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

about it. She’ll ask me what I think you used to do, before entrepreneurship.’

It was the cover story King had fed them when they’d first met, that he and Violetta had moved from California to Massachusetts so they could raise a family while he ran his tech company remotely. Bill had bought the ruse for a while, but he’d seen through it just before King left for Mexico. Now there was an unspoken agreement that permeated their relationship: make sure Alice stays in the dark. Bill could barely fathom what King had shared of his turbulent past, and the fewer civilians knew about it, the better. Ignorance was sometimes the answer.

No, King thought. Not sometimes. More often than not.

They sat that way for a while, side by side, soaking up the morning light. There wasn’t much that rivalled the inner peace following a gruelling training session, and Bill was relishing every moment. King must’ve zoned out, because next thing he knew Bill said, ‘You’re thinking something over.’

King jerked back to the present. Looked over. ‘Am I?’

‘The way you hit that bag,’ Bill said. ‘It’s like…something woke up inside you. Something dormant.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Reasonably.’

King got to his feet, outstretched a hand to help Bill up. ‘I’ve gotta get back to Junior.’

Bill straightened his shoulders as he stood across from King, which didn’t achieve much. He was five-eleven and a hundred and seventy pounds to King’s six-three and two-twenty. But he didn’t back down, not even when it was clear King was eager to switch topics. That sort of persistence in the face of the unknown was the type of mentality you couldn’t readily teach.

Bill said, ‘Just be careful.’

King eyed him. ‘You’re reaching.’

‘I know what I saw. At least, I think I do. I’m obviously not you. But I saw your eyes. Looks like you got an itch that needs scratching.’

‘Based on what?’

Bill shook his head, like it was unexplainable, something ethereal and faint. ‘Doesn’t matter. Thanks for the session. I’ll be on the sofa for the rest of the day.’

He reached out a hand and King clapped it, pulled the man in for a shoulder bump. Bill went up to the house, and King went down the side passage to the front yard.

When he was alone, he fought the urge to pull out his phone and call Slater. He wanted to know how the hit list was progressing.

Like Bill said, the desire had risen when he’d first hit the bag.

6

Slater rose at quarter to six.

In the predawn light he made coffee, grinding beans into the portafilter, slotting it into the Rancilio machine, and flicking it to life. Espresso flowed in twin streams into a small glass, the smooth golden crema unbroken on its surface. He drank it in a gulp, went to the garage, and began his warm-up mobility routine like it was an unconscious habit. By this point, it was. His hips were open and his muscles firing by the time the clock struck six. Caffeine hummed in his veins.

He chalked his hands, running white powder over pre-existing callouses, preparing for deadlifts. He thought he might work his way up to a three-rep max top set. His body felt loose, energetic, strength buzzing below the surface, ready to be unleashed. There were good days and bad days, athletically and mentally. The important part was showing up all days.

Slater noted that he was alone.

Then the garage’s side door opened softly, and Tyrell stepped down to the concrete. An Under Armour shirt tucked into Nike compression pants. Bags under his eyes, but the pupils were alive with intensity. Converse Chuck Taylor All-Stars on his feet, flat-soled to optimise deadlifts. Ready to go.

Slater said, ‘It’s 6:01.’

‘Shut up.’

Slater smirked.

They pushed hard. Tyrell wasn’t having a good day athletically or mentally, a tad foggy from the aftermath of his debut with marijuana, but Slater made a point of working him to the bone when he least wanted to. Slater was confident the kid wouldn’t quit — he’d showed up of his own accord, after all — and it was important to understand that grinding it out on the days you feel the worst leads to the largest leaps in mental transcendence.

You start to understand you can push whenever you want.

How you feel plays no part in it, not if the discipline’s there.

Slater, on the other hand, was zoned in. A paragon of relentlessness. His shoulder finally felt a hundred percent and it propelled him forward. He worked his way steadily to a top set, then ripped six hundred and eighty pounds off the floor for three repetitions, a personal best. At his age, with his level of experience, a PR was almost unheard of. He thought he’d peaked athletically years prior, but it’s shocking what consistent programming and three hundred and sixty five days a year of commitment can do. When he battled his way through the final rep with Tyrell screaming in his ear to lock his hips out, complete the motion, he let out a primal grunt at the top. Veins throbbed and his head felt set to explode, but he’d done it. He dropped the barbell, shaking the garage walls, if not the whole house.

Tyrell burst forward and grabbed his shoulders and yelled, ‘Yes!’ in his face.

Slater saw stars, vision shrinking to a tunnel, but he still had the adrenaline rush, so he grabbed Tyrell’s shoulders in turn and they yelled in each other’s faces for a second, excitement at a fever pitch. Lifting that much weight off the ground puts you in survival mode. You forget about your problems, about the state of worldly affairs, and all you focus on are your efforts to stay conscious, to not let the blood rush make you faint.

After that, Tyrell caught momentum and hit a five-rep PR of two hundred and twenty-five pounds. Seriously impressive for his age and weightlifting history (which was minimal). His progress, especially over the last month, had been astronomical. Slater let out a primal yell of encouragement