Worth The Fight (Hard To Love Book 1) (2 page)

I don’t have more than a few seconds to worry about what the pain means before I'm grabbed from behind in a rear naked choke. With my uninjured hand I try to pull the arm away from my neck but it’s no use, he’s just too strong. I look over to Coach and see a look of worry in his face, he's trying to tell me to tap out but I hold up my hand, showing him that’s not going to happen. If I'm going to lose this fight it won’t be through giving up. As long as I have some fight left in me I'm going carry on. Darkness starts to invade my vision as the pressure around my throat tightens. Every attempt to get Dwayne off me fails and my strength starts to weaken as the lack of oxygen makes my body shut down. My lungs are screaming out for me to breathe but the grip on my neck is too much.

I’ve just wasted my one chance at the title I’ve been training my entire life for, this was my moment and I’ve thrown it all away.
Those are my last thoughts as I start to lose consciousness. Before I pass out I hear the bell ring and people shouting before the pressure on my throat disappears. I collapse onto the canvas and take in a deep breath of precious oxygen.
I close my eyes and try to fill my lungs. I feel hands all over my body and they cause me to moan with pain. If I could talk I would tell them to leave me here, my career is probably over so there is no point panicking over me. I can’t get any words out so I drift off into a pain-induced sleep, my mind going blissfully blank.

****

I’m sitting on the floor of the shower, letting the hot water fall over me as I cradle my hand. I woke up not long ago in the locker room after being carried in on a stretcher. Coach has been trying to get me to go to the hospital for my hand but I'm putting off the inevitable. I know there’s something seriously wrong with it, something that’s possibly career ending, and finding out for certain isn’t high on my ‘must do’ list right now. I hear footsteps on the tile floor but I don’t have the energy to even raise my head to see who it is. Let them see me at my lowest point. I don’t care

“Boy, we really need to get you to the hospital. You need your hand and ribs x-rayed, and your neck checked. You took a good beating out there. There may be some serious damage.” I feel anger rising in me at Coach’s observation. I know I fucking lost, I'm just thankful I was passed out when Dwayne lifted the belt.

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” The water above me shuts off and I finally look up just in time to catch a towel that’s thrown in my direction.

“Get your ass up off that floor and stop with the pity party. So you lost a fight, there’ll be plenty more in your career that you’ll win.” Coach doesn’t even wait for a response as he turns around, leaving me alone in the shower room.

I stand and awkwardly wrap the towel around my waist with my good hand before making my way out to the main room, praying that no one will try to talk to me out there. I grab my boxers from the shelf in my locker and struggle to get them on. In my attempt my towel falls to the floor, thankfully I'm not embarrassed about people seeing me naked. I grab my t-shirt and after another struggle I pull it down my body. The locker room is quiet, like everyone is scared to talk and I don’t blame them. I'm on the verge of losing my shit, I can feel it. I have so many emotions running through me that I don’t know which one to concentrate on. I'm worried, actually I'm petrified, that I’ve done some serious and permanent damage to my hand that will stop me fighting. I'm fucking pissed that the injury’s happened, and for the first time since it happened I stop and wonder why it did. My form was perfect, my hand connecting to his jaw at a perfect angle. I’ve also hit bigger guys than Dwayne, so his size wasn’t a factor. I stop dead, my hand hovering over the shoes I was about to grab, the obvious answer finally clicking in my head. I turn slowly and look directly at the reason for all of this. Immediately I feel myself moving, walking across the room until I'm standing in front of him with nothing but a bench in between us. He looks up from the bag he's packing and a look of fear crosses his face. He knows he did this, he knows he’s the reason that I may have to abandon my dream.

“Um… hi, Zeke. Are you… um… ready for the hospital?” His stuttering pisses me off even more, he fucked everything up and he has the nerve to panic. I move around the bench that’s between us, crowding into his body as he moves backwards.

“You did this to me. You fucked my career up.” My voice comes out calmer than I thought it would, but it’s obviously louder than I think because Coach quickly tries to get in between me and Ethan.

“Come on, Zeke. Let’s not do this.” My glare doesn’t move from Ethan and I see him cower. I point at him, my arm reaching over Coach’s shoulder, getting closer to Ethan’s face.

“He fucking did this, Coach. I didn’t want the fucker in the first place and now he's screwed up my hand.” I can feel the anger building inside. There’s nothing that I want more than to kill him. I feel Coach push against me, using his body weight to push me away from Ethan as he talks.

