Undeclared Read Free Page B

Sullivans came to live with you guys.”
    “I think it was kismet,” Lana replied, smiling at me, probably relieved I hadn’t started crying again.
    “Kismet doesn’t sound very science-y.”
    “Still in training, Grace. Still in training.”
    Noah
    Bo’s left cross glanced across my chin and I stumbled back against the ropes.
    “Fuck me,” he swore. “What’s wrong with you this morning?”
    As if he had to ask. My trainer, Paulie, jumped into the ring and bustled over to me.
    “I only get you for two hours in the morning and this is the effort you’re giving. Fuckin’ ingrate,” Paulie muttered, pulling off my gloves and protective facemask.
    Getting hit in the face is probably my least favorite part of mixed martial arts. I could take a body blow or three, but the other guys at the gym joked about my glass jaw. Paulie has tried to beat that out of me. On a regular basis, he and a few other guys punch me in the face while I wear a protective mask. The goal is to make me so accustomed to getting a fist to the face that I become like a comic villain, always getting up again even after the good guys thought they’d killed me.
    Taking a blow to the head or the ribs is one thing. What separates the winners from the wannabes is the ability to think. If you’re hit with the left cross that usually means the right side of the fighter’s upper body is open. Only the most disciplined of fighters always keep their right side protected, and Bo isn’t a disciplined fighter. He’s fast and he has hammers for fists, but he’s lazy, which is why he’s only my sparring partner and not competing professionally. This morning, though, my reflexes were coated with tar. Gym chum could take me down this morning.
    Bo sensed this and apparently Paulie did as well. “Get over there and do chest crawls. Twenty five times,” Paulie instructed. Holding the upper rope up and pushing the lower rope down, he gestured for me to get going. Bo helped by shoving me in the back.
    Military crawls? I could do those in my sleep. I tried not to look grateful at being released from sparring. Pulling my body across the gym mats, one forearm and knee at a time, required no thought at all. By the tenth one, my mind was completely blank of everything but the abrasiveness of the rubber weave of the mats cutting into my arms and legs. By number fifteen, I wasn’t feeling anything but a burning sensation in my abdomen. Pain is weakness leaving the body, I repeated in a loop. By twenty-five, I felt like liquefied rubber.
    My effort didn’t quite meet Paulie’s standards. When I stood up, he looked at me grim-faced. “Took you two minutes longer today. You’re a worthless schmuck. Go run and get the fuck out of here. When you come back tomorrow, your mind better be in the game. We have a fucking meet in four weeks. Do you want to get on the card or not?”
    I nodded and took the water bottle that appeared at my side. Gulping down some much-needed hydration, I went over to the bench where my running shoes were. I pulled them on and nodded to Bo. He always ran my cool-down with me.
    Every morning I got up at 5 a.m. to train with Paulie Generoli. When I had decided to come to Central, I figured that fighting would’ve to be shelved or put aside entirely. I wasn’t broken up about it. Few fighters ever made any money, although with new network television contracts, and increasing interest in pay-per-view events, the sport was making everyone richer.
    Even with the influx of new money, though, the likelihood of fighters making a real living out of it was low. The goal was to get on a television fight card. You do that and you get a pretty nice payday. I played high percentage shots, like saving all my money while deployed, instead of buying new trucks, bikes, or boats. But the lure of getting paid big money for beating the shit out of someone was too enticing to pass up.
    My trainer in San Diego begged me not to leave, but when it became clear that