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

into John’s seat. ‘We’re going to talk.’

28

Practice wrapped with intervals on the assault bike, after which hand wraps and shin pads came off and budding professional fighters collapsed in sweaty and exhausted heaps.

A kid King had noticed halfway through the session sat down in one corner of the mats, away from everyone else. He had hollow eyes and a stoic determination. He put his back to the padded wall that was used for wrestling drills, and closed his eyes. He kept his back straight and measured his breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth.

King walked over and sat down beside him without a sound. He waited patiently for the kid to finish meditating. All the while he studied him.

He realised “kid” was the wrong word. The young man had to be twenty, only with boyish features. There was strong athletic development in his frame. Corded forearms and calves, plenty of hip dexterity, a poise with which he sat and meditated, even when he thought no one was watching. He had potential. Frankie might make a competent professional out of him. Unfortunately, in this world, you had to be truly elite to make any money.

As with most worlds.

The young man opened his eyes and registered a large shape beside him. He jolted. When he recognised King he relaxed. ‘Hey, man. Didn’t realise you were there.’

King’s expression didn’t change. ‘You got your breathing under control fast.’

‘Learned it from one of my favourite fighters.’

The young man glanced at the mat in front of his crossed legs. A touch of shame, embarrassment.

King said, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Danny. It was Jason, right?’

‘It was. You can talk to me, Danny. Tell me about the breathing.’

Only a small encouragement, but it made a world of difference. Like the validation he’d always been waiting for. ‘Um, yeah, so it’s something I read about and decided to give it a try. Most fighters gas themselves out with this tough-guy routine they think they need to use. Mean-mugging between rounds, staying on their feet, puffing their chest out.’

‘Like Carter Coombs,’ King muttered.

Danny half-smirked. Coombs sat on the other side of the warehouse under the mezzanine floor, surrounded by punching bags, unspooling his wraps. He was physically spent, having pushed himself to literal failure during the initial drills. His recovery had failed him during the final rounds. He was athletically gifted and tough as nails, but an inability to pace himself would hold him back.

Looking over at Coombs, Danny seemed uneasy, but he kept talking. ‘Really, you want to do anything to get your heart rate down, no matter how stupid that makes you look. At least, that’s what I heard…’

He trailed off, embarrassed again. King figured he didn’t talk to people much. He had ideas, and lots of them, but he lived mostly in his own head.

King could relate.

He said, ‘You had a fight?’

Danny shook his head. ‘Training for my first.’

‘How long’s it been?’

‘I started a year ago. I got real potential, I know it. Everyone tells me. But I wanna do this right. I’ve got some…mental hurdles to overcome.’

King allowed a respectable silence, then said, ‘Tell me.’

‘You’ll think it’s dumb.’

‘No I won’t.’

‘I get nerves, man.’

‘That’s normal.’

‘No, but…’ He sighed, stared at his feet. ‘They ruin me. All the training goes out the window on hard sparring days. It’s not even my technique. That holds up. But I gas out. I feel my heart beating so hard in my chest and it’s all I can focus on and by the end of the first round my hands are down at my waist. It’s like an adrenaline dump that I get every single time. I hear all this talk: “More rounds, more rounds, more rounds.” Frankie says I just need more exposure, need to get used to the feeling. But I’ve done the rounds. I’ve done hundreds of rounds. And it’s like it’s getting worse. I’m not getting used to it. It’s like it started as something inconvenient, but now it’s my whole world…’

‘That’s how anxiety works.’

‘I know, but…’

King gestured to Danny’s cross-legged position. ‘That’s what the meditation’s about, right? You’ll try anything to reach that peace everyone talks about. Calm in the chaos.’

Danny nodded. ‘I haven’t found it yet. Not even close. And it’s like…’ He exhaled. ‘The more I try to find it, the harder it gets.’

King knew all about that. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Huh?’

King gestured to the gym, the sweaty mats, the flecks of blood that were yet to be wiped and disinfected. ‘Slaving away in here. Punching and kicking and wrestling other men until you maybe get good enough to get paid for it. There’s millions of easier jobs.’

‘Easier jobs that don’t go anywhere,’ Danny said. ‘With this, I can be something…maybe. But I’m starting to doubt that.’

‘Where you from?’

‘Trailer park way out past Fresno. I, uh…got kicked out. A year ago. I been living with Frankie ever since, in a trailer he got up the back of his yard. He took me in.’

‘Parents kicked you out?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘Told my dad I wanted to be a fighter. Like one of the ones you see on TV. He was drunk and I shouldn’t’ve said it when he was drunk. It was stupid. My mistake. He said, “How you gonna win fights against pros when you can’t win a fight against me?” and he hit me. Right in the ear. I thought my eardrum had burst and I was angry about that so I fought back. First time I’d ever done that. But I had no training back then. I was twenty pounds lighter than I am now. He gave me the worst concussion of my life and then tossed me out with all my shit. Which was only like one bag, really. I’ve never had much.’

‘Were you just living with him?’

‘My mom and my sister, too. But I haven’t seen them since. They didn’t say anything when he threw me out. They couldn’t.’

Danny’s revelations had come out fast. He’d been talking a mile a minute. King doubted