I’ve always hated training by myself. I guess since my Dad set me up with a trainer as a kid, I’ve always relied on having someone there to push me harder. Before I even get started on my session, I’m already out the door.
I get straight into my truck and head downtown in search of this one particular gym I’d overheard some losers talking about. My eyes scan up and down the streets and finally come to a rest on a beat down looking place with nothing but a sign above the door with a pair of boxing gloves declaring the place as Rebels Advocate.
I eye the place down, knowing this couldn’t possibly be the place I was thinking of but what the hell, I’m already here, I may as well check it out. I park my truck in the few available spaces out the front and make my way to the door.
I push my way inside and can’t help standing in the reception area looking completely dumbfounded as I take the place in. The place is filled with punching bags that are being used and abused. Free weights are being stacked together and ringing through the place as each weight is dropped on top of the other. Old school boxing rings line the back of the room, with a few fights currently going on.
The light filters through the windows, shining on the dust particles that float around the room, reminding me of all those old fight movies. It’s clear that this is a gym dedicated to producing MMA Fighters, I realise in an instant that this place is going to be home. I don’t care that it isn’t traditional for a hockey player to train here, this is where I belong.
I make my way deeper into the gym and my eyes lock on a fighter in the ring who looks like he has given his absolute all for his trainer. The kid climbs out of the ring and grabs his drink bottle before heading towards the bathroom.
“Can I help you?” The trainer from inside the ring asks as he climbs out.
“Yeah, what have I got to do to train here?” I ask.
The trainer straightens up as he narrows his eyes at me. I watch as his eyes lower to my shirt that declares me a player for the Denver Dragons. “Look, kid, I think you’re better off in the campus gym. This isn’t the place for you,” he says before dismissing me and starting to walk away.
“I think you’re wrong,” I tell him.
He stops in his tracks and turns back to look at me. “Look around, kid. We’re an MMA gym, we train fighters, not college kids looking for a step up in their hockey team.” I ignore his comments and make my way up into the ring. “What do you think you’re doing?” he questions.
I pull my shirt up over my head and look the guy in the eye. “Proving myself.”
He considers me for a moment before shrugging his shoulder and making his way back in the ring. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” he declares as he stands before me and gets himself into position.
The familiar adrenalin starts pumping through my body and it feels glorious, like welcoming home an old friend. We begin circling each other and I decide in order to prove myself, I need to make this quick and exciting.
I notice a few guys who were on the punching bags earlier have stopped to see what is going on and it pushes me into action. My fist strikes out and I nail the guy in the shoulder, making it past his block by just milliseconds. The guy is fast, but no one is faster than me.
He immediately launches into a counter-attack as he strikes back but only manages to get a hit to my forearm as I block his advance. On and on it goes. This guy is very well matched to my skill level, however, he is slightly stronger while I am slightly faster.
I watch as he smirks at me, clearly impressed with what he is seeing but obviously not wanting to give in. I push myself forward, knowing I can finish this. I deliver a swift uppercut followed by a combination of punches and kicks before I completely take him down. His chest to the floor with my knee firmly in his back and his right arm twisted behind him
Moments later he taps out. “Alright,” he says. “I give in.”
I get up off him and watch as he gets himself to his feet. He eyes me once again. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he says.
“No shit,” I laugh as I run my fingers back through my hair to stop it sticking to the sweat on my face.
“What’s your name?” he asks as he grabs a towel and wipes down his face.
“Xander Phillips,” I tell him.
“I’m Cole, by the way. This is my gym that I own with three of my friends, Harley, Luke, and Jace,” he explains as he climbs out of the ring. I follow behind as he continues. “What’s your story, Xander?”
I pull my shirt back over my head and follow him into what must be his office. I take the room in and instantly see his back wall is lined with photographs of himself in competition and some others which must be his students, all winners, of course. “I started training in MMA when I was a kid. My trainer passed a few years ago.”
“So, what’s with the Ice Hockey then?”
“Consider it a requirement of being my father’s son,” I explain.
“Right, so I’m assuming he doesn’t know about this, then?” he asks as he gestures to the gym around him.
“Nope and neither do any of my team. If I get caught fighting, I’m off the team and lose any chance of signing with the NHL.”
“Well, that explains why I’ve never seen you on the competition rounds but correct me if I’m wrong but I don’t get the impression that you are really interested in the NHL,” he questions.
“No, sir. I want to fight,” I tell him before explaining my father and his conditions a little further.
He considers me for a moment. “You’re serious about fighting?”
“I am,” I tell him, letting him see just how serious I am.
“Look, I think you’re good. One of the best I’ve seen come through that door in a while and with the right training, I think you could go all the way,” Cole says. “So, competing publicly isn’t an option. What If there was another way?” he asks with an excited gleam in his eye.
“What do you mean another way?”
“Ever heard of underground? The new season starts in a few weeks.”
Holy shit. Of course, I’d heard of underground fighting. You can earn a shit load of money but it’s dangerous and not to mention illegal. Hardly any rules. It’s basically an illegal fighting competition where anything can and does go wrong. It’s complete with drugs, alcohol, betting, dirty money and probably mob bosses and of course, there is always the risk of death for the fighters. All it takes is one wrong punch to the head and its lights out.
If I fought in the underground and actually succeeded, I’d be raking it in, it would be dirty money but it’s all the same to me but that money would be just what I needed to get out from under my father’s umbrella. I could quit the team, get my own place without relying on my father, start competing legitimately and eventually buy my own gym. Though, there is always the risk of getting caught early on and getting kicked off the team only to be left with nothing.
It would be a massive risk, extremely dangerous and incredibly stupid but in the end, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
A grin creeps over my face and I look Cole in the eye. “I’m in.”
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