I always played to pump me up blared in my ears. The crowd noise rose in a crescendo. A match must have ended. From the corner of my eye, I saw Blake, one of my teammates, his arm held up in the air by the ref. Win.

It was almost my turn.

Coach caught my eye and gave me a nod. We had a system. He knew the drill. He’d been coaching me since I was a freshman with a chip on my shoulder and a lot to prove. I’d been wrestling since I was five and thought I was hot shit. Coach had needed to knock me down a few pegs, but it had done me good. Made me better. Under his training, I’d excelled beyond anyone’s expectations. I’d gone from a strong wrestler to a fucking beast with an almost perfect high school record.

One loss. To Charlie Hall.

It was going to stay that way. Just one.

I took out my headphones and put them in my bag. Unzipped my hoodie and let it drop. Shook out my arms. Bounced up and down onto my toes a few times. My head was clear, my body relaxed but ready.

The announcer introduced Charlie first. He walked out, his eyes on the ground. Focused. He wasn’t letting the roar of the crowd rattle him; he was on his game today.

I walked out and allowed myself one glance at my family. My mom and dad sat a few rows up, right in the center. They’d gotten here when the doors opened so they could get a good spot. Been here for hours to watch me wrestle nine minutes—if it went full rounds.

Cami sat with them, her back straight, her hands clutched in her lap. We’d been dating since fall of Junior year. This was the second wrestling season she’d been through with me, and she still got nervous.

Just as quickly, I put them all out of my mind. The announcer said my name and school—Sebastian McKinney, Waverly Shell-Rock High School—and the crowd erupted with cheers. It washed over me like a breeze, barely registering. This wasn’t about them. It was about me, and what I was going to do to Charlie Hall.

Most guys wrestling in the higher weight classes were big and strong, but with a thick layer of flab. Not me and Charlie. The two of us were tall, and our thickness was all muscle. Ripped arms, wide chests, powerful legs. It was part of what made us so evenly matched. Neither of us had a pound wasted on mass that hadn’t been developed for our sport.

I fastened the green strap around my ankle. Charlie had black, and the ref wore a matching strap on each wrist. We stepped onto the mat and faced each other, the ref between us. Shook hands.

The adrenaline racing through me made my heart pound. Limbs tingle. Anticipation thrummed through my whole body. It was no longer nervousness. It was excitement. The fuel I would use to power through this match, lending strength to my body and mind.

The whistle blew.

We stalked each other in a slow circle for a few seconds. Charlie was an offensive wrestler, so I wanted to beat him to the first take-down attempt—put him on the defensive. Lowering my center of gravity, I charged in and wrapped my arms around his torso, keeping my head against his ribs. He sprawled his legs backward, but I drove in and spun, trying to get around him. He resisted, but I was a hair faster. I got a hand on his leg and pushed the advantage.

Three seconds later, he was on his back. Take-down, green.

He flipped to his stomach but I clung to him like glue. My breathing quickened and my heart raced, muscles straining. He was strong, his counter moves effective. I got his leg again and moved forward, trying to keep him from getting to his feet. He stretched his arm across my face, pushing me away. The strain pulled my neck, but I simply drove harder.

His stomach hit the mat as I got his leg out from under him. Moving fast, I hooked one arm and leg and pushed, trying to roll him to his back. One heartbeat later, he shifted his weight and spun, getting behind me.

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