Page 110 of 1 Last Shot

Coach’s expression softens at my comment. He doesn’t give me a look of pity, or respond with some kind of bullshityou’ll be finecomment, he just does what a good coach should and gives me an honest answer.

“Alright, look,” he starts. “I want you to work on something for me. In the same way that you’ve been breathing through bag work and jiu-jitsu exercises, I want you to try to be present in the moment while you’re sparring, too. MMA isn’t just about winning, or about physically hurting your opponent. It’s about technique, and athleticism, and discipline. It’s about learning your body and appreciating what it’s capable of. It’s not… a punishment. Or a survival weapon.” He gestures at the cage where Remy is getting ready for our round. “I want you toenjoythe fight for what it is. I want you to breathe, and think, and more than that, I want you to be proud of yourself for what you’re capable of. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

I force myself to take a breath and mull over Coach’s words. If I’m being honest with myself, I don’tcompletelyunderstand his strategy, but for the first time in my life, I think I can kind of see what he means. Fighting has been about a physical release for so long that I never stopped to look at it as an art—never stopped to actually look at what I’m capable of and be proud of it.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “I’ll try.”

He claps me on the shoulder with a pleased nod. “Good. Now go have some fun.” Then something occurs to him, and he sighs. “And if, for some reason, you feel yourself start to lose control, just… do five burpees or something.”

My lip twitches in amusement. “Yes, sir.”

When I enter the cage, I realize Remy doesn't seem worried as she takes up her stance. She's short, but she’s not exactly a small female—she’s got too much useful muscle to meet that description. But despite that muscle, she's physically not a match for my two hundred plus pounds, even without anger problems fueling me.

The bell rings, and we start to circle each other inside the cage. She snaps out a few jabs that I easily deflect. I even throw back a few of my own, but I'm hesitant enough that none are actually thrown with the intent to hurt. My frame is stiff, my movements unsure. I have no idea how to spar someone that's not my size.

I watch as Remy tucks her chin and throws a few combos. One of them lands, and when I jerk back in surprise, she lands another. And another.

My frustration starts to bubble up. Not in a way that makes me want to lash out, but in a way that I imagine is the natural human reaction to losing. Biting down on my mouthpiece, I duck my chin and settle into my stance again. I start to look for openings in Remy's movements, and after throwing out a few test combos, I think I find one.

I suck in a deep breath, forcing my muscles to loosen and my shots to become more fluid. I feel myself start to settle into a comfortable rhythm. My punches aren't thrown to hurt, they're thrown to tag, or to set up something else. I suddenly feel so relaxed in this flow state that I even throw a few leg kicks.

Remy lands a punch, I counter with one of my own. We go back and forth, both of us landing a few shots a piece. Before I realize it, it's become an even, competitive round.

And then suddenly it's not. Because just as the bell rings to signal the end of the round, Remy capitalizes on the fact that I have to punch down by landing a huge overhand right on my chin.

I blink in surprise, stepping back to recoup from the shot. As I stare at her, I realize that the entire gym is silent. Out of the corner of my eye, I see every person crowded against the cage, their breaths held as they wait for my reaction.

All I feel is shock. Not because I've never been hit, or because I'm surprised Remy could catch me with something, but because… there's no flashback.

There's no flashback.

There's no anger, no deep-seeded desire to violently lash out. No feeling of desperation or panic that makes me want to hurt someone else before they can hurt me.

And it hits me that when there's no fear, no rage… maybe there's no flashback. No trigger.

On the heels of that realization, and without any conscious effort, my lips lift into a grin.

Collectively, I hear everyone exhale a sigh of relief.

"Nice shot," I tell Remy simply, holding out my glove for a fist bump.

She studies me for a moment, likely trying to decide when I'm going to flip back to my normal angry self. But when she sees that my compliment was a genuine one, she slowly reaches forward to bump gloves.

"Good round," she says gruffly. Then she's turning and walking out of the cage, to be replaced by her boyfriend.

Tristan doesn't say a word, he just finishes tying his gloves as he takes up his stance in front of me. His expression is completely blank. He's got the best poker face in the UFC, which is one of the things that makes him a great fighter.

Unfortunately, it also means I have no idea how he's feeling right now, or if he's about to beat the fuck out of me.

I swallow roughly, taking up my own stance. The second the bell rings, we're circling each other and throwing out jabs. I think he expects me to fly off the handle at some point, and when I don't, he snaps out ahardcombo that lands perfectly in my ribs.

I grunt at the impact, but don't counter right away. I simply duck my chin and look for a better opening.

I never end up finding it, but I'm surprised to not be mad about it. By the time the bell rings, Tristan and I have gone back and forth for the full five minutes, both landing some solid combos and actually settling into a technical flow. As we separate, Tristan bumps his shoulder against mine in a silent message ofgood round.

"You should follow up that body shot with a left hook," he says simply. "The cross to the body lands well, so build onto it with a level change. Head, body, head."

My eyebrows shoot up at that. Suggestions are rare enough, I’m assuming because I never listened, but having a compliment mixed in is even more so. I can only nod in answer.

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