Page 2 of 1 Last Shot

An hour later, I’m walking into the gym without returning the nod I get from Jax behind the front desk. The nod Ialwaysget from him when I walk through the doors.

I don't understand why these idiots don't get that I'm not here to be their fucking friend.

Because it's not just Jax. The golden-haired pretty boy is also ready to make an effort to pull me into whatever conversation he's having with the black-haired jiu-jitsu kid who’s always attached to his hip. Fortunately, it only takes a single hard stare and then turning away for that one to get the picture.

No one else dares to say anything to me. I've been here for months, and everyone besides those two have officially gotten the message that I'm here to train, and nothing else. This isn't ateamsport, contrary to what these idiots think. When I get in the cage, it's just me, my fists, and my brain. I might have a coach yelling instructions, but it's up to me to follow them.

I'm on my own in there, just the way I like it.

I throw my bag on the edge of the mat and dig out my gloves and hand wraps. A lot of times I don't use the hand wraps, but those are days when I'm feeling particularly masochistic. Not only because it allows me to feel skull at the end of my punches, but also because the lack of protection sometimes rubs the skin off my knuckles. The pain serves as a reminder that I fought, and that Iwon.

As I start to wrap my hands, I watch Tristan shadowbox out of the corner of my eye. It didn't take long for me to begrudgingly admit to myself that he's the best fighter in the gym. And even though that doesn't mean he would win a fight to the death with me, it's clear he's the hardest worker in here and has a shit load of talent to back it up. There's a reason he got into the UFC and is working his way to the top of the food chain.

"Kane, once you're warmed up, I want you in the cage to do yesterday's drills with Tristan."

I turn toward Coach and give a stiff nod. I know better than to push back on authority figures, but it doesn't tamp down on the irritation that sparks in my chest every time I'm ordered around. I finish wrapping my hands and grab a jump rope to warm up.

Ten minutes later, I'm pulling on my gloves and glaring at Tristan where he's doing the same. He's relaxed, his muscles loose and his eyes lit up with a laugh at something his girlfriend says.

It turns my stomach.

No one should be that unbothered about fighting. This shit serves either one of two purposes: it's either a release—in which case the most you're allowed to feel is a sick sense of fascination—or a mode of survival. There's no in-between. This isn'tfun.

There's no telling that to Tristan, though. Or anyone else in this godforsaken gym, really. They're all happy to be here, happy to hang out with theirteammates, and happy to do this thing that is apparently a good time for them.

What a fucking joke.

Coach's voice snaps me out of my increasingly rage-filled thoughts. "Alright, so, Tristan, we're working that two-step retreat combo I showed you last week. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Tristan immediately responds. He rolls out his shoulders one last time, and then starts to bounce around on the balls of his feet.

"Kane, just do what you usually do. Be aggressive."

As if I know any other way to fight.

But I nod to signal my understanding.

I don't need to stay loose the way I always see fighters doing at the beginning of a fight. I'm not stretching, not bouncing around to keep my body warm. You could wake me from a dead sleep in the middle of winter in a bedroom with no heat, and I'd still be ready to go at the sound of a bell. Fighting isn't physical, it's mental.

"Let's go," Coach barks, starting the ringside timer and interrupting my thoughts, thankfully before they can go down their usual dark path.

I dart forward, driven into Tristan's path with a bone-deep need tobreak. Hurt. Kill.

But he knows I'm coming, and he doesn't stay in one place long enough for me to get a shot off.

"Let him tire himself out," Coach calls to Tristan. "Aggressive styles are exhausting, so as long as you're not constantly retreating, just use those lateral movements and evasions to keep from getting hurt."

Biting down hard on my mouthpiece, I tuck my chin and throw even harder, and faster. I'm mostly throwing punches, since that's what I'm comfortable with. And because Tristan is the hardest fighter in here to spar with, I'm reverting to my default ofjust move forward and punch. Which Tristan is entirely too familiar with.

It only takes him ninety seconds into the round to start picking apart my movements. He waits until I throw my big combos, and then he snaps out a quick counter that hits me where I'm still open. Where I haven't retained my guard because I'm that focused onoffenseinstead ofdefense.

"Combo, combo!" Coach yells with only thirty seconds left. And even though I know that's his code word forthrow the combo we talked about before this round, I'm still unable to avoid Tristan's movements.

As I push forward, he takes one step back, then another, and then quick as a snake, he's shifting left into the opposite stance and snapping a straight left at my chin.

It's not hard, but it stuns me. My head snaps back with the shot, and by the time I blink my focus back, the ten-second bell is sounding and Tristan is laying into me in order to steal the end of the round.

"Time!" Coach calls. "Back to your corners. Thirty second break."

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