Monsters, Matt Rogers [ereader for android .txt] 📗

He raised his voice to cover the distance. ‘Alright. Jace doesn’t seem to care about self-respect or reputation so we’re gonna have to switch things up for a little while. These two here will be running you through some drills. I don’t want—’

‘Who the fuck are they?’ one guy called out. ‘Ain’t never seen them before.’

He was taller than the rest, six-three or six-four, and his frame suggested the highest potential for fighting. Long, lanky, and athletic. His arms hung down past his hips. His reach had to be at least seventy-eight inches, maybe pushing eighty.

Slater wasn’t interested in having to put a hot-headed student with a chip on his shoulder in his place.

But that proved unnecessary. Booth put him in his place for them.

‘Who are you?!’ Booth barked, voice ringing off the warehouse walls. ‘Is this your gym?’

‘C’mon, Frankie…’

‘I asked you a fucking question!’ Booth shouted. ‘What’s that sign out the front say? Does it say “CARTER COOMBS MIXED MARTIAL ARTS”?’

The tall guy whose name was obviously Carter Coombs said, ‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘Do you want to go train somewhere else?’

‘No, Frankie.’

‘Then keep your mouth shut.’ Before he stormed away he turned and slapped King on the shoulder. ‘Good luck. Call out for me if the moron starts running his mouth. I’ll leave the session up to you.’

He hustled for the front desk, phone already back out.

For Slater, the first priority was assessing ability, getting a sense of where they were at. He walked onto the mats and scanned the participants. Some seemed excited, some hesitant, and a couple visibly annoyed. Didn’t matter. They weren’t here to make friends.

Slater said, ‘You’ve warmed up?’

A sea of nods.

He said, ‘Partner up. I want each of you to give me three of your best sprawls. Go back and forth with it — takedown attempt, sprawl, repeat. Understood?’

More nods.

‘Just three,’ he said. ‘Don’t get carried away. This isn’t a test of your cardio. We’re obviously new here and we’re not familiar with what level these sessions are at. We’re also not here to ruffle feathers. I hope you’ve all left your egos at the door. It’s the fastest way to improve, and if you’re not here to improve then I don’t know why you’d bother showing up. Now, I’m Will, and my buddy here is Jason. We may critique you but it’s because we want everything done with perfect technique. If you have perfect technique, you make perfect decisions, and you win fights. For the next forty-five minutes we might not be very nice to you. But at the end of it you’ll be better. Does anyone have a problem with anything I just said?’

Everyone shook their heads, and Slater didn’t think he was imagining the increased enthusiasm. His words had been music to their ears, so they all seemed to be here for the right reasons. Even Carter Coombs looked more attentive.

King said, ‘Sprawls. Go.’

They matched themselves up with each other, and King and Slater watched closely, assessing technique. There were slight inefficiencies but for the most part everyone carried themselves with purpose, putting all their athletic abilities into their actions.

The “sprawl” motion prevents a takedown, stops your opponent from getting you to the ground. When they shoot in for your legs you slide your feet back and lean forward with your hips, put all your bodyweight on the back of their neck, keep their head down. It makes the takedown completion impossible if you time it right.

‘Good,’ Slater called out as the students wrapped up their demonstration. ‘Clean. But just for this session I want you to make it messy.’

Confused looks.

Slater manhandled King into position as a crash test dummy, facing him. ‘This is MMA,’ he explained, raising his voice so everyone could hear. ‘Your sole objective is to make your opponent want no part of the contest. They should be looking for a way out, sucking wind, drowning in their own fatigue. So get your hands involved. Restrict airways. Rub palms on faces. Anything to make them hate their lives, anything to make them quit. You want them so desperate for oxygen they’ll tap out just for a breather. Like so…’

King sensed his cue and shot in for a lazy takedown, which still seemed faster than any of the students’ efforts. Slater slid his feet back, leaned forward at the hips, and used them to push the back of King’s neck down, squashing his face into the mat. Then, as he was adjusting his position, he slapped King in the ear, used his other hand to force the back of the neck further down, rubbing it hard against the mat. When King tried to scoot his hips back to escape, Slater leaned harder onto him, pulled his leg out to disrupt his balance, bucked at the hips to slam King’s forehead into the mat. The whole time he kept using both hands to shove King’s face this way and that, cutting off his breathing, making it messy and ugly and dirty.

When the demonstration was over King was red-faced, exhausted.

Slater said, ‘Messy. You’re fighters. So make life hell for whoever’s across from you. Either that or don’t try at all.’

He figured, when he looked over at Booth, the man would be irate. It was certainly more than Booth would’ve expected from new faces who he assumed would be tentative to coach a class, careful not to tread on any toes. Slater had jumped right in the deep end with his own unique take. It wasn’t exactly a formulaic drill that an unconfident coach would assign.

But the students took to it immediately, embracing the associated discomfort in the way a true fighter should.

And when Slater looked over his shoulder, Booth was grinning beside the reception desk.

27

Alexis was a freight train with no brakes and she didn’t want it any other way.

Before she could second-guess herself, allow for all those ripples of doubt, she got out of the cab and beelined for the skyscraper. The lobby was triple the size of Mary’s building