Ghosts, Matt Rogers [reading the story of the .txt] 📗

didn’t matter.

He had enough.

‘Wan’s,’ King muttered to himself. ‘Chinatown.’

I’m getting sentenced tomorrow.

No time to waste.

He restarted his fitness watch, noted no increase in heart rate whatsoever, and set off running for home.

7

Will Slater lowered the Muay Thai pads attached to his forearms.

He said, ‘No. You should have elbowed there.’

Alexis Diaz stepped back and doubled over, hands on her knees, sucking in air like her life depended on it. She was dressed for exercise — tight black tube top revealing a washboard stomach, abdominal muscles pronounced as her mid-section heaved with each breath, and black high-waisted compression shorts that ended only a few inches below her hips. Any observer would have ogled, either out of lust or jealousy. They’d be convinced she was in peak physical condition. And she was — she’d exercised practically every day for years. Slater had seen it first hand.

But, as he and King reiterated time and time again, commercial fitness was nothing but a respectable foundation for the world they lived in.

You can lift weights all day, run for miles each morning, but when you first step foot in an MMA gym and spar a live body for five minutes, every muscle fills with lactic acid and screams for relief, and you’ll fall in a heap at the bell, convinced you can’t even lift your arms.

But stick with anything long enough and you adapt.

The human body, above all else, is designed to endure.

Alexis had been training with Slater for a month, and already her capacity was increasing.

Now, she focused on the breath — just as he’d taught — and her heart rate lowered.

She stood up to her fullest height, put her hands on her hips, and looked at him with those full green eyes. ‘Why elbow? It’s always elbow.’

He stepped in close and held up the pads, six inches above her right shoulder.

‘You were in this position,’ he said. ‘And you swung with your left fist. A big looping hook.’

‘It felt right.’

‘Because it’s the natural impulse.’

‘I can hit harder with my fist.’

‘For one strike,’ he said. ‘Then your hand is broken.’

She looked down at her hands, bound with combat tape that hid the callouses and cuts. ‘Your hands are tougher?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I’d break them all the same if I hit at full strength.’

‘But then I’d just break my elbow, wouldn’t I?’

He shook his head. ‘The elbow is biomechanically stronger. Watch.’

He stripped the Muay Thai pads off his forearms and dropped them to the floor of the training room. It was a big echoey space up the back of their estate, some of the reverberation suppressed by the wrestling mats laid out on the floor.

Slater backed up to the giant bag suspended from the ceiling. He stood right next to it, putting it close to his right shoulder, just as Alexis had been positioned.

He stood still.

She watched.

He exploded, fast-twitch muscle fibres flaring, and twisted at the hips. Impeccable footwork helped. He swung a left hook into the leather, connecting with a closed fist. The bag rattled on its chain. All one hundred and forty pounds of filling rippled.

Alexis said, ‘See? That’d kill someone.’

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But you can only punch as hard as your anatomy allows. If I put more force into it, I’d break my knuckles. That’s why boxers need gloves.’

‘Okay,’ she said, throwing her hands up in the air. ‘What exactly are we getting at?’

He reset his position, waited for the bag to stop swinging, and then said, ‘Ready?’

‘Yeah.’

He repeated the explosion of movement — the hips twisting, the left foot stepping round, every muscle corded, every ounce of kinetic energy taken advantage of.

This time he connected with a cocked elbow.

This time he didn’t hold back.

Because in a street fight you can use an elbow like a baseball bat.

The connection sounded like a gunshot. The thwack of bone on leather blasted out of the training room, echoing through the house. The bag swung away like a pendulum and came back. Slater stopped it with a closed fist, silently returning it to place.

When he turned back, Alexis’ eyes were wide.

She said, ‘That would kill someone.’

‘Practice makes perfect.’

‘Show me.’

He slipped the pads back on and guided her through fifty consecutive elbows, making subtle corrections and slight adjustments until she started to realise how much power came from the rest of her body — the whole chain of muscles, connected together — not just the arm. When he signalled the session had come to a close, she put her hands back on her knees.

Between gasps of breath, she said, ‘You know what? I don’t feel like I’m on the verge of death anymore.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m slowly increasing the workload. Your body is getting used to the exertion.’

‘I still don’t feel like I’m there yet.’

‘You’re not,’ he said. ‘We’ve been at this for a month. It’ll take years.’

She looked up, somewhat dejected.

She said, ‘I know I’ll never be able to do what you do.’

He shrugged. ‘Why should that matter?’

She didn’t answer.

It wasn’t what she’d expected to hear.

He said, ‘You’re better than you were yesterday, aren’t you?’

She nodded.

‘That’s what matters. That’s all I’ve ever focused on.’

A faint noise floated up from the ground floor.

The front door, opening and closing.

Alexis said, ‘That’ll be Jason.’

Slater checked his fitness watch. ‘He’s late.’

‘Maybe he stopped for a burger.’

They shared a smirk.

She might as well have suggested King had done hard drugs.

Slater said, ‘Can’t hurt to check.’

‘I’ll shower.’

She stepped in and touched a hand to his face. ‘Thank you. For being patient with me.’

He put his hands on her waist. ‘You’re the one to thank. You’ve kept up every step of the way. You’re more patient than I’ll ever be. And I owe you.’

‘For what?’

‘For making me realise there’s more to life than just this shit.’

She kissed him.

He savoured it, just as he’d savoured each of them. She’d taught him a whole lot more than that, but he didn’t voice the rest.

She was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He went downstairs and found King strangely motionless —