“Everyone makes mistakes. Let’s just get you to the hospital and take it from there.” If I didn’t respect him as much I wouldn’t listen to him, I would take all my fury out on the quivering figure in front of me but I can’t. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting Coach move me further away from Ethan. I'm just about to turn away from him, get my shit together and leave when the stupid idiot has to make a comment. He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut for a few more minutes.

“There’s always next year, I'm sure you’ll win the …” He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence when I turn and attack him. I grab the front of his shirt and push him back against the lockers behind him. I manage to connect a few good punches to his face, despite the pain shooting through my hand and up my wrist, before I'm dragged away from him. I watch with satisfaction as he crumbles to the ground with blood pouring from his face. I try to break free from the hands that are keeping me away, I want to keep going until he isn’t breathing.

“Come on, son. That’s not gonna help your hand.” I don’t even care how much damage it does, I just need him to suffer the way I am. I want to see him in pain. I watch as two other fighters pull Ethan from the floor, helping him from the room and out of my sight. It’s safer for him that I can’t see him anymore.

“He’s fired, Coach.” I hear Coach’s deep laugh in my ear before he replies.

“Yeah, son. I worked that one out.”

I clench my hand and feel the tightness in the muscles start to relax a little. My cast was taken off nineteen days ago, and
after six fucking long weeks I was ecstatic.
I’ve been working flat out to improve the mobility since it was removed, and the hand may be getting better but my anger towards the injury hasn’t. When I went to the hospital after the disastrous fight, the x-ray showed that I’d fractured three bones, which had proved my claim that my tapes were nowhere near tight enough. I pick up the tension ball again and squeeze it with all the power I can manage, imagining that it’s Ethan’s head in between my fingers. It worried me initially how weak my hand was, I couldn’t believe I’d gone from being able to punch a bag for hours at a time to barely being able to last five minutes with this silly little ball. I'm starting to feel more confident now that I can actually feel my strength coming back and I’ve even managed to take a few punches at the bag, not that I've told Coach that. Even with the progress I'm making, I still need to make sure that with every day that passes I don’t give in to the sense of dread that festers in my stomach. I shake my head at my own dramatics, I swear if the guys around could hear my inner thoughts, they would tie me to the punch bag and use me for boxing practice.

“Zeke, my man. How’s it hanging?” I turn towards the voice and smile at Jason, watching him as he enters the ring I'm sitting next to. I feel a pinch of jealousy as I watch him tape up his hands, ready to spar with his trainer, Angus. I haven’t been in the ring since I was injured, and I miss it so fucking badly. He hits the pads Angus’s holding up a few times before walking towards me and leans on the ropes next to me.

“I'm good.” I look down to my hand that’s still clutching onto the strength-training ball and laugh. “Okay, maybe not good but I suppose it could be worse.” He gives me a sympathetic look before pushing himself off the ropes and standing up straight.

“Yeah, I suppose. It’s not like you lost the biggest fight of your life and broke your hand or anything.” Jason smirks, walking over to Angus and starts punching the pads again. I drop the ball to the bench I'm sitting on and stand, stretching out my back.

“Hey, Jason. You know what I can still do?” I wait until he stops sparring and looks at me. When he does I raise the middle finger of my damaged hand before turning around and walking away. His laughter follows me as I enter Coach’s office.

I take a seat opposite Coach and put my feet up on his desk.

“Have you been doing the exercises you were given?” Coach doesn’t even look up from the paperwork on his desk as he knocks my feet to the floor. Every. Single. Time. Not once has he let me keep my feet up there but it doesn’t stop me from trying.

“Of course I did, it’s all I'm allowed to do. When can I get back to fighting? I'm so over this stupid shit.” Coach glares at me over the paper in his hand. I’ve been riding him about fighting for the last few weeks, I need to get back in the ring and pound on someone.

“You can fight again when your coach clears you and not a second before.” He looks back to the paper in his hand and I look at him in confusion. Sometimes I think he's losing his mind, maybe he’s been hit one too many times.

“Then fucking clear me already. I can’t believe this shit, you could have cleared me weeks ago.” I can feel a touch of anger towards Coach, he’s never mentioned before that he has power over my recovery. I sit forward in my seat and lean on my knees. I want to pretend that I'm relaxed, that I don’t want to go and punch something but I'm pretty sure it’s not looking that way.

