Page 3 of 1 Last Shot

My chest is heaving as I go back to my side of the cage, but it's not from exertion—though even if it was, it wouldn't affect a single aspect of my fighting. I fight the same way whether I'm in the best shape of my life or coming off a three-month recovery when the most I could do was upper body exercises. No, I'm breathing hard because the shock of Tristan's shot is wearing off and being replaced with unbridled rage.

It's a familiar emotion, with a familiar result every time. This kind of fury is a result of one thing only: the desperate need to survive.

"Round two, same thing," Coach instructs. "Kane, try to tighten those combos up a little when you're moving forward. Not so sloppy."

I don't even hear him, I'm staring at Tristan so intently. It's like there's a blanket of red in front of my eyes, and I'm waiting for it to move so I can charge forward at my target.

The bell rings. "Fight!"

The red lifts and, suddenly, I'm like a bull in the center of the stadium: singularly focused on slicing the matador into ribbons.

I can't even take the time to appreciate the way Tristan's eyes widen in surprise. The clear show of respect should make the animal within me beat its chest, but I'm too deep into the fight to let it mean anything. The only thing I'm capable of doing is throwing myself at Tristan with a bellow of aggression, chest heaving and punches flying.

For about ten seconds, every other punch lands. My gloves glance off his forehead, jaw, even jarring his body through the shot that lands on the forearm he has raised to protect himself.

For ten seconds, victory pumps through my blood. Victory that I was threatened, and Isurvived. My opponent is moving back, moving away from the threat I pose, and I've protected myself enough to live another day.

But as soon as those ten seconds are up, and Tristan gathers his wits enough to do more than just shell up and take my attack, those feelings crumble into dust in my lungs.

I don't realize until later that he uses the exact combo Coach gave him to beat me. That Tristan backing up wasn't him running away from me, but luring me into a false sense of security. Because the second I take another step forward, he's shifting into the other stance and firing a left cross directly at my chin.

And it's ahardshot. Rightfully so, because my intensity and power level in this round is exponentially higher than the last round. So of course, his rose too.

We call it a lightning knockout. It's not enough to put you unconscious on the ground, but your brain definitely shuts off.

I've had too many of these to count. I've always wondered if the reason my body prefers this kind of knockout to the real thing is because it's yet another survival tactic I've somehow internalized. Because if I go all the way out, I'll have no protection against any other damage coming my way.

Unfortunately, lightning knockouts come with their own danger. One I've managed to mostly keep at bay while I've been training at this gym.

At the feel of Tristan's punch landing on my face, a memory surfaces. Raised voices. Fear. The phantom sensation of a punch exactly like this one—

I crawl my way out of the pit of terror the same way I do every time I'm thrust into it. A switch flips inside of me, and I launch myself at Tristan with every single bit of fight I have left.

I start to pummel him. There's no other word for it. My eyes are crazed, my shots thrown out of fear, and I'm sunk so deep into this moment that I know without thinking that he'll have to kill me to get me to stop. I've been pushed so far that this is now a fight to the death.

I'm not sure what I notice first: the arms grabbing at me, or the panicked shouts ringing around the gym. But slowly, so slowly, reality filters into my consciousness.

Tristan's standing in front of me, still in his ready stance and looking entirely prepared to resume our fight. But there are hands clasping my arms and shoulders and even my waist. I jerk my head to the side and see Coach holding one arm, with Jax holding me back from behind. I don't care enough to see who's on my other side.

"Jesus," Jax gasps. "What thefuck, man?"

I don't answer. I can't.

I force myself to hold Coach's gaze with a blank stare and wait for his punishment.

His expression flickers with irritation, but for the most part, it's knowing. Though he has to push his rebuke through gritted teeth.

"If you can't keep your temper in check and your teammates safe, I won't let you on my mat," he says, in a voice low enough that only those standing next to me can hear. "I know you're new. And I know you did things differently where you come from. But the bottom line is, if you're a danger to this gym, I won't have you on the team. I'm not jeopardizing others becauseyouare incapable of keeping your feelings leashed." He pauses to give me a hard stare, making sure he has my undivided attention. "Understood?"

"Yeah," I croak immediately.

Give me the punishment. Iwantit. With punishment comes numbness. And if the absence of feeling takes away the pain, then give me a burnout three times a day for the rest of my life. It's one of the only ways I've ever known peace.

"Good. Now get off my mat and give me 100 burpees and 1,000 kicks. On each side. If you can't work with yourteammates"—he stresses the word in a way that lets me know he knows exactly how I feel about it—"then you get to do a solo workout. Get going."

Stepping toward the entrance to the cage, I shake off the remaining grips on my arms. I refuse to make eye contact with anyone—and there are alotof people crowded around the cage, their mouths agape and their expressions shocked.

I turn my self-hatred outward and blow past every single one of them.

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