Fighting for Everything (Warrior Fight Club 1)

Noah got in the correct stance and brought up his hands, muscle memory kicking in from his years of boxing. Even though he wasn’t in peak shape, there was almost a freedom to the feeling of moving—his body fast on the attack, his arms delivering jabs, hooks, and combinations of punches to an invisible foe, his weight shifting between his feet as he moved. The sound of huffing breaths and feet squeaking against the mats filled the otherwise quiet room.

Working through the moves made it clear just how much he’d changed, though, because he now had a massive blind-spot on his left side that he hadn’t had when he’d last boxed. His peripheral vision was non-existent on his left, which meant in an actual competition, he’d have to turn his head to compensate, losing some of his peripheral on the right as he did.

Goddamnit. Why did everything have to illustrate just how much he’d lost?

“Nice, Noah,” Mack said, pulling Noah from the defeatist thoughts. “Tuck that back elbow in against your ribs more. You don’t want any daylight showing through there or you open yourself up to a liver kick.” Noah made the adjustment. Mack stood watching a moment longer and nodded. “Good. Now vary it up further by ducking and turning out.”

Noah changed it up again. Instead of popping out of the attack standing straight up, he crouched down on his retreat, as if avoiding a hook. On his next attack, he pivoted and turned out, which set him up for—

All of a sudden, the room spun, the quickness of his movement throwing his equilibrium off.

“Whoa, big guy,” Mack said, catching him by the shoulder. “How long has it been since you’ve done any kind of regular workouts?”

Frustrated, Noah sighed. “A while. I’ve managed to keep up with strength training and some occasional runs, but I haven’t figured out how to get the equilibrium issues under control.” He was glad he’d included it on his injury profile and hadn’t tried to hide it.

Mack gave his shoulder a squeeze, then released him as Noah got his legs back under him again. “It’s not always about controlling our weaknesses. It’s about finding ways to mitigate them. It may be that certain moves always exacerbate the issue, but you can find strength in knowing which ones do and then strategizing alternate and equally effective moves.”

Noah nodded, liking that idea a lot. He often worried about what would happen if he could never fix his weaknesses, when maybe he’d been asking the wrong question. Maybe he should’ve been asking how he could work around them instead.

“There are many right ways to arrive at the same destination, Noah,” Mack said, giving him a pointed look.

Bolstered, Noah threw himself back into the striking pattern exercises.

Quick attack in. Right jab, left jab, right hook. Straight back out.

Quick attack in. Fast right jab, left fake, right hook. Duck out and to the right.

Quick attack in. Left, right, left combo. Skip out and to the left.

And damn if using his muscles, exerting himself, and feeling the promise of his strength didn’t make him feel a little different, more focused yet less trapped inside his head.

They worked on those moves for a few more minutes, and then they paired off to practice choke hold and joint lock positions for grappling on the ground.

“Billy Parrish,” his partner said by way of introduction. With short dark blond hair, dark eyes, and a stubble-covered jaw, the guy probably had five or more years on Noah, but the hard cut of his arm and shoulder muscles and the speed with which he’d moved during the striking pattern exercises made it clear that age wouldn’t be an immediate advantage.

They tapped gloves. “Noah Cortez.”

“The purpose of choke holds and joint locks is to achieve submission, or the inability to escape a hold and make your opponent tap out,” Mack said. “The fighter on top is the mount, and the mount’s goal

is to ground and pound his opponent until he can put him in a hold and finish the fight. The fighter on bottom is the guard, who’s looking to escape the holds and pass the guard, or reverse his position with his opponent. We’ll show you the positions, and then each of you will try.”

Colby and Hawk got on the ground and first took turns demonstrating a series of different joint locks, many of which came from Jiu Jitsu—new territory for Noah.

Part-way through their demonstration, a guy rushed through the gym door and made quick working of joining the group. “Sorry Coach,” he called, running a hand through his dark hair. “Got caught at work.” He took a place on the mats toward the far side.

“Run through your warm-up, Riddick,” Mack said.

The guy gave a tight nod and started in on the stretches they’d done earlier. “Miss me, Dani?” he asked a woman sitting near him in almost a taunting voice.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” the woman said. Noah’s gaze cut from the demonstration up front to where Riddick grinned and the black-haired woman glared back at him.

“Don’t mind them,” Billy said. “Driving each other batshit is their favorite pastime. Okay, we’re up. Why don’t you go first.”

They started with an ankle lock, both of them sitting on the floor facing each other. Noah pinned Billy’s ankle under his arm pit, clasped his hands together around the lower shin, and bent his elbows back toward his ribs to trap the man’s foot there.

“That’s pretty good,” Billy said. “Try trapping the joint with the middle of your forearm instead of the wrist though. Because you’ve got a gap there.” He pointed to the crook of Noah’s elbow. “That I can yank out of, especially when we’re sweaty.”

Noah tried again. “That feels better,” he said. “Tighter.”