“I said your coach can clear you, I'm not your coach. I already told you that I’d be getting a replacement for Ethan.” Not this shit again, I can’t believe he’s going to try and convince me to take on another trainee. The last one he sent to me made a huge mistake, and I still don’t know if I will ever be able to fight again.

“And I already told you, I don’t want another coach. It’s you or nothing, there is no other option.” I sound like a spoilt little brat having a tantrum but I don’t care. I refuse to put my future in anyone’s hands but his. There’s no one out there who’s as good as him and no one else I would trust.

He finally gives me his full attention as he puts the piece of paper he’s holding on the desk and crosses his arms.

“Look, Zeke. We’ve been through this before. I don’t have the time to give you the attention you need. I have too many fighters to look after, and with your skill you need one on one training. You are gonna need someone who can focus solely on you to get you ready for the championship. You have a rematch coming up and you need to be on form in order to win.”
I hate when he makes sense
. I know that running the gym takes a lot of his time, there are too many fighters now for him to deal with them all personally. There are a total of four trainers who share their time between fourteen fighters, I will be only the second fighter in the gym’s history to have their own trainer.

“Seriously? How can I tell you no when you make sense?” He laughs before leaning back in his chair, looking more relaxed than he did a minute ago.

“I'm glad you agree, he’ll be here tomorrow to meet you.” It’s my turn to lean back in my chair but I’m far from relaxed. A groan leaves me as I massage my temples. A part of me was hoping that after hearing about things with me and Ethan no one would be interested in the job. I go to speak but Coach holds up his hand silencing me.

“Before you start, let me just say that he's a perfect match for you. He's an ex fighter himself and knows his stuff. Maybe you won’t be able to push this one around, he might be the person to kick your ass for a change.” I snort at his statement. I doubt some fighter wannabe will be able to teach me anything I don’t already know.
I sigh as I picture another Ethan turning up tomorrow.
Ethan
. I never liked that fucker. There was always something about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He seemed to be more interested in the glory of being my trainer then actually training me. The bastard even had the nerve to use my name to get freebies and perks with local businesses and the more I won the more he got. When I told Coach about it he said was that Ethan was still young and training, that he would settle down, but he never did. I could overlook a lot of his shit if he had been on point with his training, but I swear that he didn’t know the difference between a round house and a hook. His usual method of helping was pointing to the punch bag and telling me to do what felt natural. Forgetting my wraps and then poorly taping my hands was the last straw. No matter the outcome of the fight, Ethan was gone. I need someone who will focus on me and not my name.
Forgetting my wraps at my fight was the last straw. Even if I had won he was gone. I need someone whose focus is me, not my name.

“Yeah, I'm sure that’s just what’s gonna happen. I give him a week before he runs away with his tail between his legs.” I get up from my chair and walk to the door. I'm just about to close the door behind me when I hear Coach shouting.

“I mean it, Zeke. I refuse to find another fucking trainer for you. If you chase this one off then you’re on your own!” I laugh as I close the door. It’s not a case of if but when.

****

I'm standing under the scalding hot water in my shower at home, letting the heat soak through my tense body. I hear my cell phone ring and for about three seconds I consider answering it, but the feeling of the water on my stiff shoulders is too pleasant for me to move. Since I haven’t been able to do any weights or spar I’ve been putting a lot of effort into cardio, and using muscles that I don’t usually need. I thought lifting weights gave me the most punishing workout, especially trying to bulk up for a fight, but running apparently can be just as painful.

I move my head under the spray, and watch the water drain away. My mind is distracted by thoughts of meeting my new trainer tomorrow, finding out who Coach thinks is the perfect match for me. I hate the fact that I haven’t even met him yet and he’s the one with all the power. Some random guy gets to decide when I start fighting again. I think that part is what angers me more than anything. Someone who doesn’t know me gets to make the most important decision in my life. I look up and let the water pour over my face before shutting the shower off.

I grab a towel from the rack next to the sink and wrap it around my waist. Walking to the sink unit, I use a hand towel to clear the steam from the fogged up mirror. I throw the towel into the dirty linen basket and look at my reflection. Thankfully all the bruising from the fight is gone. I didn’t think the one around my left eye was ever going to disappear, it was like a daily reminder of how badly I’d fucked up that day. I just keep thinking I was lucky there’s nothing permanent done, well nothing that’s completely life changing other than my hurt pride and my damaged wrist. Hopefully I’ll be able to convince this new guy that I'm ready to get going. I need to make sure I’m one hundred and ten percent ready for my rematch and that means training properly as soon as possible. I refuse to go down at the hands of Dwayne again, he will only get the best of me once.

I rub my hand over my jaw and contemplate shaving but I like the stubble. I’ve no plans for the next few days that requires a clean look so fuck it. If this new guy doesn’t approve then he can go fuck himself. I laugh to myself. I’ve already painted a picture of this guy, building him up to be a bastard before I’ve even met him. Maybe I should give him a shot, see how good he actually is before judging him. I shake my head and walk into my bedroom, grabbing a pair of boxer shorts on the way past my dresser. Dropping the towel on the floor I throw the boxers on the bed before collapsing butt naked on the mattress, too tired to even attempt to put them on. I grab my cell from the nightstand and see a missed call from Asha. I told her to call me about getting together, but I'm really not in the mood for company tonight, especially hers. Don’t get me wrong, Asha is a really nice girl. She is sweet and sexy, but I just don’t have the energy tonight. I want to have an early night so I can hit the gym before it opens tomorrow and get in a workout before introductions are made.

I got a text from Coach earlier telling me to be at the gym for ten o’clock, and that I better be on time. I have my meeting with Bryce at ten thirty. That’s my new coach’s name, Bryce Tanner. I know that he's an ex fighter, but his name has me picturing some preppy guy who has never stepped foot into the cage. Bryce Tanner, yeah, that’s not the name of a guy who knows how to handle himself. I know I'm judging him and already trying to find a reason to hate him but I can’t help myself. I’ve always found it hard to open up to people. You can’t give people the power of having your secrets, to believe they won’t use them against you.

I'm pulled from my thoughts when my phone rings again. I see Asha’s name on the screen and I press the side button to mute the ringing. I throw the phone on the other side of the bed and get up, putting my underwear on before going through to the kitchen. I need to get something to eat before it gets too late, I hate eating late but I missed dinner earlier. I open the fridge and take a look to see what’s inside. Nothing really grabs my attention and I make a mental note to drop by the grocery store tomorrow. I'm running low on eggs and milk, the two main staples in my diet. I suddenly remember that I have some chicken and rice in the freezer and I mentally pat myself on the back for cooking too much. I hunt for the Tupperware containing the food and put it in the microwave to defrost. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and walk to the door leading outside to sit out on the back step. It’s a nice night, warm and dry with a clear sky. I like this time of year, fall is one of my favorite seasons. It’s not too hot and the humidity has settled, not like the height of the summer when it feels like you're breathing through syrup. Training in that weather feels like you could die, especially if you’re doing it outside. I try to stick to the gym during the height of Summer, using the weights and treadmill to keep fit. Honestly the fighting itself is enough to tone my muscles and keep my stamina up but I push myself further to make myself faster, stronger. The need to win is my driving force, second place really means first loser, and that’s not acceptable. The sting of losing to Dwayne is still fresh and I think it’s harder to get over than my actual injury.

I sit and listen to the noises from my street, letting the sounds of the kids having fun relax me. I love living here, the buzz of the neighborhood reminds me of home. I grew up in a small town, in the type of place where everyone knew everyone else and their business. When I was a kid it was great, I used to play outside with my friends until the streetlights came on and never got into trouble, well nothing too serious. I loved high school, we spent the weekends at the drive in and partying at each other’s houses, it was like the stereotypical high school movie where everyone was happy. I know it probably wasn’t that experience for everyone I knew, but I was in the popular crowd so life seemed perfect. When I turned fourteen I suddenly realized that something didn’t feel right, that I wasn’t interested in things the other kids were. That’s when the small town feeling got too much and hiding my secret became too difficult. That’s when my dad decided that fighting was what I needed. According to him, I had to learn to be a man and punching another man was the perfect way to do it. I left town soon after my eighteenth birthday, the feeling of being constantly watched by everyone got too much. I couldn’t do anything without someone being there to make sure I was moving in the direction my dad want me to go. So I packed a bag and jumped on a train. I ended up in the city, hungry and alone until Coach found me sleeping in the local park. He took me to the gym and gave me a sleeping bag and a space on the floor. I helped out around the gym until he saw me having a go on the punching bag after hours, and the rest as they say, is history. Once I started winning fights, the money started coming in. Now I make my living doing the one thing I love and do best. The house I own isn’t big. It has one bedroom and a patch of grass out the back that’s my yard, but size doesn’t matter to me. It’s mine and no one can take it from me. I paid for it in cash when I won my first big tournament. I was determined to not waste the money on anything stupid, but something I could make my own.